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Rare Footage of Jerry Worried; B019 start
Topic Started: Aug 13 2016, 08:22 PM (630 Views)
MK Kilmarnock
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((B019 - Jerry Fury, start))

Jerry stood at the tower's base and gazed skyward. At least, he did the best he could in this endeavor. The collar around his neck caused him some great discomfort when he tilted his head too far back, what with the band of metal digging into the back of his head. He swore it was pulling on some of his neck hair too. He guessed those fuckin' bastards didn't care much if they pinched your neck hair when fitting you with a fancy new accessory.

Not too long after waking up, Jerry had investigated his surroundings and the new hardware strapped to his throat not unlike a hamster scrutinizing its new cage. That terrorist jerk briefly talked about the collar like it was the latest iPhone, prattling on about how it'll go kaboom if one of a million different things happened. It was a lot of fancy talk, but anybody could have seen around it; the collars were obviously way too thin to contain any sort of real potent explosive. It was just a tracking device and nothing more. Jerry knew he was too smart for that. If the game worked the way they said it did, then all he had to do was disregard their warnings, rip the thing off and then he could go through the island free of scrutiny and from those 'danger zones' or whatever they were called.

He put a hand on his collar, then tugged as hard as he could.



---



Granted, that was a while ago. All Jerry had to show for his efforts was a sore neck and the solace of knowing that nobody saw him hurting himself like a complete idiot. Yep. Nobody saw, other than the cameras all around that the terrorists said they had. That part, Jerry knew they weren't bluffing on. Kids knew about Survival of the Fittest. That is, kids knew if they weren't living under a damn rock. He heard about people, total dickwads and douchebags, who would prank their friends with a video of that girl who was eating another girl or like, some dude getting ripped apart with a chainsaw.

Jerry felt sick to his stomach knowing that one of those kids in those videos could soon be him. Even if he took the easy way out... all he had to do was climb the radio tower, give a quick look around, utter a 'hi guys, bye guys' and leap off... he wouldn't even feel it if he landed on his head, right? Even if he did all that, his suicide would still be captured by those damn cameras. He couldn't even see half of them, but one of them was visibly attached to the tower, focusing down at him. Jerry reached deep down inside himself to try and pull out the best hate-filled speech he could towards the terrorists. Something that would really burn them, some absolutely scathing remarks that would REALLY make them feel sorry for doing this to all of them.

"You..." he managed to say.

Good job, man! You really got them with that one! He internally chastised. Oh well. It was worth a shot.

Giving a grumble that lead into a nice and drawn out sigh, Jerry hit his knees and fumbled through his bag, looking for something useful.
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Chances were that the lot of 'em were already nursing broken tears and damp pants, straight up and down the cemetery bluffs of an island God probably couldn't even have been assed to forsake. Ben had occasionally pulled the 'we'll send you to a sanatorium' punchline on Lana, at least until she'd been old enough to ascribe to political correctness. Well shit, guess the shoe was on the other foot now.

Yeah. Let 'em all cry, scream, break shit. Slop up whatever bodily fluids they had to offer. It was fair, it was cool. Ben wouldn't blame any of them, at least he liked to assume he wouldn't have if he'd been around to see the birth throes of despair. Ugly, unbecoming as it all sounded, to him it was natural. No fucking way people weren't excused for losing their shit when it was this degenerate mess of a spectacle. But Ben?

Honestly, he liked to think he was counting his blessings. Who was on this island? Upperclassmen. Who wasn't on this island? Certain underclassman named Lana Fields. Couldn't ask for shit from the terrorists, whatever they were calling themselves now, but you could at least count on them to be predictable in their own fucked up way. The kids of the Fields household had one version under their belts. They'd been old and not-wise enough to weasel around the child locks, watching those poor motherfuckers from Seattle were on the chopping block. Ben had dismissed every pixel of humanity's dregs he'd seen that day, but somehow he could now starkly remember that he'd fleetingly invoked a prayer's worth of the old sibling code in a moment of bullshit sentimental weakness.

'Me, not her'. To think that would ever have become relevant.

