Little explanation needed.
That, happy, giggling girl that was known to her classmates was now gone. Replaced with a seething mass of deep primal fear that tormented her every second.
Her long curly hair that reached down the middle of her back was matted and untidy. Her mascara was running down her face. Her lips were twisted into a permanent state of terror, threatening to let out a scream at any second. Her long pencil skirt was hiked up, allowing her to move faster as she ran (it was probably the only rational decision that she had come to in the whole of the game), and the heel of her right shoe was missing.
Clasped in her quivering hand as she stumbled through the undergrowth was a pistol. The metallic gleam shining in the morning light.
The thing that was (apparently) called the safety had been off ever since she dug it out of her duffle bag and (albeit hurriedly) flicked through the accompanying manual.
Staggering forwards, deeper into the expanse of trees that surrounded her, she continued to sob, tears streaming down her face. This wasn’t supposed to happen to her. She was never supposed to be on ‘The Program’!!
Rajan Lail was still hunched over his map. He in a state of shock from the amount of dead students, not to mention the gunshots that had echoed through the landscape after the announcements were over.
After hearing of all of his classmates that had finally reached their impending end, he felt highly tempted to remove his weapon (whatever that may be) from his duffle bag. But, if he did, did that mean that he was playing the game? What if he killed someone? Could he actually…kill someone?
How was anyone able to kill someone? How were six of his friends dead already? Were they really killed, or…Maybe the government was organising this so that the first few weren’t? Trying to make the rest of them kill each other? That was plausible, right?
But, what if people were actually playing? Like Mr O had said!?
Turning around, in the direction of his duffle bag, he reached out and undid the zipper. Inside his, now open, bag was something that vaguely resembled a tin box with a handle poking out from the bottom. This was accompanied by several magazines (not those that you read, the kind used for bullets, duh!) and two boxes of 9mm bullets.
What the fuck was this thing?
Looking up from the bag, his eyes suddenly opened wide.
The gunshot echoed through the landscape.
Oh god damn it…
Beau Mehtre (Male Student #12) was moving through an alleyway between two semi-detached buildings, in the middle of one of the urban areas. All around his feet, the floor was littered with… well litter. Empty beer cans and packets of crisps almost seemed to swim around his feet as he dodged the puddles that lined the floor and continued to groan to himself.
He wasn’t, necessarily, groaning because of the state of the alley, however. He was groaning because of his company.
Lauren Hatch (Female Student #10) was trailing behind him.
It wasn’t like he disliked her company. In fact, she was one of his friends. He was just hoping to find someone more…physically attractive. It wasn’t that Lauren was ugly. She was far from it. Its just that Beau never saw her as more than a friend. He wanted to find someone that…That he was attracted to. He wanted to…Well, I suppose you could say that he wanted to be a hero. Aid a damsel in distress. That kind of thought appealed to him.
Continuing down the alley, his grip on the kitchen knife tightened so much that he was almost white-knuckled. A cold sweat stuck to his forehead, beneath his moderately long fringe.
He could hear someone around the corner. The sound of heavy breathing and the clacking of high heels filled his ears, gradually growing louder. The person was approaching them.
High heels. That was a good sign. It was a girl.
Stepping out from around the corner, he lowered his knife and opened his mouth to speak, when he laid eyes on Alice Woode (Female Sudent #9).
Ironically enough, she was exactly the kind of person that he was attracted to. It was, also, a bonus that they just happened to be friends.
He long brown hair was now matted and dishevelled. Her mascara and eyeliner was running down her face. Her foundation (which looked as if it had been plastered on) bore thin lines running down it, from where she had been crying.
Clasped in her hand was a large revolver.
On the side of the barrel, the words “ Colt Python .357 Magnum Revolver” almost seemed to gleam in the light.
“Its okay!” Beau called out, as she raised the gun at the sign of movement. “Its me, its me!”
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