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Far Below Par
Hansel was fast getting tired of this song and dance, rolling his shoulder experimentally as the aching burn seared through his arm. He continually tested the wound, hoping that he'd get more movement out of his left side if he kept probing at it. So far, he'd concluded that he wouldn't really be able to stabilize the FA-MAS with his left hand if he was going to shoot with it. It did have a stand, but that'd require him to prop it on something.

"Uh, yeah," he said, incredulity finding its way into his voice, "blood tends t'follow when y'got bullets passin' through ya. Theodore - the fairy - shot me. Wavin' around a gun all wild-like."

He took a few steps in a circular motion, trying to crane his neck to see around the golf cart, a frown coming over his face. In the silence that followed, he heard rummaging - the hiss of a zipper, the flapping of fabric as someone rifled through a bag. In his head, Adonis was snickering as he pulled out a snub-nosed revolver, and Mallory was tossing a grenade from hand to hand, mocking him from out of sight.

The idea set him back on edge.

"Look," he said, his voice becoming harder, "I ain't got time t'piss about, here. Y'all comin' out from behind that f-f-huhcking cart, or am I moseyin' onward?"

Offended?
Baxter stopped, stepping backwards at the sudden thunderous roar that this little pussycat erupted into the second he went for her precious little DVD. A smile curled the right side of his mouth at the kitten displaying her claws, his arms coming to fold over his chest in an easy, slow manner that was almost second nature.

He'd pissed her off. The thought was a delicious one, wrapping around his mind. Dragging someone to his level made it better. Made it okay. Never suffer in silence.

Don't suffer alone.

"Aw, you'd never bother me, babe," he purred, malice lighting in his eyes and dancing feverishly, "I mean, other than your severely unattractive face and revolting fashion sense, not to mention your ridiculous obsession with cartoons..."

He trailed off, face twisting to a mockingly thoughtful expression, leaning closer to her face. "Actually, yes. You bother me quite a bit. In fact, the realization that you and I share air has me feeling insulted."

Always Gold
Baxter's response was to nod, slowly, his eyes also glued to the pathway, where a higher-pitched voice and one he more recognized mingled and discussed. He thought he heard Joey's lower tones, but he couldn't be sure - the reverberation and echo of the cement and steel of the parking garage messed with his perception of sound. Quietly, he lifted his finger to his lips, crouching low again and moving towards Summer in a walk that wasn't far from a duck's waddle.

His gaze shifted deliberately to her weapon, and then moved back to her, sliding his duffel bag from his shoulder - the tag, B067, matching the jersey he sported - and placing it at the lip of the van. When he was close enough to her, he began to whisper.

"Slide to the back, take my pack and yours. I'll take that," he pointed at her oddly shaped melee weapon that was visible in the front seat, his lips twitching at the ridiculousness of it, "and wait here. If they move on, we'll leave."

Still imitating the duck, he shuffled around the van, easing the driver's side door open with as much stealth as a football player could muster, sliding the absurd melee weapon from it's cradle and hefting it in his right hand. He let the door close without latching, and quack-walked back to the back of the van.

His gaze locked onto Summer's, his blue eyes serious, usually mirthful expression sombre and strained.

He excelled at utilizing emotions and was even better at locking them away. He could draw on anger and filter it out, channel calm or nuke it. He was the starting defensive lineman of a team that went all the way to the playoffs, and a requirement of his position was to be bigger, stronger, faster than the guy across from him.

He was Brandon fucking Baxter. This may have been a different playing field, a different game, and it may have different rules, but it all boiled down to one thing. The only thing that mattered.

Winning the game.

"If they come looking," he continued in a whisper, turning so that his back was to Summer, his stance wide, muscles tightened around the weapon, "I'll take care of it."

Far Below Par
Hansel frowned at the reception he got, letting his gun hand drop to his side and his eyebrows raise in question. It was almost like a bad cartoon, where the two scared heroes leapt behind cover the moment the big bad villain wandered into the scene. Which, he supposed, wasn't entirely inaccurate. He kept his distance, aware that he had already taken one bullet and was absolutely not keen to take a second.

"Um," he eloquently replied to Mallory and Adonis' twin outbursts, switching the rifle to the other hand so that he could scratch at his cheek.

"Th'safety's on. I ain't gonna shoot y'all; I been shot myself." He made a vague reference to the blindingly aching wound on his shoulder with his hand, then moved to scratch the unkempt hair pouring from beneath his stetson.