So Ben was going to stand firm, put a fucking salute in that old step of his. Sure, this was the time when all the ugly ass truths he'd always been hesitant to sniff out in his peers were going to go rancid and stink up what had once been perfectly good island air. Yeah, there were names he'd known, faces he'd seen on that bus- fucking talked to- that he'd legitimately never see looking anything on the spectrum of lively again. Yep, he was pretty glad the cameras didn't go both ways because he fucking knew what was going to be burning a trail down his sister's face the moment the videos started hitting the web when he couldn't be there to stop it and-...

Too much to think about, honestly. Ixnay on that part of the internal monologue.




Ben saw Jerry in plain sight, lurking like a sore thumb in the shadow of one of those jagged metal broadcast towers. The tower had been first on the agenda because it stood loud and proud, not Ben was enough of a dumbass to assume it would in anyway be functional.

As for Fury, well. His reputation preceded him, for sure. Jerry was the sort of kid that would have been one of the kids in Ben's informal witness protection programme if he wasn't strong in spite of himself. One of those aspies, like Henry Spencer. Toss up as to which of the two was nominally the easier to deal with. Nah, but Jerry was cool. They'd made some killer plays last year between the both of them, if nothing else Jerry was on point when his cleats hit that white chalk. Ben wasn't going to stand around and pretend he didn't think the 'parkour' incident had been funny as shit, but he hadn't laughed. In public.

Ben hovered on the periphery a bit. Looked like Jerry was having a moment.

...

Pretty succinct. At least he'd looked like he'd had something to say. Ben approached from an angle that gave both of them at least a second's sprint of time to disengage, keeping himself outside of the tower's shadow. His presence was first the rattle of some pittance in a can.

"Before you start the whole paranoid 'is he armed am I safe' shtick," and Ben casually tossed the bag of chipotles Jerry's way. It splatted onto the ground between them, managed a single dry rustle of a somersault over it's own spine. Just in case any scorecards were watching, Ben guessed. Good for it. It had been less a weapon and more the sort of thing you expected to see abandoned and unwanted on a desolate Safeway shelf at two in the morning. "Could probably make the rations go down easier or something, at least."
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MK Kilmarnock
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"Okay," Jerry mumbled. He hoped his mumbling wasn't loud enough for the cameras to pick up. This was a private conversation, damn it.

"Simple plan. Find your weapon, ninja the fuck around, kill everybody... shouldn't be too hard, right? Yeah, just... uh... kill everybody. You get one under your belt, that's the hard part. Just like Solid Snake said. First one's the hardest." He was about ninety percent sure that was a Solid Snake quote. The missing ten percent was on account of the Metal Gear Solid games being too boring without infinite ammo. What was the point in a game about killing everybody you saw if you run out of ammo after like, a solid five seconds of shooting at the same two guys wearing camo?

"And then once you get the one, you got no particular qualms 'bout killing again." Jerry's self-assurance rung hollow. That was alright; all he needed was a little boost of confidence, something as a little pick me up. Something like...

His hands closed around something long and hard. Aaaaaaah... perfect. Now, he just needed to be the one sneaking up on people, and NOT be the guy that people snuck up on.

Rattle rattle...

FUCK! Somebody snuck up on him! Jerry craned his neck around faster than that first fucking zombie in Resident Evil to try and spy who was there... and saw Ben Fields, his ol' compadre, his battle partner, his ace in the hole. Maybe that was going too far... but Ben was a solid infielder and, as a first baseman himself, Jerry felt some sort of obligation between himself and Ben. First and third, third and first. Jerry and Ben, Ben and...

Ben and Jerry? Sunuva bitch... he JUST got that.

"Sweet! Peppers!" It was the best thing Jerry could figure out how to say. "They look kinda old but uh... well, I think it's the other way around. Check it out, dude!" Jerry pulled his hand out of his back and pushed off his knees, now in a low squatting position with the handle of a knife in his hands. He pushed on the ol' switch and... whoops. He had his fingers on the wrong side and could feel the back of the blade pushing in. He turned in, biting his lip anxiously... then when he was sure he was set, he pushed the button again to flick the edge of the switchblade out for Ben, and the millions and MILLIONS of fans watching at home, to see.

