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A friendly clown welcomes you to LOCAH. It seems he would like to be your guide.
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[[Garrett Hunter continued from I Am Jack's Inflamed Sense of Rejection]]

It was two long fucking days. Especially considering he had to spend the entire time with fucking Jeremy Franco.

They'd gotten off that mountain, far away from the tunnels and the bodies and the stench of death. Except they didn't, not really- away from the tunnels, yes, but there were bodies everywhere, to the point where he had to watch his step. He held his breath to ward off the smell that pervaded the island, ruining his appetite, though he occasionally forced a cracker down his throat. He walked as fast as his gimpy leg would take him, trying to get himself somewhere where he could breath normally again, where he wouldn't be constantly reminded of exactly how many people had died here. How many people kept dying, how many people would keep dying as long as these games went on. It was a futile effort. It was hard enough not tripping over the fucking things. Part of him remembered that these were his classmates, these were people and as much as he'd hated most of them they hadn't deserved this. The rest of him was just irritated. How the hell was he supposed to pick the broken pieces of revolution back up if he could hardly walk?

...How was he supposed to pull the revolution together, anyway? In all honesty, Garrett had no idea what he was doing. Liz had been the brains of their effort, for the little time it was an assembled effort and not one girl getting shit done on her own- something he was still sore about. What had she done, anyway? Broken some cameras...done some shit with uh transceivers or something Garrett really hadn't paid much attention to the technical details of the whole tunnels deal. Garrett could break cameras, but how far would that get him? As far as he could tell it had mostly gotten people's collars blown, not to mention Garrett himself still had his collar and could be popped off at any time. Which didn't really make him feel any more optimistic about this.

He had to do something, but what? Storming the compound was suicidal, he'd be dead before he even got near it. Breaking more cameras would be stupid. He couldn't do all this technical shit Liz did. All he could think of to do was go back and find the death squad, but that would be suicide too, considering that their weapons were a goddamn sword-cane (which might be dangerous in the hands of a non-idiot), a goddamn axe (which might be dangerous in the hands of a non-fat chick) and his fucking netgun, which was so completely stupid that he honestly wondered why he'd been given it to begin with. What could he have done, if he'd actually had to stand in fight?

For a little while, Garrett was able to remain hopeful. Maybe Liz and Belle were alive- maybe they'd killed the death squad, somehow. Maybe that's why there wasn't a squadron breathing down their necks right now; it was the only good reason he could think of for why they were allowed to remain alive while openly planning rebellion. So they, the three of them, this little ragtag group of nothing in particular, they just wandered for a while. Occasionally Jeremy or Fiona would ask where they were going, what they were gonna do, and Garrett said- they were waiting. As much as he loathed the analogy, he felt like a soldier without orders. Doomed to wander until he got some damn orders or until the enemy shot him down. For once in his life he had to admit- he wasn't fit to lead. He couldn't punch his way out of this. He needed Liz.

Fuck. I am SHIT at this. Absolute shit. What did I think I could do? If I'd never run into Belle and ended up with Liz and them, I would've just run around doing nothing all fucking game. What is there to do?

Wait. They waited. They waited all day. Slept at night, and woke up to the news that Liz Polanski was, in fact, dead.

So there was that.

They wandered some more. Belle was still alive, somehow, or at least her death wasn't announced, so he held on to the slightest ounce of positivity. Maybe Liz couldn't help them anymore, but Belle was smart, she could figure something out, maybe. He hated this helplessness but he admitted they needed help, especially when he turned around to call for Fiona and found she wasn't there. They'd gotten separated in the trees somewhere and now it was just him and Jeremy goddamn Franco who still wasn't good at shutting up and who Garrett still honestly wanted to introduce to his fist. With Fiona gone, they could talk about the whole tunnel fiasco openly, but he didn't bother. That would involve Jeremy talking more, and besides, what was there to say? That the death squad was probably after them now? Maybe. That Belle might still be alive? It was so unlikely that Garrett tried not to think about it. That this entire thing was pointless, and that they were both probably better off going their own ways, trying to live this out...?


I'm a fucking idiot. It's useless. It's all useless. I should just send him off, stop dealing with him, let him try to live through this shit...all I'm doing is putting us both in danger. But...but...

But he couldn't give up. He just couldn't. Not even when another day passed, another announcement went by, and he heard the name Mirabelle Nesa. So she was dead, too. Not a surprise, but it didn't exactly lift his spirits. But somehow he couldn't find the heart to send Jeremy elsewhere, to give up, to say out loud- "okay, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, let's give up." There had to be something. Maybe someone trying to do the same thing as them. Maybe that's all he needed to do, was find them. They had to exist, somewhere. As much as Garrett didn't want to think about spending time with more fucking people, the thought was enough to keep him with his head slightly off the ground. He was exhausted, his leg hurt worse than ever, but he knew what he had to do, now. And he'd do it, Jeremy Franco babbling in his ear or not.

They stumbled down the beach- or rather, Jeremy walked. Garrett stumbled. It was hard, getting his footing properly on this sand, and more than once he fell, pulling himself up, refusing Franco's help. Just a little further was the thought he clung to. A little further to what was irrelevant. Just, as long as there was a destination in mind, as long as he could pretend there was a goal, he could-


There was a boat.

Garrett jumped, very nearly collapsing on his bum leg before automatically getting into a fighting stance. Then realizing that his fighting stance would be useless against a boat- or any of the doubtlessly weapon-carrying terrorists that were on it- and raised his weapon instead. Then he remembered that his weapon was a fucking net gun and settled for looking alert, watching the damn thing. No one was getting off of it. No one was shooting him. It was a ways down the beach still, but the fact he didn't hear gunshots was kind of reassuring. He didn't bother running, though it crossed his mind. His leg would give up on him before he got the chance.

He did, however, hear a voice. It was hard to miss.

"Good morning, death island."

That's fucking cheery.

"We're here with your friendly taxi service, offering an all-expenses-paid trip back to the good ol' USA for all of you non-murderous sorts out there. Killers, players, and cannibals welcome too, for the bullet-in-the-head special, if you want the easy way out of this."

He felt his leg wobble. It was hard enough standing when he wasn't having his every thought about the future shattered.

"But wait! There's more. Come now, and you get to give Mr. Danya a nice big 'Fuck you', plus you get a free Happy Meal when we hit shore. This is a limited time offer, though, so you better move fast, 'cause the seats on this boat are hot, and once they're gone, they're gone. Oh, and if I find out you murdered someone on your way here but weren't on my happy little list of sociopaths, I swear I'll put a bullet straight through your skull."


Garrett just stared blankly at the boat, trying to process what was happening. They weren't terrorists. This wasn't another death squad. This was the exact opposite of a death squad. This was a rescue team. How that was even possible...it was impossible to comprehend while he tried to think of something suitable to say. He looked at Jeremy, looked back at the boat, and said the most suitable thing he could think of.

"Holy fuck."
being meguca is suffering

[x] Aidan Flynn [B???] // Passing slowly though the vector, damp with fog, the bog that grows the former business sector...
[x] Chitose Saionji [G???] // 公園に千歳は本を読む!

Winston Evans aced the last English test and would like to point out how gorgeous your shoes are.

Those Who've Known - V4
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