"I ain't gonna shoot y'all," he repeated, "was more hopin' fer a conversation, or teamwork, or... somethin'."

The last word hung in the air as he fidgeted slightly. Hansel Williams was many things, but a master of icebreaking wasn't one of them.

Far Below Par
((Hansel Williams, Courage is being afraid, then saddling up anyway))

In that moment, a person who definitely had a gun, and seemed fairly likely to shoot either of them, jogged onto the course, exploding out of a few scattered bushes at the forest's edge. Across his shoulder was the black duffel bag strap, in his right hand the unmistakeable shape of an assault rifle - FA-MAS, 25 round clip - and on his hat was a trademark hat that those who had known of him in High School would see as a stetson.

The figure squinted towards the two and continued to jog in their direction, halting a long ways off to survey the situation. It became clear that his left shoulder was bandaged competently, and his face and vibrant, red shirt was streaked with sweat and mud from his excursion into the forest and out again.

After a brief pause, Hansel Williams raised his right hand - FA-MAS intact - and waved it at the gathered coupling.

"Reckon I could come o'er?" he called, making his voice deep and booming. He then took note of the fact that one of them - the girl-looking one - kept running around the cart like a woman posessed, a slight crease to his brow forming as he watched her.

"Uh, why are y'runnin' around th'golf cart?"

Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.
((Hansel Williams, Deep Breath, Deep Breath))

Hansel's movements were quick, tempered by years of pride in how fast he could run and how long he could last, and fueled by both a guilty feeling and a rage that again battered at the edges of his consciousness. His shoulder bled, confined in a bandage he'd found in the extensive med kit, many of the materials familiar to him through his experience at the shelter. He'd cleaned it out and carefully bandaged it, tightened the bandage until it was almost painful, and was content with the results.

The two images most prevalent in his mind as he walked through the brush, his forced march carrying him swiftly towards the edge of the woods, was his father and Theo. Theodore's firing of his weapon still echoed in his mind, causing him to look over his shoulder every three dozen paces at any sound that he heard as unnatural. The idea that he'd been shot was still relegated in that disbelieving part of his brain, the one that was still processing a bullet in Mr. Davidge's skull, waking up on an island with a weapon, and the words his father had spoken to him before he had left for this trip.

You could be wrong.

The words reverberated through his skull, bouncing from a flat out disbelief and a world of guilt that ate at his conscience. The words that had been at the tip of his tongue at dinner tables, at church, during theological arguments at school and in youth group on fridays. The words that he'd aimed at his parents, pastor, teachers, leaders, friends.

At himself.

He'd never fired them. Not once, in eighteen years, had he expressed the doubt and insecurity in his parents' teachings, choosing instead to get heated and argumentative when they were questioned. He attacked those that refuted them, and got flustered when others expressed honest, open curiousity towards them. Not once had he spread out his high school experience like a map, pointed out the way he treated others, the way he was treated, and contrast them with others' experiences in the same categories, asking the question what could be different?. Maybe it was fear that kept him from speaking, or maybe it was insecurity, but the fact remained.

He'd been walking around with a gun for long before he arrived on the island, in this moment, with a wound on his shoulder. Unlike Theodore, however, he'd never pulled the trigger.

You could be wrong.

Hansel stopped at the edge of the forest, dropping his pack on the ground at his feet and deciding to rest for a time. He strode towards a stump of rotten wood, kicked at it idly with one solid boot, and perched delicately. Reaching forward to drag his pack towards him, intrigued by the idea of water and a break from the hard walk he had subjected himself to. As he twisted the top off of the water with a mild grunt of pain, his eyes remained unfocused, quieted.

A week before the trip, in a fit of melancholy, he had asked his Pa if it were possible for him to visit the old ranch. Just to take the truck one day on a little road trip, sort've a graduation present to himself. He'd stay with aunts and uncles that inhabited Texas, could pay for his own accomodations and fuel, and most of all, he was going insane in Washington. He'd needed out.

He had the entirety of the trip planned out. Three weeks of leisurely travel, maybe he'd stay with the new owners of the ranch a spell, experience Texas in a way that he'd never really gotten to as an adult. He'd wanted to marry the image of boyhood fantasy with the jaded, much older eyes of adulthood, and see if it lasted. When he proposed his idea to Pa, he'd been sure the answer would be yes.