"Yeeeeeeeeah! Jerry's packin'! Fear me!" The boy pushed to his feet and waved the knife in a faux-threatening manner before lowering his arm. Yeah, this was as normal a situation as ever... just chatting it up while the prospect of one of them being dead very soon, maybe a day later or a week later hung over their heads.
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Ben figured this moment wasn’t gonna be such a good looker for whoever planted themselves on their ass to watch this shit. Opening with a less than impressive one-liner and then mumbling indistinctly with asscrack to the camera. History probably wasn’t going to be kind on the optics of the Jerry Fury experience prologue. Ben heard the sickos into this shit were a tough crowd.

“Point.” Rare he conceded anything when this was his conversational partner. “Don’t ask me if they’re any good or not, I’m not fucking Jamie Oliver or whatever it is moms watch at two in the-...”

Okay, time out.

Jerry had been working on something in the hand. Yeah, Ben had seen that. He hadn’t exactly registered it as a threat though. Not until the blade had suddenly sprouted from the fist. That old codger of a heartbeat had briefly decided to take a breather on that one. Shit. And the knife waving wasn’t doing any wonders for getting the Fields cardio back on duty. Ben kept the burst of nervous surprise neatly tucked into his chest though. It lived there and it died there. His face remained set, and he needed maybe a second to mobilize his response:

“Congratulations. Just what you need to brandish a knife at whichever inevitable class killer is going to end up with the military grade firepower. You know, before they mow you down.” Ben shrugged. Just calling it as he saw it. Pretty graphically saw it, but he quickly got that morbid mental image the fuck out of there.

“Packing a manual on how to field that blade too?” So much for not remembering details from the show. “I was looking for one on mine but I guess they thought the model of ziploc was pretty user friendly.” Ben hazarded a step forward. Nice and brisk, with enough heel left in case he needed to move that foot back from whence it came. Ben didn’t want to be the guy with paranoia in his playbook. But the edge of a knife was a convincing counterargument. “So what’s the call, Fury? You gonna give the terrorists a reason to say your name?”

Again. So much for not remembering details from the show. Ben would have to take a moment to ask himself what the fuck was wrong with himself. Later.
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Jerry waved the knife this way and that, fighting off a ninja attack from the great clan of Imagination dojo.

"So I take it that means you like it," Jerry said. The statement was directed to Ben, of course, but it would be just as easy to assume that it was towards the switchblade in his hands from the covetous way that he held it. Jerry mocked a combat stance towards Ben, raising one hand like a fencer. "So what if some kids 'round here got guns? Fucking noisy things, and I bet everybody's gonna burn through their ammo right away just figuring out how to load them." Jerry wasn't exactly giving Ben his full attention, still playing with his new toy. "This little guy right here, it's forever. Silent, too. Sneakin' round like 'Nam, slitting throats while they sleep." Jerry folded back the blade, tucking it away.

It wasn't until Jerry put the blade in his pocket that the gravity of Ben's last statement finally dawned on him. The boy raised an eyebrow, cocking his head with a smirk but his eyes told a different story.

"Why you being so dramatic about it, dude?" Jerry asked. "Like, you heard the guy. We kill or we die."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He talked a big game, but Jerry wasn't sure he could be able to walk that baseline, actually using the knife in his pocket to take a life. The weight of the switchblade seemed to tug on his pocket more and more until he swore that his shorts were going to come undone and slide around his ankles. Y'know, just in case the day couldn't get any worse. Wouldn't that be a grand way to go out, he thought to himself, with his shorts down around his ankles while struggling to run. If you do indeed shit yourself when you die, he would make that particular stereotype just a little more visible.

"Do you wanna die, Ben? Or do you wanna be cool like me? Y'know, running around, killing people... come on, all the cool kids are doing it!" Jerry forced a laugh as he said it, arms spread wide.
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What Jerry’d said had been food for thought, for maybe half a second. Then, ninja shit and Vietnam. Stupid, but he could take a non-literal knife to the parts he didn’t like. The actual knife was gone, and Ben could feel the vise clamped over his heart relax. Easy now. Trim the fat.

Nice look Jerry had there. Shame it was the fakest shit. Eyebrows sat on the ridge all wrong, too high up. Throat a bit too big for the britches a calm and collected killer liked to wear. Ben could read this open book. Eyes closed. ‘We kill or we die’? Change that ‘or’ to an ‘and’, Fury. Had to have learned that much with Webber. Ben wasn’t the one with a knife, but he had himself a weapon when he wasn’t the one who was gunshy. He could safely lean right into this one, tendons in his back stiffening as he pivoted his weight into his forward foot. His face aimed to interpose itself into that thing Jeremy called a brain.

