"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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Viewing Single Post From: We pissin' our pants yet?
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"I want to find my friends."

He blurted out without thinking of anybody in particular, just somebody he could trust to have his back in any situation. Michael wasn't one of these people, but he could work out fine if he decided not to go around hitting and hacking people with his axe of his. The more he thought about the other boy's weapon, the more he felt envy toward it. Christ, it was a knife that was "shocking", what is that supposed to mean? He wished he could have been able to google it.

He scratched his neck. It wasn't itchy but he started to think about the overall situation. They were on an island, that was for sure. He remembered that from before he passed out. He also remembered Mr. Graham's death, shot and left there, bleeding. He erased the image from his mind by focussing on something else: the island. People lived there, people stayed there, people died there, and people left. These people must have left an impact here, one way or the other.

The terrorists must have swept in to clean it up and removed stuff that could be considered a weapon like a knife or a gun. "Cleaning", more like taking away any items that could be used to defend themselves. Securing, then. Only to make it deadlier by giving kids weapons. He felt like barfing when he thought about them. He was downright disgusted just by the idea that someone would do this to them, yet there they were.

For now, he had to think about survival. He looked around from his seat, he tried to situate the room in time. It looked old, but not in a fashioned way, more like it was abandoned for years and years. The place seemed like restaurant but with a handful of small tables and seats. Then it hit him, the counter! It was obviously a bar, this was some kind of pub or something. They must be storing food, that was most likely rotten and eaten by thousand of rats, and bottles of alcohol.

He stood up and pointed at the counter. It took a couple of second before he started to explain his plan.

"Are we in a... pub?"

That wasn't very convincing for someone that was supposed to be strong and tough, he tried again, "Stuff must have been left behind, should we search for it?"

He really had to work on his monotonous, badass voice.

me by naft
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We pissin' our pants yet? · The Pub