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((Matt Moradi continued from somewhere else.))

Directionless. Matt had absolutely nowhere to go. It was just him, this island, and a bigger ratio of rotting corpses to living people. He'd been alone before. He once went a whole week in middle school without talking to anyone. What a nightmare. Thinking about what he did and what he wanted to do before getting dumped onto this place made him feel.. something. He couldn't understand what. Depression, maybe. Something like that. Just this terrible sinking feeling that comes when your life goes from 'normal' to 'this'. This. He wasn't sure what to call it. Maybe it was a game, or at least it looked like one at a glance, but it felt like more than that.

He spent far too much time thinking about the motives of his captors. His torturers. Everyone's. Was it really just terrorism? Terrorism over what? American imperialism? Laughable motive. Stupid. Everything they did was counter-productive to that. Ever since this circus started, things had gotten worse. 9/11. Iraq. Several dozen to a hundred kids being kidnapped every few years. Maybe it was a commentary on human nature. Eventually, he figured, people would stop really caring about all of this. It'd just become another fact of life. Terrorism was normal, to him. Growing up, he was never not imbued with the vague idea that a group of people with some nebulous goals not worth understanding would kill people. That seemed normal. Terrorism - ism. Like fascism. Communism. Socialism. Republicanism. An ideology in and of itself. The perfect idea awaiting the perfect century.

It was normal. Terrorism was normal. It was normal before he came here. It would continue to be normal after he left. The only difference was that it had decided to personally affect him instead of some far off group of people he didn't know. Drawing the shortest stick. Like winning the lottery. Those were the chances. The odds. Like winning the lottery.

He wondered if he should feel lucky.

The island - maybe someday he'd know it's actual name but for now in his mind it was just the island - had more people dead on it than the living. Maybe in those first days he'd have felt something resembling fear that he'd wander into some hastily formed alliance of psychopaths and eager murderers. Isabel was dead. Nancy was dead. Alvaro was dead. He figured Alvaro would have already started to rot. Getting held up in that basement - Sandy Bricks, he remembered him, his only memory of Sandy Bricks was him as a rotting corpse in a decaying basement - seemed quaint now.

Right now he was alone. That was the scariest thing to him. Having enough time to think. Maybe about what he'd done or what he'd have to do in the future. And who he'd be facing in the future. People probably stronger and more ruthless than him. People who might have guns. Swords. Grotesque ancient weapons that his captors thought of as some hilarious punchline (the funniest joke - the one that ends a life). He had to be better than those people. Meaner. Worse. He was going to win, go home, go back to normal.

And then, he wasn't alone. There he was. Nate. Nate. Nate who shouldn't be alive. Nate who by all means should have died before Ben, someone who was a good person but also someone whose life he cared very little for. For Nate he felt much of the same. He'd known Nate for a few days. His most interesting feature, right now, was no longer the fact that he was an almost adult man in the body of a young boy, but the fact that he was alive. Nate was a good person. A Christian, Matt guessed. Matt was an atheist. Supposedly a militant one but it was funny how little your religious beliefs, background, and everything else mattered when you came here. Window dressing for either walking corpses or the victor.

Somehow, Nate had survived. Somehow, Nate had managed to make it where people who were more deserving of life had died.

And that made him feel pretty good.

It made him feel like he had a chance.

He hadn't walked all that long. Blood of the other Ben was still fresh on his pipe. He looked awful. Matt was well fed but he looked awful. He raised his voice and tried to make his footfalls seem louder than they were to alert Nate of his coming. Didn't want to surprise him. Maybe he had heart problems or something. It would be the funniest thing in the world to him if Nate won. Whatever it was that made Nate who he was - less than five feet tall at what, 16, he was only guessing - he figured it shortened his lifespan. He wasn't going to be a doctor. He was going to be a dentist. Medical facts weren't his forte, so he could only guess.

"Hey, Nate." he said. Then he just stood there, not entirely sure of what to say next. It wasn't good to see Nate alive. Seeing Nate alive meant that Nate was probably going to be killed by someone worse than Isabel, Nancy, whoever else. Someone ruthless. Someone who probably wouldn't have any problem with killing Nate if it meant going home.

"It's good to see you," Matt said, lying. "How has, uh.. how've things been going? Good?"
Edited by Privyet, May 18 2017, 07:58 AM.
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