Part 10: Day Three, 4:00 to end

After Hannelore made her announcement, the classmates were escorted by three armed guards apiece to a one-person individual cell with a bunk, blanket, toilet and sink. During the evening, a nurse with a guard came in and cleaned and dressed their wounds. Sleep came difficult to many, several players feeling haunted by the ghosts of their friends.

At 4am, classmates were taken one by one to a locker room, and told to select two lockers. They were given the contents of the locker, but nothing else other than their radios, and were then transported individually to the Final Zone, where they dispersed quickly so not to be found by the others.

At just after 6am, as the final pupil was delivered to the Zone, Hannelore came on the radio.

"Jetzt geht's los, meine Freunde. Let's play ball, and if it's you that survives, you'll get a special reward from a potential great leader."

Sylvain had not suffered from nightmares, hauntings or any suchlike: rather, he had slept very deeply. In truth, he had been absolutely shattered, and whilst knowing that today would undoubtedly be his last day on earth, after having harboured that thought for days now, it simply didn't carry the same pain or fear for him as it had.

In fact, he no longer cared about very much at all. His family, who he had spotted in the family enclosure in the last GZ, were most probably all dead already. Even if he had received better items in his secret locker that he could have used in combat, he knew he would never have a fighting chance against someone like Delilah or Paul Courtney.

As it happened, the items he had received were ironically worse than useless to him. He had already made up his mind to give them to Bukiyo if he could find him before it was too late. The Japanese kid had never done him any harm, and if he could have personally chosen a winner, it would have been him. There was no malice in him, and he had suffered enough losing his boyfriend to the slaughter.

He remembered how he had broken into cracked laughter, more akin to sobs, when the guard had unlocked the steel door of his locker and thrown it open with a clang, allowing the injured boy to gingerly fish around for the contents, and when he saw the two items - an industrial-strength flashlight and a pair of nunchucks - his eyes had almost bugged out on stalks.

Nunchucks which would require at least one uninjured hand to use them. And since one of his had a deficit in that department to the tune of one finger, and the other arm was a complete mess, he seriously doubted they'd be any good to him whatsoever - he'd probably end up smacking himself around the head with them. As for the flashlight - yeah, great, the Zone was already getting light by the time they were dropped off unceremoniously.

He had contemplated committing suicide by hanging himself in his room with his bootlaces, but he knew the guards were checking on them - one had looked through the little viewing window every so often, probably to ensure that none of them should be allowed to spoil the Regime's fun in such a selfish manner.

So now here he was, sitting on a fallen tree with his small backpack slung on the wet, fragrant earth, damp with first dew, watching a rosy-coloured sunrise, steam rising from the cold ground, on his last day on earth.

It would easier for him to sit here until someone simply picked him off, in the wooded area towards the top right hand side of the area where he had been set loose by his own personal guard. But he had given himself the mission to give his items to Kyo, and so with a soul-deep sigh, he stood up, his wounded arm and hand throbbing with dull pain, and set off southwards, towards the river.

Unlike Sylvain, Bukiyo had spent the entirety of his time curled up beneath the uncomfortable bed provided for him. Somehow the small space and thick shadows under the mattress afforded him a weak sense of security and the time to sit there and really contemplate the fact that his boyfriend wasn't coming back...not ever. And there was nothing he could do about it. The best he could hope for now was a swift and painless death granted by of one of the more experienced players.

However, he knew if it were to be by the hands of the transfer there would be nothing but suffering to look forward to and the mere thought sent shivers coursing down his spine as he huddled further back into the darkness.

When the nurse had come to treat his wounds she had to spend several minutes just trying to coax him out before calling for a guard whose rough treatment did little to help the Japanese boy's tattered nerves. The woman noted with bland disinterest that he'd been fortunate so far, having only recieved a thin cut to his thigh and a few other bruises and scrapes, yet Bukiyo felt far from grateful to be sitting there - alone.

And just as he'd finally been able to drop off to sleep the light flickered on once more and he peeked out from beneath the bed, knowing instinctively that this was the end.

The sun was just beginning to blanket the area as he was abandoned beside a lonely copse of trees to watch pallid morning light roll down over the valley surrounding him. Clutching his weapon in a grip so tight his knuckles had bleached a sickly shade of white Bukiyo shifted the weight of his bag upon his shoulder and turned away, heading into the wooded area.

He'd never wanted to kill and if it came down to a fight between him and Jennifer or Sylvain he'd give in - maybe even be reunited with his dead friends? But Paul and the transfer were another matter entirely.

Paul slept like a baby despite only having been awake a couple of hours. He awoke feeling refreshed and stared silently at the wall waiting for the guard to come and get him. By the side of his bed was the Colt.

It had come back to him! That gun, Paul believed, belonged in the hands of a Courtney. Of course Paul had no way of telling if it was the same Colt M4 that Leon had found, but he still smiled when he discovered it in his locker. Along with the Colt were some ninja throwing stars. Paul chuckled as he looked at them, they would be next to useless in his unpracticed hands, but he figured he'd certainly be able to scare the sh*t out of most people with them.

