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Jeremy Frasier was going to die on this island.

((B003: Begin))

That was what he had figured out the moment he woke up. Well, okay, you got him there. Not actually moment one. Probably about… five minutes? He didn’t have a watch on him (and likely never would, at this rate) but five minutes staring at the sky seemed right. Really, the fact that he felt he could keep time in his head was honestly a little surprising to him. He was on Survival of the Fittest, an event which, quoth him, was “a giant publicised thunderdome in which a high school class fought tooth and nail until only one was left standing.” Really, considering where he was right now he expected himself to be screaming, crying, destroying the environment around him or something like that. Instead, he was on his back, hands behind his head and staring at the sky. Getting a little bit of a tan too, considering the heat on the right side of his face. It was odd. He felt nice, in a way, laying down like this. Warm. Comfortable. Slightly homey.

Not exactly the feeling he imagined that one would have when they learned that their days were numbered.

Still, probably not the position that Jeremy should really be in, considering he was the aforementioned one who had just learned that his days were numbered. He sat up, turned his head to look around. Felt the sand fall off his back onto the ground. He was on a beach of some sort, empty and trailing from what seemed like side to side with an empty blue ocean in front of him. Scenic, in a way. Not that he really cared about art or the beach but he imagined that there was a certain angle you could look at this that’d make a good painting. Not really something he cared about honestly but hey, maybe some asshole back in the real world could get rich by selling art of dead kids. Maybe then Jeremy would be remembered after he died. He took his hands off of his head and put them onto the ground, so that he could lean back while he was seated like this. He could feel something where he placed his left. He looked, checking to see what it was. A bag, with the name B003: Frasier, Jeremy on it. Given that someone had put his name on it he assumed that it was his. He brought it onto his lap, fumbling with the zipper as he opened it...

...to find a giant revolver just sitting there. Ready to be taken.

He grabbed it. Well, slowly, not as sudden or fast as he had made it sound. Although this was the first time he had seen an actual gun it wasn’t really that special, considering the events and milestones now in Jeremy’s life through the minutes prior. Seeing a gun for the first time was a little interesting, though, at least compared to the other events happening right now (i.e: nothing). He placed his hand around the hold and trigger, resisting the temptation to swing it around on his finger given that the little thing that you had to press to actually fire the gun was right there and would probably trigger at the slightest pressure.It didn’t really seem take much to pull it, which sucked. Maybe he could have looked badass or something swinging the gun around like a cowboy. Couldn’t really complain though. He had a gun. That was probably a better weapon than about what 50% of his class got.

Probably wouldn’t help him that much at all, though.

Because sure, he had a gun. As cool as that was, it didn’t discount the fact that he was overweight and unathletic. And really, considering that this was Survival of the Fittest, that just kinda gave him poor chances from the offset. As powerful as the gun probably was, it wouldn’t really help him that much at all if one of the wrestlers or one of the athletes got in range of him. He was basically dead. If there were people back in the real world running a ring on who would win the lone person who bet on the unathletic kinda smart kinda savvy gamer would get the full payout. Because in all honestly? Nobody would be betting on him. He was dead in the water and it was only a matter of time until some aspiring psychopath decided to make him their next artform.

Jeremy Frasier, 0% chance of winning the game.

And really, Jeremy was inclined to believe those odds. $100 said that someone other than Jeremy would win this thing. He was so faithful in his odds that he was betting far above his actual bank. He didn’t even have $100 to lose. He was dead in the water; no matter how hard he tried Jeremy Frasier would not be the one crowned the fittest at the end.

So in that case, why bother? His days were numbered, better to spend them doing something of actual worth rather than spend them chasing the horizon. Everyone was going to do that, may as well be that one hipster or emo or whatever. Really, if he had to guess what the other 100 or so people who picked the wrong trip were planning on doing he’d probably guess something like:

1. Figure out a way to survive.
2. Find friends, maybe join up with them..

That… wasn’t really the way Jeremy would do it. It was Survival of the Fittest, not Survival of the Best Friends or Survival of the Fitter. Maybe if he switched and removed a couple things, though...

1. Find Friends?

Yeah, okay, he had nothing. Sue him. Actually don’t because it’d be kinda hard to sue a corpse but you get the meaning. And really, just give him a break. It probably hadn’t even been ten minutes since he had woken up and at the very least he was probably going to survive at least another half hour or so. He had time. Maybe he could figure out something in that half hour or so. Probably not a clear cut actual plan but even if he couldn’t think up of one he could at least improvise something. He could do that.

Standing up did seem like a good idea, though. He got up - sand from his butt and legs again falling down onto the ground - and looked around, revolver held casually in his right hand, eyes looking around and trying to see if anyone else had woken up near where he was.

He didn’t really know who it was going to be if it was someone, but regardless of who it was he figured it’d be at least interesting to see how people were reacting to this.
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