“Alright, dude. Point to you, I’m being melodramatic.” Hands raised. Irrelevant concessions before the rebuttal. Good cop to bad cop, interrogation style.

A moment passed.

Ben’s jaw adopted lines, hard ones. The next few moments he charged through, his voice belting out on tank treads.

“So you remember your spar with Trav, yeah?” Probably all too well. Anyone who’d heard had faithfully ensured Jerry had no chance to try and forget. “You remember the moment before you realized you fucked up and got your ass pounded into the ground. Imagine that moment, only this time it’s your knife that’s coming down. Can’t take it back, you get that?” Ben only needed the most minuscule of breaths to carry on. His chest beat loud and proud with life nourishing blood.

“You know flesh doesn’t give easy, right? You’re gonna have to get nice and close, breathe the other dude’s air. Shit, imagine it’s whatever chick you had a crush on last semester. Imagine the look on their face. Won’t be going away when you’re two knuckles deep in their vitals, man. It’s there for every last breath they take, looking right at you forever.” Ben shrugged with all the non-consequence he could put into it when he well knew what was at stake. “But if you insist, I mean. You know what’s up, I guess.” Back up and out, get that back straight again. Look at Jerry, but not at him. The irises had a sorta kink in them, an emptiness that melted into Ben’s expansive pupils.

Play of the game? Probably not. It took every little inch of ground to make your nine. But at the end of the day, it all counted for…

Something. Ben didn’t know quite yet.
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Jerry turned a hard shoulder. His bravado had disappeared, but not in favor of a jelly spine.

"Man, how the hell do you even KNOW about that?" Jerry spat. "What, was Trav running his mouth? It was just a spar, not a real fight!" Jerry's brain was already lining up the next few things to say, the next few excuses he had for what transpired that day. "So we were just playing, trying things out. Trav surprised me with a lucky kick, so what's the big deal?"

Jerry was yelling now, without even realizing it. He paced back and forth like a lion in a cage and his hand slid back into his pocket. It was mostly as a comfort thing, to wrap his knuckles around the folded switchblade and feel safe. In truth, Jerry Fury was scared. The unknown and the uncertain scared him, as did having his ubiquitous confidence shaken. When he got scared, he got angry, because how DARE anything scare him!?

"And the fuck you going on about? Flesh this, flesh that! Fucking creepy, dude!" Jerry started walking towards Ben. "So what's your big idea?" There was a light crunching sound, and Jerry looked to see what his foot had happened upon. Lifting it and shifting it to the side slightly revealed the bag of chipotles, some of which were now quite damaged thanks to his carelessness. "Ugh... Whatever," Jerry grumbled, kicking the peppers to the side. "Fuck those things. You weren't going to eat them, right? You're just gonna hide in a hole somewhere like a bitch and leave ME to do all the dirty work!"
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If Ben hadn’t known. Well, now he did. Shit. Looked like Jerry was working himself up, no cardio. Looked every inch the Aspie he was when he tried to get all infuriated. Swerved straight into the excuses. Dude, what was the point? What had happened to sticks and stones? But if Ben lost control of the situation it wouldn’t be just his bones to worry about. He could see the fist clenched around the knife. Way too much detail in the creases.

Should have listened to Webber, all those times the best she could offer Ben on his essays was points for effort. Words failed Ben. But they were all the weapons he had now, because Jerry had stepped on the rest. Crushed each individual one down to the husk. Ben knew what was at stake, at least he thought he had the odds all neat in his non-existent breast pocket. Plan hadn’t worked, so what? Name a fucking plan that survived contact with the enemy.

Jerry Fury. An enemy. If nothing else had impressed on Ben the danger that was a life in Survival of the Fittest…

But all the same, feet stayed planted soles into earth. Jerry got closer. Ben held his ground. But not without that now all-too familiar tightness of the chest, adrenaline’s unheeded warning cries. Some of the tension worked itself out by way of excess decibels.