He got out of bed and pulled on his fresh clothes. A black T-shirt and a loose pair of khakis. The only piece of his original outfit were his battered trainers.

His wounds had been dressed, the only serious one was the one he inflicted upon his own left arm, it had needed several stitches, but was now neatly bandaged.

He picked up the Colt and pointed it at the wall, looking down the sights. "I got my gun back b*tch" he whispered. Of course the transfer was well out of hearing range.

Behind him, the door banged open, Paul spun tound to face the guard, the Colt was still pulled in tight to his shoulder. The guard merely smiled.

"Mine's loaded" he said, pulling his own gun up to point at Paul "You'll get some ammo in a minute, follow me."

Jennifer felt as if she had just awoken from some sort of trance. The past few hours were more or less a blur. She remembered a big commotion in the last group zone and waking up in a dark room, after hearing Sylvain’s scream. She remembered Hannelore on the TV and bits of what she had said…

So, for the first time in her life, Jennifer was on her own… Alone… She wished one of the surviving players had been someone she could trust. But then again, in a situation like this would she be able to trust anyone at all?

One thing was certain, though, that if she didn’t find a good hiding place she would be a goner pretty soon. One of her weapons was only “good” for close combat, and considering whom the remaining players were, she would prefer not to get in their way. The other weapon she had no idea how to use. However, it didn't seem like a weapon that would be able to cause any major damage... Cunfusion maybe...?

She figured her best chances at surviving would be if she found a place to hide. The wooden area in the south maybe? Armed with the nightstick she got from the locker, she started to make her way to that area, trying to stay as invisible as she could.

Having gotten a strangely peaceful night's sleep, her mind unscathed by remorse or any other such trifling emotions for all the sins she'd commited in the game so far, Delilah awoke refreshed and ready to finish this whatever the outcome.

Her weapons came as a disappointment, as both were more use when it came to tactical fighting rather than the out and out slaughter she'd become so happily accustomed to over the last few days. However, the thrill of getting close enough to an adversary to slip the blade she now admired into their ignorant back was enough to keep her morale from descending into bitter despair.

After they'd been released into the final area, a chilly, desolate place where she felt rather at home, Delilah had immediatly headed for cover and now sat with her back to a tree as she examined her weapons and waited in silence, hoping or rather knowing someone less fortunate would stray across her path.

A few moments later there was a faint rustling from the bushes off to her right and she set her radio down, tucking the other item into the back of her skirt. Her whole body was tensed, wound up with a pervasive desire to lunge from her hiding place, but not yet...

The rustling came to an abrupt halt as a small figure emerged from the undergrowth and glanced nervously around. She was pleased to note it was the Asian boy, cute -- but by no means a threat to her inevitable victory. Especially considering the burdens he carried. The poor child had both hands full with his own weaponry and seemed utterly oblivious to her intent scrutiny.

Even from where she knelt, still choosing her moment carefully, Delilah could see he was trembling and biting upon his lower lip compulsively. As he crept past her position she held her breath and in one fluid motion sprang from her hiding place.

He let out a frightened yelp as she took advantage of his confusion and, although her weight was insignificant even compared to a slender boy like Bukiyo, managed to knock him backwards, sending the heavy item he'd been holding skidding across the undefined path in a cloud of dirt.

However, she'd underestimated his sense of balance and even as she raised her sais, ready to gouge into his yielding flesh the Japanese was scrambling to his feet. He seemed to have forgotten that he could at any time have simply shot her, but the maniacal pleasure that radiated from the transfer was so overwhelming to his shattered nerves that Bukiyo just turned on his heel and fled, still clutching his weapon.

Delilah went to give chase, but he'd already immersed himself in the woods once more. With a huffy sigh she went to examine the weapon he'd left behind -- it was rather arcaic, but the spikes made her shiver with delight and so she stole it for herself, then returned to her radio and cursed him softly under her breath.

But, still she counted herself lucky that he'd been too stupid and scared to realise he could actually have had a shot at taking her out.

Paul was growing bored, he had made his way from the north of the endgame zone and had nearly reached the southernmost point without seeing a single person. "This area's too f*cking big" he muttered to himself.

A rustling from the wooded area caught his attention. Paul quickly snapped his head around to look in the direction of the sound. He caught a glimpse of a figure moving deeper into the woods. A smile crept across Paul's face as he went to investigate.

He had to be careful here, whoever it was had undoubtably spotted him and could well be leading him into a trap, Paul hushed his breath and tried to be as silent as possible.

He nearly walked straight past his quarry, but he felt a pair of eyes on him, and quickly spun himself round to come face to face with Jennifer Nilsson. "Oh, it's you." Paul said, a slight edge of disappointment in his voice. The Swedish girl was probably not up for a fight, in fact it looked to Paul like she was hoping to sneak away behind his back. As soon as Paul turned to face her though, she had put her hands behind her back so that Paul couldn't see what she was carrying. Wouldn't do for him to get too cocky. He made sure to keep a healthy distance between himself and the girl, Hoping that whatever she had, it relied on him being dumb enough to get close.

