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No Rest for the Wicked; Private thread
Topic Started: Sep 11 2010, 12:44 PM (2,004 Views)
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((Augustus MacDougal continued from Dude, how come I feel like I'm not in Kansas anymore?))

The beach was beautiful. On one side, the clear blue water, the rising sun visible in the distance to the east. On the other, a long line of rocks of various shapes and sizes, shielding the beach from the chaos of the inner island. And on the sand of the beach itself, a fairly small figure was walking along, by far the least attractive thing on the beach. Augustus MacDougal, known semi-affectionately as Dougal to everyone but his family, was in a bad state. By no means was he a handsome rogue in everyday life who turned the heads of male and female alike, he was fairly middle-of-the-road in terms of appearance, but the island had made him look a mess. The normally clean, tidy boy was dishevelled and covered in patches of dirt, his hair was an unattractive mess and he had a small cut on his right elbow for when he tripped climbing over some rocks. The boy hadn't slept since recovering from the sleeping gas, and had spent most of his time wondering around the island aimlessly avoiding human contact.

Yawning, Dougal once again checked to make sure if the shotgun he was holding (previously property of Dougal's ever-optimistic friend Albert Lions, who had graciously lent it to Augustus and then proceeded to get separated from him) was fully loaded. He was tired as hell, too tired to think about the things he was going to miss out on in life or mentally debate any deep philosophical questions he had. Dougal had had all-nighters before, nights spent with his girlfriend or his mates, or nights spent playing a new video game or doing some last-minute cramming for an important exam. He had also spent long periods of time walking or running before, but he had never combined the two before like he just had, and he felt shite for it.

The biggest problem in Dougal's life, in his view, were the cameras spying on his every step, broadcasting every action he made to the viewers at home. He knew full well some of his family and friends were watching, and that was the main concern to him. If they lived in one of those countries where TV wasn't such an important part of everyday life or the game was just being made as private snuff porn for Danya, then he'd be able to try and play the game, knowing fully well his family and friends wouldn't judge him on it when he got him. Killing people wouldn't be easy, he knew that fully well, but the cameras made sure he behaved, funnily enough. Not only did they prevent him from rebelling against the system, they made sure he didn't exactly go along with the system either.

They also prevented him from taking a crap, despite the fact he really needed one. But he'd rather hold it in until he died before exposing his private region to the nation.

Pushing his glasses up his nose again and pulling his bags back up his shoulders, Dougal continued walking along the beach, kicking wet sand up as he went. He had what felt like tons of sand in his shoes and socks, but he didn't really see the point in getting rid of it. He didn't even know why he decided to go onto this beach, he'd had to climb over a few rocks to do so and he wouldn't have been surprised if he came face-to-face with a psycho with a volleyball and an eye on his shotgun.

Kicking a random piece of driftwood out of his way, he spotted what appeared to be a small cave just ahead of him. Well, it was more like a large gap between two big rocks, but it should give him a bit of privacy, some time to think and if he was lucky catch a few minutes of sleep. Unless the tide came up and drowned him....did tides work that way? He knew a lot about most areas of science, but next to nothing about tides except the moon caused them. Was it high tide? Low tide?

Before Dougal could continue this most interesting thought process about tides and whether or not they worked that way, he heard a mysterious clapping coming from somewhere. Quickly realising it was time for one of the infamous announcements, Dougal listened intently to the tragically long death list while he slowly edged towards the cave.
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The announcement wound down to a close, the morbid list and accompanying corny jokes (adding insult to injury, Dougal thought) still fresh in Dougal's ears. Dougal stored the list of the dangerzones in his memory (dying by collar explosion seemed like a silly, embarrassing and pointless way to kick the bucket) and began trying to mentally attach the lists of killers and deceased to faces, but was interrupted by a yawn coming from the cave he was heading for.

Restraining the urge to yawn himself (yawns are even more contagious when you're tired, after all), Dougal instinctively took a couple of clumsy steps back and brought up the loaded shotgun, aiming it straight at the boy's face. Dougal's already grouchy, on-edge mood was not helped by who he saw. One of the few people at Bayview Dougal could genuinely bring himself to hate. The spoilt, pretentious egotist otherwise known as Maxwell Lombardi. And it wasn't just Maxwell's horrendous personality that rubbed Dougal the wrong way. Dougal's intense hatred was, in his eyes, pretty damn well justified.