"No," Jim Williams had said, and turned back to polishing his gun.

Surprised at the abrupt answer, Hansel pursued the issue.

"Why not, Pa? I can pay for gas."

"Could break 'er, Hansel. Ain't no mechanics where you're goin'."

"I checked the route on Google Maps. There's one every stretch from here to Canadian."

Jim Williams took the time to snort at the mention of technology before shook his head again. "I like takin' that truck to work, son. You'll leave us with one vehicle between two workin' stiffs."

"Ma ain't workin' for the month of July, 'member? She's got vacation time, and she won't need it. Told me so."

"You'll get lost. Neither of us can come down there an' save ya if you do."

"Bought a Garmin," Hansel said, not without some pride, "it's a GPS. It'll make sure I don't get lost."
Jim grunted, turning back to his gun. Hansel waited a moment before going for the kill. "Pa, I'm a man now," he reminded his father, "an' I'm gon' be a college boy soon. I reckon I'm due one last big move 'fore-"

"Reckon, do you?" Jim snarled, jerking his head up. "You ain't listenin' to me, boy. The answer's no, an' it's gonna stay no, no matter how many Googly Maps or Garfields you buy. Don't matter a whit to me what you 'reckon'."

With the sudden outburst, Jim Williams turned back to polishing his gun, leaving his son staring at him, flabbergasted. The sudden explosion of unreasonable attitude left Hansel feeling upset, angry, and scared. Upset, for having his dream trip crushed. Angry, for having his father be so unreasonable, so utterly unshakable no matter what evidence or reasoning slapped him in the face.

Scared, because when Hansel looked at his Pa in that moment, he got the feeling he was looking in a mirror.

The thought brought Hansel back to the present, clutching a bottle of water and a gun, and sitting in an alien place until God knew when. Today alone, four shots had been fired, one had been wounded, and it wasn't even mid-day.

Hansel took a long, slow drink of water, replenishing his thirst, before recapping the bottle and tossing it back into the duffel. Theodore Fletcher had shot him, but the anger Hansel felt wasn't directed at the slight boy. In fact, he doubted that the boy was the first to pull the trigger in Hansel's direction.

No, he thought as he stood, that honor belonged to himself, and himself alone. He'd shot himself with a gun he'd loaded years ago, and it had taken until now for the wound to appear.

You could be wrong.

Bullseye.

Alone, scared, and tense, Hansel headed out once more, this time for a single red flag in the distance.

((Hansel Williams, Far Below Par))

Deep Breath Deep Breath
When an actual explosion did report from the gun, instinct had Hansel's legs twitching, throwing himself to the side and attempting to roll as something hit his left arm, jerking him to the side. His side-roll became a flop onto his back, the breath escaping him in a jarring woosh as he hit the ground and slid, his finger squeezing the trigger briefly.

Three rounds erupted through the brush of the forest, shredding vegetation and smashing into trees from that single clench. Hansel immediately released the assault rifle, his ears ringing from the sudden noise, bringing both of his hands to his face. His left arm felt heavier, slower to respond. Carefully, he examined it.

The shot had evidently been wild, slicing through a chunk of flesh on the outside of his shoulder. His red button-down dress shirt had a gaping hole where flesh and blood intermingled in a strange cocktail, oozing down and darkening the already vibrant colour.

It hurt to shrug; a slow, burning pain waving to him each and every time he tried to roll, flex or move the shoulder. Utilizing his right hand, he sat up, clambering slowly to his feet, being careful to see if he was hit, where hurt. Nothing but the shoulder wound and a skinned knee.

Grunting, Hansel dipped downwards, placing his stetson back atop his head and scooping up the assault rifle with his good arm, flicking the safety back off before he was fully righted. There was time to patch himself up later, he decided. First, he needed to get away from the lingering sound of gunshots, violence, and destruction.

Still, there was a niggling doubt as he walked away, holding the FA-MAS between his hands, wincing with each step that jarred his shoulder. Doubt that had begun to climb rapidly ever since he had a certain discussion in the lunch room. Doubt that had increased over the past week, looming until it was difficult to ignore.

You could be wrong.

((Hansel Williams, Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway))

Deep Breath Deep Breath
Hansel didn't know where it came from, but suddenly he was filled with a dark rage that filtered through him, bubbling from somewhere that he hadn't known existed until the slight boy whom he had harboured a healthy disgust for squeezed that finger around that trigger, and seemed visibly surprised when a bullet didn't explode out of it.