"Look" he said, pleasantly enough "I'm [i]going/i] to kill you. The only choice as far as you're concerned is how fast. Drop whatever it is you're carrying and move away. If you do that, I'll shoot you in the head, you won't feel a thing" He promised. "but if you decide you want to be a hero, I'll pepper your legs and guts and leave you here. You'll spend the best part of a day in intense agony before dying. Choice is yours."

If Jennifer didn’t think of something fast, she’d end up dead. She had spotted Paul walking towards the trees and had been on her way to a safer spot when she tripped and gave away her location. “Fan…” she thought. After recovering her balance she quickly moved away from the area, hoping Paul wouldn’t notice her and she tried to get around him. Now she was standing face to face with him, and his gun, with her nightstick behind her back, trying to come up with a way to get herself out of this alive. Attacking him wasn’t an option. She’d die in an instant. And she couldn’t stand like this for long either.

There was one thing she could try, however she’d most likely die anyway. But what other choices did she have? She prayed her aim hadn’t changed for the worse since she came her before throwing the nightstick in the direction of Paul’s head before taking off to find some shelter before Paul managed to fire a shot.

In the distance, the French boy could hear sounds of fighting which reminded him to be most careful than he was currently being. He had been striding, slowly but purposefully, trying to keep away from trouble but still trying to locate the Japanese boy if he could before it was too late.

At the breaking of the dull, tense silence he had been travelling through, the only sound he could hear previously having been the pounding of his heart and the throbbing of his blood coursing through his veins, now he ducked, and hid behind a couple of trees, all his senses on full alert.

For the next few minutes, he listened and watched, his sky-blue eyes darting around. When he was quite sure the action wasn't close enough to him to be a problem, he stooped, hoping the tree cover would keep him safe for the time being, and continued on stealthily, hoping he wouldn't run into either of the two people he knew he would not escape.

As he carried on southwards, he edged closer and closer to the end of the wooded cover. Beautiful sunlight filled the valley in front of him, and for a moment he knelt in saddened wonder to see the gorgeous turquoise sky and rippling silver-blue of the waterway, where the bank ended just a few metres in front of him.

Now he was in open country, he felt even more vulnerable than he had previously. There was no false sense of security here: he was thoroughly exposed. Ahead of him, he saw the low-rising aluminium turrets of the chemical works - and suddenly caught a glimpse of a slender figure with familiar red hair running into the same works area, a soft sound of sobbing travelling on the breeze, something cradled in his arms, his knees buckling as he ran crazily from... something... or someone.

Sylvain couldn't believe how lucky he had been. The very last thing he wanted to do was to call Kyo's name, so as quietly as possible, he sprinted after him to try and catch him up, to finally deliver his weapons to him - to help him to survive as long as possible.

Sylvain could only hope that the Japanese boy didn't get so spooked that he might attack him: in a way, that might be the best scenario they could hope for. To be killed by accident by someone he was trying to help might lend his death a certain nobility that suicide, or submission to his psycho ex-lover, wouldn't have carried.

As he caught up to Kyo, he gasped "Bukiyo... Bukiyo, don't freak, it's me..." and put his hand on the other boy's shoulder.

Everything since Bukiyo's flight from Delilah had been a blur and the shock of her sudden attack almost destroyed any of the small dose of courage he'd been gathering as he wandered through the wooded area, thinking he was alone while all that time she'd been lying in wait to ambush him. (Or so he believed.)

When finally the faceless concrete lumps identified as a chemical works on his map had come into view the little Japanese felt none of his former relief or safety. Out here cover meant nothing as long as Paul and Delilah still drew breath.

He'd just stopped for a moment to catch his breath, huddled over protecting the item clutched in his arms like a precious infant when a voice, far too close and unfamiliar to his frightened senses gasped his name and a hand touched his shoulder.

Instantly he shrugged it off and turned around, nearly losing his footing purely from unbridled fear. Bukiyo raised the crossbow he'd been guarding so diligently and aimed it squarely at,

"...sylvain?.." Even to Kyo his voice sounded like a pale imitation of his usual murmurings and slowly he lowered the crossbow, horrified that he'd even considered shooting someone who'd tried to reassure him only hours before.

Knowing that Sylvain didn't like to be touched by anyone he curled one arm protectively round his own waist and bowed his head in shame.

With a hiccupy little sob Kyo whispered, "..gomen, I thought you were someone else."

Delilah decided to alter her position slightly, the amount of noise that silly child had made fleeing from her was bound to have stirred up some interest. With feline grace and an odd calm that had returned to her now the disappointment of his continued survival had worn off she headed out to find cover again.

Sylvain had not expected to have the business end of a pretty lethal-looking crossbow pointed right between his eyes. Shocked and somewhat alarmed, he stumbled backwards and tripped, ending up harmlessly falling onto his backside in the dusty earth of the ground surrounding the metal silos around them.

Thankfully - or maybe disappointingly, who knows - the Japanese boy did not shoot him on sight, but managed to hold back. His tear-stained wet face had a light layer of beige-coloured dust stuck to it, making him look bizarrely as though he was wearing warpaint, with his terrified dark eyes peeking out from under his fringe.