The thing is, Maxwell fancied himself quite a ladies man, unlike Dougal who, thanks in large part to his somewhat nerdy appearance and his cynical outlook, could charitably be described as someone who got lucky when he began going out with the rather attractive Annabel Stephenson from one of the other St. Paul schools. Long story short, Dougal and Annabel were going out together to one of the local St. Paul clubs, the creepy bastard came along and casually hit on her, she said no, Dougal saw the situation and interfered half-way through (rather understandably pissed off), and then the cowardly Maxwell left before the shit hit the fan. Luckily for Maxwell (well, luckily for Dougal, as Maxwell could probably wallop the wiry Augustus in a fair fight), the two hadn't really met since then.

Until now.

And now, Dougal had the rather unfair advantage of a shotgun pointed straight at the prick's face. He could kill him right here, right now. Close that unfortunate chapter in Dougal's life. But Dougal wouldn't. Dougal was stronger than that. Dougal had morals and responsibilities, unlike the prick emerging from the cave in front of him. Dougal was just going to show Maxwell who was boss, maybe get his bag so he could have some extra supplies to use (Maxwell could make do with eating swamp water and frogs for all Dougal cared, and it would make a rather "refreshing" change from the caviar and roast partridge Maxwell was probably used to) and then send him on his way. Of course, using the cave as shelter was now out of the question, as if Maxwell did have an ounce of cranial matter in his skull he'd just come back and kill Dougal while he was sleeping. But, the sweet taste of nonviolent karmic justice would be more than enough to sustain Dougal until he reached a more appropriate hideout.

Now, the hard bit. Dougal opened his mouth, still keeping the barrel of the shotgun aimed squarely at Maxwell's general area as he took a couple more paces back. "Right, Maxwell. I don't know if you remember me, but I remember you. I have no intention of hurting you." Resisting the urge to add "even though I want to", Dougal paused to collect his thoughts and ponder on what to say next. Dougal was shaking quite visibly, partially out of cold, but partially out of fear. Dougal had never been in a situation before where a real person's life was on the line, and it was a rather frightening experience.

Dougal knew that if he killed Maxwell right there, right now, his friends and family would be disgusted with him if he got back, and his own personal demons would make it even worse. However, they'd all probably let mugging someone in the name of survival slide, especially someone who had it coming. Maxwell had no chance of surviving with or without his bag, but the prick's worthless life might as well end without Dougal's direct intervention.

His hands still tightly gripping the rather cumbersome shotgun, Dougal carried on, monitoring Maxwell closely for any signs of resistance. "Just....throw over your bag, everything will be a-okay."
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Dougal was, up until now, under the impression that pointing guns at sane, non-suicidal people without a weapon of their own tended to have two impacts: they'd do what ever the hell you wanted, and they'd be scared shitless. While this outlook on life was mainly based on what he'd heard and seen from the media, and how he'd imagine he'd react with a gun pointed at him. However, NEVER would Dougal have considered that anyone but the most carefree badasses would actually consider being snarky to the guy with a gun. And Maxwell was definitely NOT a badass. Carefree, possibly, but not a badass. Spoilt pricks without a sense of control didn't become badasses overnight, not in real life anyway. So either Maxwell was proving he was insane when he began calmly trying to explain to Dougal, in the most jerkish way possible, why mugging Maxwell was a bad idea or his perception of how people reacting to guns aimed at them was wrong.

Tightening his grip on the shotgun, he shook his head in denial, and took a couple more steps back from Maxwell. He was rambling about how Dougal didn't have the balls to use the gun and how it'd ruin his reputation back home (well done, Captain fucking Obvious, Dougal thought bitterly when Maxwell said this, that's why I'm just mugging you), and Dougal decided to open his mouth in response. This would not stand, and Dougal would make Maxwell understand how very wrong he was.

"Firstly, I don't give a shit about you," Dougal replied, in a calm, yet furious tone (he was still shaking, but now out of anger), "so you rotting away without your supplies doesn't mean shit to me. Secondly...."

However, Maxwell did not seem to have noticed Dougal talking back, or simply decided he was too important to be polite and not interrupt people mid-sentence.

"...I mean, you wouldn't want to give any sluts waiting on you back home even MORE reasons as to why they shouldn't bother waiting for the inevitable to happen when theres a perfectly attractive bodybuilder just waiting for them across the street......"

That was it. That was the comment that made Dougal throw all calmness and fear and logic out of the window, and replace it with nothing but self-righteous fury and complete and utter hatred. His face turned red, his hands tightened their grip and steadied their aim, Dougal began shaking from head to toe with uncontrollable rage. As much as a cliche as it was, Mr. Nice Guy was out of the window.

