Battle Royale: Endgame
'Three days ago, I was so bored of life. The sheer monotony of it all. Wake up, go to college, work my ass off to get below-average grades. Come home, play the hell outta some videogame that I don't even care about. Rinse and repeat. I would have given anything for something exciting to happen. But y'know what? Suddenly, I want to go back to all of that more than ever.'
Michael shuffled down the corridor, fully aware that he was late for lesson, but taking his time nonetheless. He'd made this a routine. If he turned up less than thirty minutes after the start, the tutor would probably think he wants to be there. And that really wasn't the impression Michael wanted to give.
Bracing himself for an hour of mind-numbing psychology, Michael opened the stiff blue door into his own personal hell. The tutor wasn't even in the room. Hardly any students were, for that matter. Grabbing the seat closest to the door, the 18-year old surveyed the room. Directly opposite him sat Laura and Shanice, two people that Michael actually enjoyed spending time with. Michael wasn't going through a 'teenage angst' stage, the majority of his life had been spent in this state, and if he made it through the impending carnage, the rest of his days would be, too. He treasured the time when he was alone, so saying that he liked spending time with these two young women was something else. Shanice must have told one of her jokes that cracked Laura up so much, because the two of them were giggling away manically, Laura wiping tears away from her eyes. These two had been the best of friends for many years. Even a complete stranger could see that. The pair noticed Michael and waved excitedly. Michael returned the gesture, somewhat half-heartedly, but he returned it all the same. Laura and Shanice went back to what they were doing, frantically doodling on every piece of scrap paper they could get their hands on. Michael sighed, moving his eyes onto the next person in the room.
Henry's hands were moving as quick as lightning. They always were. Always trying to solve the Rubik's cube as fast as he could humanly manage, it constantly surprised Michael how he even managed to get any studying done. He did, somehow. Henry was top of the class, and no-one tried to take that title from him. He'd tried to teach Michael how to solve the Rubik's cube, but Michael resorted to peeling the stickers off one by one. Patience was never his strong point.
And sat next to Henry was-
"MICHAEL!"
Coughing violently, Michael wiped his face vigorously. The familiar, metallic, tangy taste of blood filled his mouth to the brim. Before he could respond, debris flew in his direction. Stones pelted against his skin, glass dug into his muscles. A dark mist covered the air, rendering it impossible to see anything. The blood-curdling screams had died down, but gunshots could still be heard in the distance. This far into the Program, there was little need for subtlety, or more importantly, the participants had forgotten what subtlety was. Driven crazy by the constant fear, paranoia, and general chaos of the game, it was amazing that the few remaining survivors had any sense of humanity left.
Maybe they didn't. Not anymore.
Grimacing in pain, Michael slowly inched backwards, the glass on the floor sinking into his palms. Feeling around, his hand rested on a wooden handle. Tightening his grip, he jumped onto his feet, sickle in hand. Swinging through the dust gracefully, almost like some sort of sick ballet performance, Michael raced forwards. This went on for a good thirty seconds or so, until a sickening squelch was heard. Spluttering. Gurgling.
Silence.
The air began to clear. Ripping the sickle out from his fellow student's throat, Michael grabbed the body before it could hit the floor. It was Mat. Mat Buckley. There was a deep laceration on the left side of his throat, blood oozing from the wound. But despite how quickly the blood was rushing from his body, Mat's life had left him sooner.
Slowly lowering Mat's body to the ground, Michael recalled that today would have been Mat's first real gig. He was a great musician, extremely talented for his age. The drummer type, that the girls used to flock to. He had a great future ahead of him, and now…
Shit. Laura and Shanice. How the hell am I gonna tell them about this? Michael gritted his teeth. If they were still alive, they'd understand. If they were still alive, they would have done similar by now.
Grabbing a shard of glass, Michael sat next to Mat's lifeless body. Ripping the sickle off the top of the handle, he began slowly carving the now-useless wooden instrument into the shape of a drumstick.