"Ne tires pas... ne tires pas*," the French boy cried out, holding his injured arms up to indicate that he wasn't trying to attack Kyo. "I can't hurt you, my arms are too much in pain."

When he was sure that the other boy wasn't going to attack him, hearing his mumbled, shaky apology, he relaxed a little, but stayed on his guard still.

"Look man... they gave me **** weapons I can't even use. These things - " he took the nunchucks from his backpack and handed them to Kyo, " - I can't use them because the psycho bitch bit off my f**king finger. And the only other thing they gave me is this," and he took out the torch and also gave that to Kyo. "These are for you. I wanted to find you, to give them to you. You can use them, defend yourself."

There was a short silence while the Japanese boy looked anxious, as though the gifted items were boobytrapped. "They are not good weapons I think, but they may help you a little, hein?"

He shook his head slowly and sadly. "I would offer to go with you, but I'm no good to you like this," he said gently, and he held up his injured arms, wincing as rivets of sharp pain were driven into his aching wounds. "So... I guess this is au revoir. I wait now to die. I deserve it, for going along with her and her terrible, terrible actions..." and he turned his back on the other boy.

"If you are a kind one, you will shoot me now." His soft words, his parting shot, echoed hollowly across the warm, bright air.

* - trans. "don't shoot!"

The nightstick caught Paul unaware, smacking him in the head with full force. "Ow F*CK!" His vision swan with the force of the blow, but he could see Jennifer through the blur, making a hasty retreat. "Oh no you f*cking don't" Paul yelled and gave chase.

Normally Paul would've caught up to her without much difficulty, but the throbbing in the side of his head and the still slightly blurred vision was distracting, plus she had already got a decent head-start. Paul dropped to his knees and opened fire. Hoping to catch her in the back.

His finger relaxed on the trigger, she had made it. "f*ck it!" Paul hissed in annoyance. Screw that little bitch, he'd let her think she had escaped for now. He was fairly sure he'd be able to find her again later. For now, she could wait.

He trekked back to pick up the nightstick. Might come in handy later.

Bukiyo watched the scruffy French kid walking away from him, his shoulders were tensed as if he expected at any second to feel the seering pain of a bolt from the crossbow embedded in his back.

And for a moment, his request had seemed so sincere that Bukiyo had actually considered it - an end to Sylvain's miserable experiences and the relief of death that both his boyfriend and Devon had been granted. But something slowed his hand and he didn't even raise the crossbow.

"...chotto matte kudasai..."* Now atleast his voice sounded a little stronger, fortified by the distraction of someone else's pain and what little he could do to help.

Sylvain stopped, but didn't turn back.

"I'm going with you." Sylvain would know from the tone of Kyo's reply - there would be no disagreement this time.



Delilah was about halfway towards the fresh spot she'd chosen to settle down in. Since leaving the cover of the woods where she'd been so close to a little dose of satisfaction and yet it had escaped her once more, she'd been checking the area and finding it devoid of any signs of life.

No doubt now the little Asian was cowering in some ditch waiting for another,stronger adversary to end his suffering....and as for the others, she'd all but forgotten the girl they'd awoken with and Sylvain ---

He was the prize when all of this was over. If she still was still breathing then she'd make sure he was not. For the time being she concentrated on the here and now, pushing her sick fantasies to the back of her mind.

Suddenly, the outlook was not so empty - she peered down at the GPS clutched in her hand and smiled slowly. Tucking it into the back of her skirt again she crept with un-natural grace towards her newest target.

He didn't seem aware of her presence, yet she knew exactly who he was and why they were fated to meet now. Revenge.

Getting slowly closer she dispensed of the mace silently and drew her blades from the waistband of her skirt. He was close enough for her to feel the anger, the frustration radiating off of him - echoing her own. It was alluring, but she had no time to hesitate.

With another bitter smile she raised the blades and attacked.

For a moment, the French boy halted, stopped dead in his tracks. The idea of teaming up with someone else was infinitely tempting, but he had already reconciled himself to dying alone. His jaw clenched and tired, lonely tears rose to his eyes. He genuinely wavered then, weakening inside, his resolve dissolving in the young Japanese's kind display of concern.

If he could be of any use to Kyo, he would.

"I... do not know," he muttered, knuckling the tears out of his eyes with a grubby hand, his blond hair blowing gently in the warm breeze that suddenly lifted, sending clouds of tan-coloured dust spiralling around him. "I would not want to become a..." the word temporarily escaped him, but then he found it, "A liability to you."

He continued quietly, "I have no weapon and no strength. I am hurt, I can't do much to help you. But maybe I can be a shield for you. What do you think, Bukiyo? You want some company for the end of the world?" and he turned and gave the shy Japanese boy a grim, ironic half-smile.

"Maybe just not to die alone would be blessing enough."

Paul swivelled his head just in time to see the incoming blades. He rolled away just in time, the blades whistling as they chopped the air dangerously close to his head.

The muzzle of the Colt was pointed at his attacker. Adrenaline surged through Paul's body from the close shave. He barely had time to register who the attacker was, before his finger instinctively tightened on the trigger.