“‘Dirty work’? The fuck do you think you’re gonna get up to, dude? Whatever you think you’re pulling, you’re not. Whatever the terrorists tried to get into our heads, whoever makes it off this island is dead all the same. We’re Cochise, man. Sinkhole that our school is, don’t let those terrorist dudes show you up! You’re a good man, an honest man. Don’t fucking throw that away.”

Shit, Jerry was way too close now. But if Ben had to stand point until he had to make up the difference in inches with his chin...

Qui audet adipiscitur.

Or however you were supposed to pronounce that shit.
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Jerry's jaw worked as he stared at Ben, obviously thinking about what to say next.

Shit. That was actually a pretty good question, wasn't it?

"... I don't know." Jerry pulled his right foot back and brought his shoulder with it, standing almost completely perpendicular to Ben now. His hand removed itself from his pocket and the heated palm of his hand thumped against his forehead, a few beads of sweat in-between pressed and flattened until they leaked out the side of his hand.

"Shit... what was I even saying?" Jerry asked himself. "Just kinda... slipped out, y'know? For a moment there, I was just rearing and ready to go, all hot-shit to be the number one player of the game. Dirtiest player of the game, Ric Flair. You ever watch-... who am I kidding, you don't."

Jerry drew his hand over the top of his head. "Maaaaaaaaaan, I feel like an idiot. Let's just forget that happened, huh? Nobody saw it."
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Ben had to tilt his head up a bit, flex tension into the back of his neck. For a moment, just that. Then. Tension followed elsewhere everywhere, when Jerry was suddenly presenting an offensive shoulder. Presenting a hand coming out of pocket. Ben's eyes swiveled, inch by painful inch, to track those hairy-ass knuckles... No knife. Had been a good eons worth of split second where Ben had been prepared to... Hm. Run? Punch? Piss himself? No way he'd been prepared to find out which thing he would have done. Didn't matter anyways, he'd somehow actually pulled it off. Kept the knife out of his innards where it definitely wouldn't have fit. He could exhale now.

Hadn't even realized he'd been holding a breath in the first place. It escaped into the ether, quietly hissing through clenched teeth.

'Nobody saw it'? Cold metal body of lens and aperture disagree with you on that one, Fury. Only a dumbass brought up points after the case was already won though. Ben had already said enough. Well, almost.

"I've seen clips, dude." Be the man, huh? Had definitely almost become some kinda 'man'. Jerry probably needed to reevaluate his role models. Whatever amount of days Jerry had left on this Earth to mull that one over. Hopefully a bunch of 'em, but who the fuck knew that? If Jerry had only been disarmed by the flayed skin of Ben's teeth, the legit shitstains on humanity were definitely...

"But yeah, I hear ya. Just glad Fury's on our side." Ben almost went for the back slap. Fuck it, shove some cleats on and they were back on Sumac after a drill. But that wasn't quite where they were. So Ben's hand stayed where it belonged. Where he could quickly use it. Just in case.

"We just gotta... I dunno. Keep people alive." That was it. The 'plan'. Current track record aside, maybe this one wouldn't immediately crumple the moment something breathed it's way. "That's where I'm going to be. Not in some hole."
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"Keep people alive?" Jerry had both eyebrows raised. His expression was an incredulous one but, be that as it may, Ben had captured his attention. He had captured the attention of Jerry Fury in full-force, for better or worse.

"So, you an' I, we go around like, keeping the peace and taking weapons and basically just being huge assholes? Because I can be that asshole. I can be a huge, gaping asshole. I can be fuckin' Goatse!" Jerry pumped his fist with his trademark bravado. Once the moment had passed and he realized that he had committed to telling that godawful joke, Jerry backpedaled from the unshakable sensation he'd just said something pretty goddamn gay.

"Uh. Anyway." Jerry wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, sweat and streaks of grease from his hair still sticking to his fingertips where they ran through the curly few-inch forest earlier. "Gives me somethin' to do, and we can put on a good show for the sick fucks without becoming criminals ourselves. Sounds pretty win-win."

Ignore impending death.

Ignore inevitability of the game's closing.

Ignore the bomb strapped to your neck.

