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Mr. Danya
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“Nate…I’m Nate.”

He was still crouching behind the seat, trying but struggling to expose himself. He was normally pretty open and confident when meeting new people, greeting them with a happy smile and an eager interest in getting to know that person just a little bit better. Maybe it would work out, maybe it wouldn’t, but there was no harm in trying.

It was no shock that Nate wasn’t his normal self right now. Had he become scared of Matt? Or was he just scared of the situation? People didn’t scare him, he knew that. He knew that he didn’t need to start being scared of people. That was one of the things he was good at. People was something he could do.

He still couldn’t stand up straight, though. The best he managed was getting his shoulders past the top of the wood, where he looked at Matt with an expression not unlike that of a startled, helpless puppy.

“No, I don’t have a gun.” He trembled. Of course: people had guns. That was something that the terrorists had said, wasn’t it? Some of his classmates had guns, and they were going to try and kill everyone and try to kill him. That was what Survival of the Fittest was all about. Still, he knew he wasn’t one of those people with a gun. He didn't want to be one of those other people, either. “I just have this stick.”

He moved to show his staff to Matt, but it was lying on the ground at his feet, dropped in his panic. He had to bed down, out of sight again, to reach it.

He came back to his feet and it held it up. He was stood there, in the chapel of an abandoned asylum on an island, holding up his assigned weapon to convince one of his schoolmates that he wasn’t about to shoot him.

The tears were starting again.

“What’s happening to us?”
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Dear God · Crematorium Chapel