His dark eyes narrowed, his shoulder rotated until the gun was higher up, easier to sight, better against recoil. With a sure thumb, he lifted his hand, kept Theo in his sights, and flipped the safety.

Snick.

"You d-didn't juh-hust t-try to shoo-hoot me," Hansel managed, his cool long gone. His voice was rising in pitch and getting more and more desperate, aware of the very possibility that he could've just died. And if he had died, this skinny little fuck would've been the one to take him out.

Hansel advanced, then, a dark grunt leaving his throat as he tried to swallow. "Tha-hat d-d-didn't ju-hust hap-ppen."

Deep Breath Deep Breath
"Get real, Theodore," Hansel said, keeping his voice low, keeping Theo sighted. "I ain't a fool. Leave m'gun and walk away, huh? Reckon I can trust a man who can't even pick a gender t'fuck?"

The words seemed ungenuine, even to Hansel, as he spoke them. He was clinging to old, hard-coded reactions to people and things. Hadn't he learned by now that alienating people wasn't the way to go? Especially now, when allies could mean life or death?

But the pressure of the situation overrode any rationality he could've dredged up.

"How th'fuck do I know you ain't gonna shoot me in the back, faggot? You lay down your gun, then I reckon we can have ourselves some easy conversation."

Deep Breath Deep Breath
Click, snick. Click, snick. Click, snick.

On a rock in the middle of the forest, with both hands cradling the assault rifle he'd found in his bag, Hansel Williams perched. His finger was quietly fiddling with the safety mechanism on the FA-MAS, switching it from on to off in two second intervals, mixing the sound of the forest with the alien, mechanical echo of a cacophony he considered synonymous with danger.

His father had taught him about guns and had taken him shooting a time or two, though this cold manufactured piece of metal and fiber was nothing compared to the rich smell and solid feel of his pa's battered old winchester. That gun had been smooth wood and battered iron, the bolt-action well worn and always oiled to perfection. That gun had reminded him of hot nights drinking sweetened tea, talking quietly with pa about the livestock and how the foals were holding up over polishing and oiling that beautiful family heirloom. That gun he had used to chase off a coyote, and that gun had taken the life of the first family dog when it had been too old and too sick to walk.

This gun had no memories to it beyond the murder of men. This gun was cold under his palms, heavy against his knees, and bright in the sunshine. This gun had been handed to him after a man had been murdered in front of him.

Click, snick. Click, snick. Click, snick.

Thou shalt not kill.

His pa had always taught him that the ten commandments were above all else in God's word. Don't kill, don't steal, don't lie, don't cheat. When he was younger, Hansel had brushed them off as buzz words, a laundry list of sins and do-nots. When he was older and had accepted the word, his mother taught him other do-nots. Sex before marriage. Homosexuality.

Gambling.

Hansel flipped the safety back to the off position and rose from his seat with ease, reaching down to scoop up the duffel bag beside him. A bag he hadn't opened, hadn't even looked at, after finding the FA-MAS. He caught the inscription on the bag as he slung it back over his shoulder - B076 - and his frown deepened.

The 0 before his number scared him. As if there was room for a hundred or more students in this game that he had been enrolled in. How long until he found someone? How long until he might be forced to use this cold-hearted weapon?

Fucking NO!

The sound split the woods, accompanied by a flight of birds exploding from the trees. Instinctively, Hansel had the gun upright, cradled against his shoulder in a sloppy firing position, aiming down the iron sights. The stand mounted to the barrel bruised the palm of his hand as his finger lightly wrapped around the trigger in the direction of the scream, his breath increasing, hands trembling with the sound.

Had the game claimed its first victim?

Without stopping to ponder it, Hansel moved closer to the sound, not daring to lower his weapon in case he stumbled across any number of gruesome images - a man beating a woman to death, a girl carving up a football player, consensual sex. Anything.

With the parting of brush brought an interesting visage - Theodore, one of those people who claimed to be bisexual. A classmate that Hansel would've spat on at any other given time, or at least sneered at in quiet.

Except this time, Theo had a gun.

"Theodore," Hansel said, making his voice drop an octave as he tightened his hold on the rifle, the duffel bag swaying slightly.