Ignore it! You're thinking about it!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
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The 'plan' had gotten at least two eyebrows worth of Fury's attention. And at least two cents. Oddly enough, worth the advertised price. Shit, was everything so fucked up now that it was Jerry Fury who would also be filling in the blanks in Ben's plans? Kinda vague, yeah. Really fucking gay too, and Ben wasn't touching on that any further. But crazy thing, it all sounded pretty solid, at least looked liked it could hold up at a glance. Keep the peace, whether other people wanted them to or not. Made sense, even historically. There were times that the MLK approach'd work, but this wasn't one of those fucking times was it? More Malcolm X, Ben figured. If the terrorists wanted them to be violent, these two dudes could be that. But one thing those dudes would never be taking? Names. Ben Fields, Jerry Fury, those syllables would never be escaping the pasty lips of a terrorist as long as...

'Name a fucking plan that survived contact with the enemy.'

Well. It was 'who dares wins', right? Nothing else to do but to get down to it. And wipe the perspiration off his brow a bit. Shit was glistening all ugly for the cameras. Ben hadn't realized he had been sweating, but today seemed to be the day he was constantly learning new things. Too many for his liking. And here he'd thought they'd at least been 'blessed' with no school.

"Yeah dude, that sounds exactly like a good plan. Make a mess so nobody else can, or something like that." Ben creaked out of his stance, all slow like. Mortal danger was hard ass work. One thing no amount of shooting with Will and reading could have prepared him for, seemed. Ben hadn't even actually gotten into a fight and he was already feeling the post-adrenaline aches insistently yanking bones from the socket. But as long as he still had feet that could move him forward...

"Who do you think's gonna be a problem here?" Hopefully that was a question Jerry could answer smart as he had the others. Even out his extant record and all. "Caedyn, Fiyori, Bradley, that one girl with the anger issues and the eyepatch, probably that trash ass Micheal... Shit. We'd better get a move on."
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"Island Pacifism brigade gooooo!" Jerry cheered. "If you're violent, we will come and BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU! Quite frankly, I'm in love with the concept. Good plan. Glad I came up with it."

Jerry strolled past Ben... then abruptly turned and jogged back to his pack, scooping it up. "Whoospies, almost forgot this!" Jerry mumbled, still at a volume that Ben and the cameras could easily hear, whether he intended for that or not. "Can't... uh, starve to death. That's kind of the pussy way out. It's like, how every one of my games of Oregon Trail ended and, damn it, it's not how this is ending too!" Seriously, stupid game. And what the hell was dysentery? Obviously a made-up disease just to fuck over the kids playing it. Maybe they forgot to program an ending to the game, and so they made it impossible to win.

"Bradley's fine, he's totally a chill guy," Jerry said with 100% certainty in his voice. "Definitely watch out for Caitlyn, though. Her and Darse. Dar-ay-us. Fuck that guy, got a stick up his ass with barbs on both ends."

Jerry raises a single finger, then pointed in a random direction.

"Let's-a-go."

((Jerry Fury, continued in Aaaaaand he's gone.))
Edited by MK Kilmarnock, Aug 26 2016, 03:32 AM.
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'If you're violent, we will come and BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!'

Didn't seem quite congruent but Ben figured he'd go along with it. He'd give a curt nod to Jerry's pronunciations at sky and future SOTF watchers. He'd even give Jerry the plan credit, where it was at least in part due.

He was feeling alright. Not exactly good, given the omnipresent circumstances of their location, state, fate, so on. But at least there was a plan, an ally. At least one weapon, some food, even a couple of shitty references. All stuff to work with, wrestle something approximating dignity out of. If nothing else, Ben intended to put the work in. All he knew how to do.

"Yeah. 'Dar-ay-us' probably isn't going to actively try to kill people. He is actively going to be a retard, I'm sure." They'd brief on the rest of their memorable peers on the way. Shit, Ben could maybe hazily recall the faces he'd seen getting on that bus? He'd been one of the first on, sitting near the back to catch a seat with some of the dudes from the team. He'd scoped out the boarders, idly mulling on possible trouble. Huh. Different definition of 'trouble' back then. Pranks and bullies were a different sort of ballgame from guns and murderers. But the headcount from the bus was the headcount on the island, and if he could remember any potentially critical info...

...

Shit. Jerry was fast.

"Dude, wait up!"

((Ben Fields continued in Good Omens))
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