Bukiyo shook his head, saddened by Sylvain's complete faith in the idea that he was going to die. Of course he himself had gone to pieces after Park was killed, but even in the darkest hours there had still been a tiny flicker of hope inside him that refused to be extinguished.

"Don't talk like that." He murmured in his native language, knowing full well that Sylvain couldn't understand. They stood together in awkward silence for a few moments - the only sound displacing utter stillness was a faint rustling as Bukiyo sorted out the additional weapons Sylvain had provided. The government sure had a twisted sense of humour....

When he was satisfied that they were ready he gave Sylvain a weak smile, "Lets just hide for now ne? they are still alive." Without waiting for the French boy's consent he ushered him further into the dense concrete mass of the Chemical works.



Delilah didn't even register that she was hurt until she felt something trickle down her thighs, rapidly staining the off white material of her socks a deep, worrying crimson.

So her rival had a vastly superior weapon and posed maybe even the vaguest of challenges to her intellect and grace, but as long as she still lived she wouldn't give up.

Even the ragged holes, one through the soft, yielding flesh of her stomach and another two that made her left shoulder burn with an agony that was at the same time the most horrendous and pleasurable sensation she'd experienced since this all began - not even they kept her from darting out of the way of the rest of his attack - that which would have meant her undoing.

Aside from her laboured breathing and a wild, delighted expression marring her beautiful face she seemed intent upon closing the distance between them as she went in for another try.

Hoping to distract his attention Delilah drew back her arm and flung one of the sais even as she was attacking with the other.

Paul ducked the thrown sai only to see the other coming in toward his face, acting on pure reflex, he put up his left hand to shield the blow.

He screamed as the blade sank straight through his hand, but he quickly realised it would still stab him in the eye if he didn't act quickly. Copious amounts of blood splashed on the floor, his scream turning into an adrenaline-fuelled roar as he pushed into the blade. Through the excuciating pain he pushed until his entire arm felt like it was on fire.

As he held the sai back, he tucked the Colt under his right arm and fired from the hip.

The blade sunk deep into Paul's chest, it would surely have punctured his lung if it had not got caught on his ribcage. The girl's weight pushed harder, forcing the blade deeper into the bone. Paul screamed as the blood ran down his body to collect in a pool on his lap. Despite his pain, Paul was not about to let this bitch win. She was holding the Colt too firmly for him to get the necessary leverage to bring it into play, he had to think of something else.

Pinning the rifle under his thigh so as to stop the bitch claiming it for herself. Paul leaned back, hoping to ease the pressure the sai was putting on his ribs. As he did so, he reached behind his back.

With a blood curdling scream he lurched himself forward. A move that would cause even more damage to his punctured chest, but Paul was desperate. He swung the nightstick viciously. Adrenaline aiding his speed as he aimed a clubbing blow to the transfer's head.

Delilah barely had time to raise her hand to ward off his attack - she felt something snap and a sharp lance of pain shoot down her arm as the nightstick struck the back of her hand, right across her knuckles. Both the stick and her broken hand smacked into the side of Delilah's head and for a moment she reeled, her vision exploding with a haziness she knew signalled that the end was near.

But, clawing back a little of her waning consciousness she lashed out at him once more with her other hand - which still gripped the sai tightly and tried to somehow ignore the pain of her broken fingers enough to stop him using the colt to finish her off.

She twisted the blade with glee and drew it out once more, struggling to land what would probably be her final blow.

To Delilah's surprise Paul's grip on the colt faltered and still fending off the pain from her damaged fingers she somehow managed to steal it from him. The sai temporarily forgotten she drew back, spearing the blade into the ground carelessly as she shifted the gun to her other hand, aimed it at him and without a moments hesitation pulled the trigger.

Paul squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he lamely tried to duck the gunfire. The rattling cut out abruptly and he opened them again, surprised to be alive.

The recoil from the gun had presumably been a little too much for the injured transfer, she had dropped the weapon. A snarl curled Paul's lip as he lunged for the rifle.

Grabbing the hilt firmly in his right hand, his finger already curling around the trigger. His ruined left hand scooped the rifle out of the dirt. His aim would be shaky, but it wouldn't matter. He looked up to see Delilah's face mere inches from the muzzle. She had evidently gone for the gun too, but Paul had gotten there first.

"too slow" he grinned as he pulled the trigger. At this range, he wasn't about to miss.

In the instant before Paul pulled the trigger Delilah had expected her life - all those dark meanderings of youth and the years of institutionalisation which left her not tamed or docile, but with a feverish lust to recreate the slaughter she'd wreaked on her parents to flash before her eyes, but to her disappointment there was nothing but a profound sense of regret.

She supposed it was karmic esentially -- the fate she deserved for slaying his brother in cold blood, but still to be killed by such a loser...

But her musing could go no further as the badly aimed, but painfully effective bullets from Paul's gun ripped through her neck and throat - splitting flesh from bone as if it were nothing but a thin layer of paper and leaving her beautiful body riddled with deadly pock marks.