"Listen here, you fucking shithead", Dougal ranted, spitting as he did so, the volume of his voice escalating as he continued, "Firstly, I have a fucking girlfriend. REMEMBER HER? About 5"8, attractive, light brown hair? You hit on her when me and her were having a night out, then the moment I came, you ran away like a little pussy? Or is that too much of a regular occurrence for you to remember every specific girl you did that to? The thing is, you rely on your charm and your 'good looks' and your spoilt English brat persona to get a girl, hell, you rely on those things to get ANYWHERE in life. I, and everyone else, attractive or not, rely on our fucking personalities and the fact we're not complete scumbags!"

Who's on a roll now, shit-for-brains?

The rage penting up inside him, Dougal continued, his hands shaking and the direction the shotgun was aiming at rapidly becoming very inaccurate "In fact, that's the main reason I have no worries about your stupid, worthless life being lost, I just didn't want to do it myself because UNLIKE YOU I have morals, and I don't want my fucking family and friends and girlfriend seeing me waste valuable time killing a stupid little waste of oxygen like yourself! But, yeah, you don't think I have fucking balls? FUCK. YOU." Dougal was seeing red, and logically, he would have thought the decision he made next to be an extremely irrational, stupid one, a decision made by a man blinded by emotion.

BANG!

....

Dougal had no idea what stupid decision he had just made, and what happened afterwards, but all he knew was that he was lying on his back, his arms aching like hell. The shotgun lay abandoned on the floor, the shot pellets having missed their target, lodged harmlessly in the stony sand to the left of Maxwell. A few had just missed him by a matter of inches, but Dougal, in his state of blind rage, had hopelessly misjudged the aim.

He'd also not realised 144lb, thin, wiry, untrained kids like himself with as much muscle as Maxwell had moral fibre, were not built to shoot shotguns. He didn't know whether the recoil had simply blasted him off his feet or whether he'd actually dislocated something, but he was on the floor and completely vulnerable to being killed.

Just fucking great.
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Dougal tried to push himself back up so that he was in a position to fight back against Maxwell or at the very least run away and live to die another day (he was quite a good runner, and his legs felt perfectly fine), but his arms felt weak and it hurt like hell to move them. He was deprived of sleep, and his thoughts were pulling his brain in completely different directions, some of them nonsensical. He didn't know whether to feel angry, or scared, or depressed, or whatever. He still had no idea what exactly had thrown him back onto the stony, dirty beach, but he could make an educated guess and say that the fact he was a pretty thin, wiry kid meant he was not built for shotguns, and thus was why he was in such a compromising position.

Breathing heavily, he tried to contemplate his next move. Moving his arms was pretty much out of the question, they felt like they were on strike, refusing to move a muscle in fear of making the sheer agony he was already feeling even worse.

However, up until now, Dougal had assumed he had hit Maxwell. In fact, the very idea that Maxwell may still be a threat and may be out to end Dougal's life as retribution for Dougal's extremely hostile tirade hadn't even crossed his mind. If he was to think about what his biggest problem was, he'd probably say the tide going higher than he expected it to do so, or a passing player like that Kris or Clio or Reiko coming by and picking him off in his vulnerable state.

So, Dougal was rather shocked, and quite frankly terrified out of his mind, when he heard Maxwell's words pierce through the air. Judging by the tone and the profane, aggressive vocabulary used, Maxwell was still alive, and he wasn't shellshocked or seriously wounded. The only emotions he was feeling were pure hatred. And Dougal would have to suffer for it. Bracing himself for a shotgun blast to the face, he closed his eyes shut, and began quivering like a nervous wreck once again. He couldn't die, not like this. He was too young, he had so much to do in life, and --

What happened next, Dougal had not expected. The wind was knocked out off him as Maxwell landed on his torso, having pounced his stationary target instead of going the quick, relatively humane route. And then Maxwell placed his hands tightly around the exposed skin of Dougal's neck, barely missing the collar that was "shielding" a large part, but not all, of his neck. Immediately, the expression on Dougal's face turned from a flustered look of exhaustion and depression, to one of desperation and fear. He'd never had hands around his neck for more than a couple of seconds before, and never in such a hostile, dangerous way. A split second after Maxwell closed his hands around Dougal's hands; his breathing became a lot more painful, air struggling to get through his windpipe, his mouth feebly coughing and spluttering, his mind in full panic-mode, shutting out all thoughts except for fears of death and ways of getting this attacker off of him.

