"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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(Liz Polanski start)

Liz Polanski was deciding whether to die.

This wasn't a trivial question. Whatever trouble her mother was going to get into, she was going to get into it before Liz got off the island regardless. With Mr. Kwong likely dead, she had no one in particular to live for. And dying was the path of least resistance. Liz liked the path of least resistance. Not that she wouldn’t go out with a bang...but still.

Then she remembered the University.

Liz Polanski had just been accepted full scholarship into the University of Minnesota. Liz Polanski was going to get to do math--real math--every day and every night for the next four years. Liz Polanski was going to have the time of her miserable life, until some terrorist had picked her high-school class to play a murder-game on some remote island. Completely messing up her awesome university-centered plan.

Liz had liked that plan. She wanted to stick with it. She liked the idea of having friends for the first time in her life. She liked the idea of feeling safe, the way she always did with mathematics, where everything clicked into place and nothing went wrong and she could see the perfection of the world stretch far into the distance.

This plan, however, had the ambitious step of Not Dying.

Liz decided it was worth it.

She pushed herself off the sand, brushed off her back and shoulders, and looked at the rucksack lying beside her. Beige bag, helpfully labelled. Inventory included map, compass, flashlight, book (Mr. Danya’s Guide To Survival--sounded burnable), first aid kit which upon examination yielded a number of useful things including adhesive tape, needles and thread. Her threadbare original backpack--someone had rummaged through and removed the lighter (fuckface). The clothing she was wearing, not particularly helpful: pleated pocketed miniskirt, fishnet tights, combat boots stuffed with socks, black zip-up sweatshirt, black T-shirt, text: “Who the hell do you think I am?”. Copious amounts of eyeliner, eyeshadow, black lipstick in the pockets. In the rucksack again, rations, bread and water, not enough of them for a long game. And, at the bottom, a weapon. Something cool, that nipped her fingers as she touched it.

A Navy SEAL search-and-rescue knife.

Brilliant.

It wasn't throwable, and it wasn't a gun, but it was a weapon. She put the cool metal to her mouth and kissed it. Thanks, Mr. Danya.

It was Survival of the Fittest. She was going to be a little crazy.

Next step, after transferring the contents of Beige Rucksack to the understuffed pockets of Black Backpack (one bag is better than two) was to move. The biggest danger on this island was people. Period. So sitting on a coastline where people could see her from a jillion miles away was suboptimal. She needed to move, now.

The scrubby forest in the distance seemed like a goal.

She stood up, making a face at the cormorants circling overhead. They were probably used to feasting on corpses. I’m not dead yet. They squawked unhelpfully.

As Liz walked, she started to think about people-proofing. In order to keep people away from her, she was going to have to look as intimidating as fuck. Tiny much-disliked goth girls were probably prime targets, unless people thought they were capable of murdering the shit out of anyone who got close. So costuming was a priority. Goal was looking unsettling, if not monstrously unhinged.

Eyeliner, eyeshadow, goth lipstick in the pocket of her miniskirt. As she walked, she began painting her face black.

Then she saw the corpse.

Chris Davidson. Tiny kid. Blond, bible belt. Someone had shot him in the face. Liz’s first thought was to do death rites. Cross herself, put coins on his eyes.

No, no, no. The cormorants were circling overhead. This was their prey. Liz wondered if Christianity was one of those religions where they thought dead people in desecrated bodies wouldn’t go to heaven. She didn’t think so.

And this body was giving her a spectacular idea for people-proofing her life.

Thank God for pitching. Liz had always had strong arms.

She heaved the body over her shoulder.

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(Liz Polanski continued in Resolve)
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Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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