Always Gold
((Go go gadget Brandon Baxter, B067))

In the vast, echoing space of the parking garage, where his shoes made far more noise than was comfortable, Brandon Baxter was walking, clutching his bag, and trying to quell panic.

Everything he had known was different, now; beginning with that first harsh report of gunfire that sounded Mr. Davidge's final demise. It was a fact that he accepted, mulled over, and pushed to the back of his mind, an annoying factor like an argument with a team captain before the opening minutes of an important game. You took details like that, little instances that could throw you off, and ejected them immediately. Coach always referred to them as 'background noise', things that maybe you couldn't turn off completely but could drown out as soon as possible.

He forced himself to drown it all out; they were on an island, they were expected to murder their classmates, and their teacher was already dead. The terrorists that everyone already believed to have been permanently silenced were far from it; alive and kicking. Instead of lying down and feeling sorry for himself, Baxter plowed ahead, walking slowly with his hands shifting through his bag, a frown forming on his face as he rifled through its contents.

Fairly extensive med-kit, bottles of water, protein bars... four grenades.

Gingerly, he lifted one of the green, vaguely pineapple shaped grenades from the pack, holding it between a thumb and forefinger, surprised at the weight. He'd seen these before in video games and movies; pull the pin, huck it where you wanted it, wait, kaboom. He had no idea how long the timer was, and he had no idea how big the blast radius was. Both of those were things he should figure out - and soon. Before someone else decided to test their weapon on him. His examination over, he placed the grenade back into his pack, zipped it shut, and slung it back over his shoulder.

Okay, so he had grenades. Grenades were... pretty good as far as weapons go. He couldn't shoot someone with a grenade, but the threat of them was fairly large. If one of his other classmates actually started the shooting, he could scare them off. Or something.
But it wouldn't do in a close-up fight. Sure, he was bigger than most of the kids in his high school, but if a guy like Mike Eastmund or someone else with close quarters experience came bearing down on him, what good would a grenade do?

Excuse me, sir. Before you punch my face in, can I put something in your pocket?

He needed something like a club. Something to give him an edge if he got close. He'd put money on other kids getting knives or swords or something, and who knew what fucking psychos these kids would turn out to be on the island?

What else he needed was a crew. If he could hook up with some other guys on the football team or something, that'd be tops. General Patton would probably know what to do, and he wouldn't say no to getting on Mike E's good side, either.

But first, he needed a weapon. Something heavy he could use if people got too close.

As that thought floated through his head, a loud, echoing scream pierced the relative silence of the garage, ricocheting around his head in a sudden explosion of noise and confusion. Brandon dropped into a crouch instinctively, the duffel bag thumping against the ground and causing him to wince. Grenades wouldn't explode if hit too hard, would they? That wouldn't make sense, seeing as they were meant for war, and if soldiers tried to roll and the grenades compressed, they'd explode and-

The scream continued, and Baxter began to move, adjusting the duffel bag so that it wouldn't scrape along the floor, his hands clenching to fists. The sound was hard to pinpoint because of the echo, harder still to figure out if it was a scream of fear, or rage, or what have you.

The fact that it was female drove him onwards, moving quickly and keeping low toward the back of the garage, where a utility van parked, doors open. He rounded the van, giving it barely a passing glance -

And there sat Summer Simms, screaming her fucking face off.

"Woah, woah, Summer! HEY!" he barked, dropping his bag - and wincing again - as he moved closer to her, his arms outstretched in a stop motion.

Quixotic
((Hansel Williams continued from Walk slow, talk slow, keep yer head low))

(Sorry, sorry, sorry! I was gassing on ideas for this bad boy, but I think I have it now!)

Hansel hated English class.

It wasn't the class itself that got under his skin, nor was it the texts and stories they were subjected to as a class. Those he found he could get into, finding a talent for essays and objective reviews that he didn't know he had in his home schooled education. What he loathed about it, however, was the constant bombardment of group activities and public speaking that the class called for with frightening regularity. The teacher - a sadist by the name of Collins - loved tossing debates and presentations and opinion peaces at his students, as well as any other manner of spotlight and ridicule he could dish out. As a man who didn't care for public speaking, and cared even less for sharing his opinion, Hansel was predisposed to dislike the course.

But goddamn, did he love Don Quixote.

