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Trained for combat by a cabal of hacktivists.
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((B067, Warren Brown.))

Warren Brown, now known to the people watching at home as B067, woke up in a flowerbed, sneezing his ass off.

Tears were streaming down his face, not from sadness, but from his severe hayfrever. He'd suffered from it ever since he was about eight, and every year it seemed to get worse and worse. Unfortunately for Warren, this year had been the worst yet for pollen, and he didn't remember taking any tablets for a long time, or even packing any on the trip with him.

Warren tried to open his stinging eyes, but everything was a painful blur, a mass of bright colours mixing together in the sky. Warren shut his eyes again, deciding it'd be better to keep them closed after finding it was slightly less painful.

Trying to keep them firmly shut, he rolled onto his side, only to find that he was closer to the edge of the flowerbed in than he thought, rolling off of it and crashing facefirst into the concrete pavement.

"Ugh," Warren pushed himself up to his feet, blinking several times until his vision cleared up enough for him to actually see. "Th- That one hurt."

He felt a sharp pain in his cheek, and put his hand up to his face, knocking something on his neck in the process. He looked down at his hand, and saw the red marks of blood on it.

"Fuck," He muttered under his breath, taking a tissue out of a small pack he kept in his jean pocket and pressing it on his cut.

It was around this time he realised just where he was, and how he'd managed to wind up in a flowerbed. He remembered passing out on the bus, waking up in the room with the rest of the class and the tape with that Riz guy stabbing the girl and shooting her, being gassed again, and then waking up with no recollection of how he got there.

Drawing a reasonable conclusion that these events weren't the result of him downing a couple of bottles of whiskey before the trip, Warren felt his neck. Confirming his suspicions, he found he was now wearing some kind of collar.

Warren looked around for his pack, before spotting a black duffel bag with B067 stencilled on the side on the pavement, on the other side of the flowerbed. Warren guessed he must've thrashed about before he woke up and kicked it off without realising. He walked over to it and sat down, placing it on his lap. He took a deep breath before unzipping it, and pulled out what he could only assume was his weapon.

Warren had never shot a gun before, but he knew enough about them to recognise the maker of the one he was holding in his hand. It was a Berreta, but Warren couldn't figure out what model.

He put it on the flowerbed next to him, and zipped his pack up, putting it on over his shoulder.
B035 - Ray Gilbert - DECEASED - Guy Fawkes Mask - Too Far Gone
G029 - Zoe Leverett - DECEASED - Machete - To Really Be Alone, To Pick At All the Bones
[18:10] <Laurels> WWJD? Fuck corpses, apparently

[15:16] <Naft> My college once nearly burned down because someone tried to make a bong out of dollar bills and the fire alarm didn't work
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