His aching arms were still both out of commission, barely moving, having apparently given up and prepared for their imminent fate a long time before the rest of Dougal's body had. They just lay there, sprawled on the sand, doing little to try and resist the maniac with his hands crushing against Dougal's neck. In an attempt to make up for the lack of action from his arms, Dougal's legs began kicking and thrashing, however doing nothing but kick sand, stones and litter up in the air, the sand being picked up by the breeze and carried away. As a final attempt at getting out of a futile situation, his torso began squirming uncomfortably as much as it could, which was not a lot, considering it had the full weight of Maxwell Lombardi on top of it and the general weak, tired situation of Dougal's body to contend with. There was nothing he could do to stop this.

He was going to die.

He was never going to eat again, have fun again, relax again, see his friends again, see his family again, see Annabel again, and all because he happened to be in the same class that Danya decided to pick for his little death-game. He didn't even have the thought of the possibility of a benevolent afterlife to comfort him; despite his Christian upbringing, he could be described as agnostic at best, however most settled for calling him a cynical, nihilistic atheist. And even if there was an afterlife? He would go there now, wait years for his friends and family and Annabel to die and come up and join him, and by then they'd all have moved on. Jacob, Alberta and Bill would all have new interests and new friends to entertain themselves, and probably would have developed new personalities to boot. Annabel would have moved on, probably gotten married and had kids and would only remember Dougal as a sad memory, someone to remember and mourn from time to time, but not someone to change her life for. And his parents and his sisters still had each other; they'd just sell Dougal's stuff, mourn for a few weeks than get on with their lives.

It was a strange person who actually hoped there wasn't an afterlife when they were about to die, but Dougal was that person.

The pain was getting stronger.

His windpipe was getting weaker, fighting a losing battle against the force of Maxwell's hands. Dougal could feel his bodily extremities begin to go limp, he could sense parts of his brain begin to go fuzzy and useless as they ran out of air, he could feel his lungs go into panic mode as the vital supplies of air began to run dry.

He tried uttering an apology, a plea for mercy, tried saying something to try and get Maxwell to calm down and negotiate, but all that came out whenever Dougal tried to say something was a barely audible somewhat-squeaky grunt. Even if he was able to talk, he wouldn't have expected Maxwell to listen.

So, this was it.

His final moments.

Not how he imagined going, even when he woke up on the island half-expecting to die in a shitty and painful way, the idea of being strangled on a rocky beach by some stuck-up English cunt wouldn't have crossed his mind.

The pain was becoming unbearable. His body had fallen limp aside from the occasional twitch, the pained, contorted expression on his face and the semi-frequent splutters and groans from his mouth being the only signs of life from the boy. He could feel a sensation he'd never felt before; a sensation he guessed was dying.

So this is how it feels.

He was just going to die, unimportant, worthless, insignificant. Evil had won. He had lost. Sure, that was how his life philosophy went, but it wasn't a nice feeling to have, to know it to be true for certain. He'd just die right here, right now, and be forgotten amidst the long list of the names of the dead, remembered by history and his classmates only one last time as his name was read out by Danya and accompanied by some sick, twisted joke that wouldn't even be that funny.

And Maxwell would just pick up his bags and stroll off to cause more trouble....

Though he'd probably die too. He'd probably get his comeuppance.

That was a comfort. It was a sad situation when the impending death of one of your peers was the only positive thing in a situation, but this was undeniably a sad situation. He wouldn't be there to see it and savour it, but Maxwell will get a taste of karma. And, even if against the odds he somehow won the game and got off the island, he'd be ostracised from every community on the planet, hunted down if not by Dougal's family and friends then by someone else’s. In Dougal's current state of mind, one of panic, delirium and regret, the idea of his sworn enemy getting a taste of his own medicine was more than enough to make Dougal happy.

And while his facial expression did not change, and the physical pain did not cease, Dougal was alright with the thought of his death now. He was no longer thinking about regrets or the afterlife or how he'd fade into nothing, he was perfectly satisfied with the comforting thought that Maxwell would die.

And just like that, without a final thought, or his life flashing before his eyes, with no warning aside from the encroaching darkness and the steadily increasing difficulty to breath, it all stopped. Dougal stopped moving, he stopped thinking, and he stopped living.

B143 - AUGUSTUS MACDOUGAL - DECEASED
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