A thick wave of blood burbled up her ruined throat and she managed something akin to laughter - a clotted sound that rang out over the deserted hills as scarlet dribbled down over her ragged clothing and the hands which clutched at her skin in a vain attempt to hold it together twitched.

Her eyes began to glaze and the world grew dark, but still she staggered on - close enough to reach out and lay her bloodied paws upon Paul, snatching at his face and clothes until with a final gargling cry she slumped over onto the ground and lay still.

Student #11 Delilah Haddington dead - 4 to go.

Unsure as to what would happen next, the two boys began walking aimlessly cross-country from the chemical works. Kyo had barely strung two words together, and Sylvain was wondering just what would happen next.

After all, what if he and Bukiyo were the last two 'players' left in the game? Would he genuinely be able to harm the Japanese boy - kill him, even? And if so, how would someone like himself go about it, with his horrible injuries?

And did he really value his worthless, miserable life that much, anyway? After all, what did he have to live for? His first love had threatened to murder him, he was sick of his own schizophrenic suffering, his family had left him behind... would he kill himself? Would he kill Kyo? Or would he die protecting the other kid, just as his dead boyfriend had done - or even the other way around?

Despite his change of heart after having abandoned Delilah after her death threat to him, he was still no angel, and the thought of simply smothering Kyo in his sleep had occurred to him - if only to save his own skin if it came down to just him and the other boy. But it seemed to him more and more that his own skin was not something worth saving.

However, as they were crossing a wooded area together, in all but silence, hearing some voices carrying on the wind and trying to gauge if whoever was talking was near or far, Sylvain got the shock of his life.

In fact, he was the first to stumble into the hideous scene of carnage laid out before the two boys. He had realised something was very, very wrong the moment he had noticed spots of what looked suspiciously like blood splattering the grass around as they drew near to the scene, but he was in no way prepared for what he was about to see.

His ex-love... his only love... lying in a gigantic pool of her own blood and shredded flesh, her slender body ripped apart by bullets, gore which was still fresh and wet all over her face and throat, and still slightly warm despite having been dead for over an hour.

For several minutes, Sylvain just stood and stared, in utter shock. His emotions were in complete confusion. Kyo bolted towards the bushes and began throwing up at the sight of so much blood: there was clearly far too much blood to have come from one body alone.

It didn't take Sylvain more than a few seconds to put together an idea of what had happened: it just remained to find out who had murdered Delilah and gotten themselves injured into the bargain. But by the level of violence which had clearly taken place - and knowing Delilah's skills with weapons - how come there weren't two bodies lying here? What on earth had happened to her killer?

Hot, blinding, bitter tears poured down his face and he didn't even know it. Despite all the terrible things that had happened, he had after all loved her, even if it was only for a few days. He felt a strange cross between regret, rage, grief and relief. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, crying helplessly... but whether he wanted revenge for her death, or to thank whoever had gotten rid of her so she couldn't kill him, he couldn't yet say.

Something in him was still in thrall to her: quietly he crawled towards her, on his hands and knees. Her face was ashen, her glassy gaze fixed above. He gave her a degree of dignity by closing her eyes, but still felt afraid of her - even though she was dead. This scene would inhabit his dreams and nightmares and torture his already-devastated psyche for whatever remained of his life.

Paul wiped the back of his hand accross his clammy forehead as he slumped against a tree. He had only walked maybe a couple hundred metres, but he felt as if he'd done a 5 mile run. His breathing was accompanied by a wheezing rasp, and he'd developed the worrying habit of getting coughing fits every few minutes or so.

He had torn the sleeve off his T-shirt to use as a makeshift bandage for his left hand. He could still move the fingers to a certain extent, but clenching it into a fist was out of the question.He had relieved the transfer of her weapons before leaving her corpse in the dirt. The sai daggers were tucked into his belt, and he held the GPS in his good right hand.

At this point he just wanted a doctor, he had killed those he felt needed killing and the little shits that remained were hardly worth the bother. The gaping wound in his chest that he was still losing blood from, along with his most recent coughing fit in which he started bringing up blood, were scaring the shit out of him if he was being honest with himself. The only thing that mettered now was self-preservation.

The only way he was going to get out of this game and survive was by killing the remaining students. He had an advantage despite his poor condition. The GPS could locate any of the remaining players in seconds, and his ever-growing weapon collection couldn't hurt matters either..

A rustling in the bushes nearby snapped Paul to attention. He had been tracking the Swedish girl pretty much since he had worked out how to operate the GPS. In truth, he didn't much care who he offed first, but she had already run away from him once, he wouldn't let it happen again. He could see the back of her head through a gap in the undergrowth.

He eased himself down to his knees and pulled the Colt up to his shoulder. He supported it on his left forearm, not trusting the hastily-bandaged hand with the weight. He couldn't risk getting any closer, otherwise she would probably hear him. The range wasn't particularly bad for the rifle anyway. Momentarily holding his breath, Paul fired.

The more Sylvain stood and stared at the vile scene of his ex-girlfriend's maimed and mutilated corpse, the more he had to listen to his little Japanese companion's uncontrollable and involuntary vomiting, the more and more he broke down, unable to keep it together a moment longer.