It was his honest enjoyment of the work they had been assigned that had him trudging to class that day, instead of calling sick and biking over to the Animal Shelter to see if they needed a hand. It was the comedic timing of Quixote that he enjoyed immensely, as well as his ability to identify with a man who held himself to nobler goals than his peers. He saw a lot of himself in Don Quixote - overlooking the batshit insane part, of course - and found himself laughing - in surprise - more than once.

He walked into the class whistling slightly, torso encased in a bright red button-down shirt and hair wild and untamed, missing its classic Stetson to hide underneath. The book was in his right hand, and his binder was gripped lightly in his left as he made his way towards where Juhan was seated, visibly brightening when he saw Mirabella there, too. He took his seat behind Mirabella and to Juhan's side, trying not to inhale too deeply and catch something of the girl's scent. With a pencil he retrieved from his pocket, he prodded Juhan's elbow, grinning.

"Hey, Keener," he said, jokingly. His voice was deep and put on, masking the stutter over the K sounds. "Any debate tips from an old pro? Hey, Mirabella,"

Casual was the watchword, Hansel. Don't sound too excited to see her. Easy does it.

Offended?
Brandon's smile widened into a near grimace, a macabre display of emotion that had him almost at a boiling point. In his head, he pictured one of those ridiculous old cartoons - where Bugs Bunny would place a thermometer into Yosemite Sam's mouth, and the rage of the red-headed cowboy had the thermometer climbing and climbing - up and up until the mercury expanded and exploded into dozens of shards of glass in an over the top kaboom sound effect. With each digit the mercury climbed past, another inch of the numbness burst into feeling.

He moved closer, cocking an eyebrow as he crowded her, towering over her smaller form.

"Well, now," he drawled, drawing the syllables out, "it looks like someone's thinking about my cock between the two of us, but it sure as hell isn't me. I didn't know you wanted a tumble, sister. If you weren't doing your best impression of a beach ball, I might even be interested."

He reached out then, a slow and easy swipe, aiming to grab a hold of the DVD - Higarushuu? He couldn't make out the title - in her hand.

MurderWeasel's Brutally Hardcore Realism Litmus Test
Okay, I finally got around to doing this on a slow day at work, and I immediately love this much, much more than the other Litmus test.

I got 43 points, total. I'm catching up to you, Delroy!

Brandon Baxter got 30 points, which is totally understandable.

Hansel Williams got a whopping 59 points. Much improved from his -4 of the previous test, considering he's probably one of my more unrealistic concepts.

Thanks for this, MW! I had fun!

V5 Reduced Activity Notices
I was late in posting here.

Back at home for at least a few days. The trip might be continued/carried on in the near future, but as for now I have a buttload of time.

TT Reads V5 Pregame
Thank you so much for your feedback, Turtle. I'm positively glowing with your praise.

My writing style has definitely been one of the places I struggle in the past little while, and I'm hoping a bit of punch will be added as I go. along. Who knows! Maybe even by the end of V5! :)

TT Reads V5 Pregame
An easy one for you? I've been dying for someone to take a look at Walk Slow, talk slow, keep yer head low and give it some honest critiquing. Garrett Wilde's story can be linked back and forward through that thread, but Hansel Williams' tale is pretty much only in there.

Looking forward to hearing from ya!

Offended?
Brandon shrugged his big shoulders, his paper - the measurements - crinkling alongside the clenching of his fist. He saw her bobble the DVD, and something flashed in the back of his mind - watching cartoons is for kids and who was she, standing in his way at a time like this?

He accepted the anger. Anger was good. Anger was fine compared to the numbness that had started creeping in and settling over him like an ominous rain cloud, waiting and promising to strike but never quite delivering. He'd cherish rage - at Carmina, who hadn't really blipped on his radar until this moment - and feed it compared to the alternative.

"I got it from the same place I imagine you collect this stupid shit," he responded, tapping at the DVD while moving closer to her. "So, fifth grade if it pleases you, jello."

Mitadake High/Pryce High
Some more highlights - from one scene.

Groundhog's Day Episode

Mitadake High/Pryce High
Here the link to the best version of BYOND. If you've got the 4.0 client (recognizable as the one with the black background) you've just downloaded Satan himself.

The above link will write over your crappy copy and give you a better one, that works 100% of the time rather than just like... 40%. Once you've downloaded BYOND, you can then join Pyrce High with us.

Props to Iceblock, our resident chronicler, for finding it.