"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Hallucinojelly
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God was telling you "not yet".
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B044: Trent Savage - Start

The coast was clear. He sprang forth from the undergrowth as though his arms had turned into legs, and found himself at what appeared to be a small cabin of sorts, nestled here among the mountains. His fingers wrapping themselves tightly around the handle of his weapon - kanabo, it was called, though Trent had never heard of such a thing - and he tip-toed cautiously up the path leading to the front door. His daypack, numbered "B044", along with his duffel bag, hung loosely off his shoulders, causing him some discomfort as he had to keep stopping to make sure they didn't slip away from his oddly-proportioned frame, and the sweat was already building in blotches beneath his armpits and around the small of his back. But this was not the time to start caring about appearances (or odours), because now the boy had made it to the tiny building, his weapon raising higher and higher the closer he got to the door.

Finally, he made it, but someone troubled him as he clasped his hand around the cold metal of the handle. This was too easy, he thought, far too easy. How could a place like this be so empty with so many students running around out there? So many of his classmates would have a weapon like his, or worse, something deadlier, more precise - a gun, for instance. He gulped. Someone could be in there, right now, waiting for him to waltz on in with a machine gun primed and eager to send an army of metal his way. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all; this wasn't like a game. In a game, you have game overs, but you never die. You just try again and hope for the best. There'd be no retries here though, no second chances. If he died, that would be it, and that would be the end of "B044", whatever that number meant.

Yeah, I should just-

"About three hours, give or take. Depends on how well you feel hiking. We can take this path around."

The quietest gasp abandoned him and he covered his mouth with his free hand. There were people in there! Now what? What if they came out, right now? How many were there? Panic took hold of him and he bolted around the cabin, only looking back once he found shelter behind one of the larger mounds of dug-up earth. His heart pounded against his chest, a fierce mixture of adrenaline and terror beating wildly like an electric samba in his veins. He didn't know who was in there, or even if they had any dangerous intent at all, but the fact was he'd left himself open just now, and that was a mistake he couldn't afford to make again.

That is, a mistake he couldn't make later, as he slowly brought his head up over the top of the mound. The cold breeze now made an impression on the boy as it whipped around his mangy hair, and he shivered as the T-shirt he wore provided no amount of protection against the harsh, bitter wind. From here, he could only see the back of the ranger's station, along with the staircase leading up to the front door as the cabin sat raised above the ground. That was when he noticed a pair of legs descend the stairs, alerting him to how correct his estimation had been. Another pair followed, meaning that two people must have already looted the place (damn, why didn't he get here sooner?), but at least they were finally leaving.

In an attempt to hoist himself up, he forgot how unsettled the pile he was lying on actually was, and sure enough he found himself sliding down to the bottom of the dirt-heap with a frustrated groan. Having been awake for over an hour, it would make sense to think that he would be over the effects of the knock-out gas by now, but with his adamant refusal to sleep when there was gaming to be done, his body wasn't used to the wonderful properties that came with more than 4 hours sleep. Essentially, his body was trying to trip him, as though it was working against him as he tried over and over to climb up the damn molehill, but after seventeen failed attempts to do so he finally let his limbs get their own way.

So he sat, for a while, at the base of the mound, his head resting on the rocky surface of the mountain while his eyes looked towards the blue for some kind of inspiration. Of course he knew that he could easily just walk around that heap of dirt, but that wasn't the point. He had a goal now, his own mountain to climb. It'd just be simpler if it didn't keep falling away from him every time he had to reach around to keep his bags from slipping away. Lord knows that he didn't want to have to slide back down to get them again, that'd be the worst. No, he had to do this. It was training, right? If he could somehow get to the top of the mound then he figured that'd be a good sign of things to come.

Okay, last time.

Shoving his weapon into his bag, he stared up at the hill as he psyched himself up. Then, taking a deep breath, he lunged forward, hands tearing away at the soil as he scrambled up and up, his heart working at a fever pitch as his legs struggled against the steep climb. He was doing it, he was really doing it! He was going to- YES! Yes! He'd made it! He'd made it to the very top, oh, happy days! "Hah!" He called out, panting with every breath after as his rested his hands on his knees. "Hah... I... hah! I did it! Ha-AH!" His victory, however, would be cut short. The ground beneath him gave way to his heavy breathing and he tumbled awkwardly down the mound, his feet flying over his head while his duffel bag flew from his shoulder. With a sickening smack, his head met the hard ground below, and he lay motionless, face-down in the dirt.

Somewhere nearby, the distinct shape of Craig Hoyle began to stir.
Edited by Hallucinojelly, Aug 11 2010, 11:32 AM.
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One of Three · The Ranger Station