The old demons, quieted and suppressed as best he could until now, were escaping their bonds and beginning to gather, creating a vertiginous whirlwind in his aching brains until he simply couldn't bear it any longer.

He began to scream and scream and scream, tears flooding down his pallid face, his own hands pulling his hair out at the roots, the pain too hard for him to block out any longer.

Regardless of whoever might be listening, he screamed unceasingly, and bolted into the woods, hearing nothing but his own screams which blocked out the sound of the gunfire he was unknowingly running towards, his tear-blind eyes seeing nothing but the image of the hideously shredded body that he could face no longer as his grief and madness overwhelmed him again.

It came from nowhere, a bullet from the woods. Jennifer felt blood dripping on her face, and she tried to sweep it away. The end was near for her, and she knew it. She had been hiding, sneaking in the woods and having high hopes for surviving through the sick game they had forced her to take part in. Reality struck her down and there she lied, on the ground. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes.

Student #21 Jennifer Nilsson dead - 3 to go.

Sylvain's uncontrollable screaming jolted Bukiyo back to reality and slowly he straightened up. His insides ached and his throat felt raw from the sudden rush of nausea that had sent him rushing headlong into some nearby bushes as if he was somehow embarrased to throw up infront of Sylvain (who clearly didn't care either way.)

A momentary wave of relief that swept over him as he realised that psychopathic witch Delilah was dead (finally) was replaced by fear once more as his mind wandered briefly, considering who could have been so ruthless and spectacularly violent as to actually take her down.

Jennifer definatly didn't have it in her...even driven to panic as she had been over the last few hours, but Paul was another story.

Stepping out of the bushes Bukiyo glanced around, expecting to see Sylvain in a hysterical heap beside the gore-covered mess that had been Delilah, but he was nowhere to be seen. However his tortured screams still echoed close by so tentatively and with his crossbow at the ready Bukiyo followed the harrowing noise.

Paul stood over the body of the girl he had just killed, a satisfied smirk on his face. Not much point checking her for weapons, he had taken the nightstick from her already.

He was about to check the GPS for the location of the closest victim, when the sound of screaming got his attention.

Paul whirled around in the direction of the sound to see Sylvain charging at full-pelt in his direction. Paul smiled, what the f*ck was wrong with this kid? He was still running toward Paul, barely able to see through his tears. Paul wasn't sure he'd even care if he could see the mean b*stard with the assault rifle stood in front of him. Oh well, may as well put the f*cker out of his misery then, he thought to himself.

Paul dropped to one knee, raised the Colt and tightened his finger on the trigger.

Sylvain suddenly stopped dead, his mind still a whirl of maddened confusion, and tried to focus on the dark shape that had suddenly appeared in front of him. His puffy eyelids were all but closed, but he was suddenly aware of the horrible danger he had gotten himself into. He only hoped that Kyo wasn't chasing after him. Paul Courtney, kneeling in the long grass with his assault rifle pointed directed at his head.

Time just seemed to stand still for the French boy as he realised he was probably about to die. He held his breath and stood stock-still, his mouth hanging open, dumb with shock and terror. Despite his horrific injuries, Paul Courtney merely grinned and pulled the trigger.

However, there was no rattling explosion of bullets which would otherwise have ripped Sylvain's head clean off: there was just a dull metallic clunk, the sound of the assault rifle jamming. There was nothing but silence then, whilst both boys tried to understand what had just happened.

The blond boy was absolutely dumbfounded by this, and didn't know what to do. Should he flee or should he try to take Paul Courtney out himself? He suddenly realised one thing: it had been Paul who had murdered Delilah. It had to have been: he had several motives apart from surviving the game, including revenge for Delilah's murder of his brother. Besides, he was the only one who had a gun round here.

Despite his better judgement, his grief turned into rage, and he instinctively flung himself at Paul, trying to wrench the rifle out of his hands with his one good arm. He wanted to kill him for killing the only woman he'd ever had feelings for, and to save Kyo from this psycho, so that the survivor would at least be a worthy one...

However, like an idiot, he tripped over Paul's feet and came crashing down on his bad arm, screaming with agony and frustration, face down in the long grass.

Paul looked down at the boy at his feet. Adrenaline surged though his body as he looked at the helpless creature. He wasn't sure what caused the rifle to jam, but he wasn't about to take another chance. Besides, this way was more fun.

"looks like your luck just ran out f*cker" Paul spat as he raised the rifle.

Slam! There was a satisfying crunch as Paul brought the rifle down hard against Sylvain's head. The rifle felt twice as heavy as he raised it the second time. The adrenaline could only fuel him for so long, his injuries were severe and the rifle was heavy. He brought the butt down again, but most of his strength was spent on the first blow.

This hit was significantly slower, and Sylvain managed to get an arm up to ward the blow. Paul's frustration grew, this wasn't working.

He took a step back so that he could once again bring the buisiness end of the Colt into play.

