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MurderWeasel
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That boy needs therapy!
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Bridget. The girl was Bridget. Kimberly had been in class with her, seen her around. Now she was running over, normal as could be. Kimberly smiled and stretched a bit. Adjusted her hat. Well, this wasn't so fucking terrible. They were here, but, like she'd expected, nobody was actually going to participate. It was pretty simple. When nobody died, they'd have to give up and let the Bayview seniors go home. Well, that or actually blow them all up. She nervously prodded her neck. Collar. Just like they'd said. Fuck, this was real. Wherever Stephen King was, he had to be mortified. After all, hadn't he done the exploding collars first? He was damn lucky he'd been using a pseudonym on that one.

Then Bridget was right there. She looked pleased to see Kimberly. See? Everything was normal. Everything was fine. They'd be okay. They couldn't actually blow everyone up. Well, they could, but so what? Who came off worse if that happened? One person. One person who might be better off dead anyways. It was hardly a big deal, and, man, it would fuck them over something wonderful if nobody killed. Heh. This was going to be great.

And so, with that thought process, Kimberly chuckled at Bridget's statement, and replied, "Yup. Interesting indeed. Kidnapped by terrorists, given weapons, tossed who-knows-where, and told to fight to the death. Too bad we're gonna be one fucking boring show. I mean, hell, Bayview? Couldn't they have found, like, some remedial school for troubled youth from inner-city Chicago or something?"

Whatever. Kimberly wasn't too worried. All those other schools had been full of psychos, right? She'd seen a picture online. Some boy with a mask or something. Creeps. Killers. Weirdos.

Nobody at Bayview could ever end up like that.
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