As the butt of Paul's gun smashed down into Sylvain's injured arm, a flood of black and gold spots swam across his vision and he screamed involuntarily from the pain, staggering backwards, his clothes covered with mud from his fall. And his blond hair no longer shone golden: it was so caked with mud, grime and blood it was a grimy brown.

He could not believe how strong Paul was: even with his major injuries, he was beating the sh!t out of the French boy. Maybe his psychosis, all-round lunacy and disregard for his own safety gave him extra reserves of power.

However, Sylvain realised just in time that Paul had not stepped off to give him a break: he was aiming the Colt squarely at his head. Before his finger could squeeze the trigger and send Sylvain packing from this mortal coil, Sylvain took the split-second opportunity Paul's clumsiness due to his injuries had afforded him, and kicked out viciously, trying to knock the gun from Paul's hand with his boot.

But Sylvain's luck was poor, and his aim was even worse. The blow to his head had disoriented him badly, making him so dizzy he missed completely, and the force of the kick unbalanced his already-shaky body so much that he slid down into the mud again, landing heavily, flapping his limbs as helplessly as a fish out of water, rage and fear paralysing his mind.

Paul had to grudgingly admit, the French kid's speed was impressive. Even if his aim wasn't.

Paul smiled down at his target as his finger curled around the trigger.

This time, the Colt did not jam, and an searing explosion of cordite and metal cut through the silent air. The echoing sound rang in the French boy's ears for what seemed an eternity.

Sylvain blinked, wondering why he was not just instantly dead, what had happened? Clearly the gun had gone off, and at point-blank range, certainly Paul could not have missed, no matter how bad his injuries.

After all, the guy looked pretty close to death himself: from a distance he had looked just fine, but up close there was an unnatural pallor from blood loss, a greyness in his skin, and his coal-black eyes glittered in the hollows of his sunken eye-sockets. He must have the strength of a bull and the balls of a tiger, Sylvain had decided with something akin to grudging respect.

Something warm and wet soaked down Sylvain's trousers. At first he thought he had pissed himself out of fear, but when he looked down in a kind of daze, he saw it was crimson, staining his dark clothes black, and the vague sensation of cramp and burning in his belly was growing more and more intense.

He realised all too quickly that the reason he wasn't outright dead was that Paul, in his infinite cruelty, had shot him in the stomach - so that he would suffer the maximum agony and fear from blood loss and internal haemorrhaging. And Sylvain supposed Paul thought he deserved that slow and agonising a death, for his part in his brother's murder at Delilah's hands.

Sylvain collapsed onto his side, his vision blurring with tears as the pain grew so bad it took his breath away. "Connasse," he gasped, squeezing his eyes closed.

However, when he opened them, he thought he saw dark figures standing in the forest, shadows between the trees. Maybe the ghosts of the kids who had gone on before, maybe a hallucination due to the gore steadily flowing into the ground from his belly, who knew? He looked up at Paul's hideously grinning face, clearly enjoying his torment, and knew he only had one option.

"Sorry... to cut this... short, Paul... spoil your fun..." His words were no better than a whisper, and every breath made him slip further from consciousness, so he had to act now before it was too late.

Carefully, he applied the last of his failing strength to the collar, and yanked it as hard as he could, almost forcing the whole of his hand behind it. Automatically, the needle clicked out with that bone-chilling pop-hiss and punctured his jugular, flooding his system with a cold poison that sent him over the edge into unconsciousness, and it was only a moment before Sylvain's breathing simply ceased.

He got up and joined the shadows among the trees...

Student #22 Sylvain Roberge dead - 2 to go

Instead of rushing forward to an inevitable slaughter Bukiyo hung back in the tree line and watched in silent horror as Sylvain suffered the same fate the remaining Courtney brother had no doubt dealt Delilah.

Eventhough he'd barely known the French boy the felt his throat tighten and the hot sting of tears he couldn't bring himself to shed since Park was stolen from him. However, once Sylvain had expended the last of what tattered courage he'd possessed and lay lifelessly upon the damp ground - just another corpse now for the clean up crews to dispose of - the little Japanese scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and took a deep, calming breath.

Paul looked like he too should have been laying beside Sylvain; much like all those who'd survived this long he didn't even resemble a human being anymore. But, still Bukiyo recognized how hopelessly out-gunned he was and tried to concoct some kind of plan before the pale, shambling figure that was once a classmate of his realised he was so dangerous close.

Taking careful aim he levelled the crossbow and fired - praying that he too would at least get the chance to end his own life as Sylvain had chosen to.

There was a muffled wet pop as the crossbow bolt tore through the tissue at the base of Paul's neck. Blood liberally sprayed the surrounding foliage as pressure was released, before spilling, thick and dark down Paul's chest in a seemingly endless mass.

He tried to speak, only to choke on the blood that had pooled in the back of his throat. Suddenly, he was overwhelmingly exhausted and fell to his knees. He never even saw his attacker. Feebly he looked around, his vision darkening.

Still no sign of the one who attacked. However, through his fading vision, he saw another figure step from the trees. Someone he instantly recognised.

As Paul breathed his final ragged gasp, the figure silently called him forward.

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