Title: Survival of the Fittest

Summary: Mello, Matt, and Near are all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

Disclaimer: I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it. (Oh, and you'll notice that it's written in a new style. Let me know what you think.)

Author's Note: I just got back from having surgery, and this is the first thing that I was inspired to write. I know I need to continue the other fics I have started, but bear with me. Please, and thank you.

KEEP IN MIND! Mom's asleep and I hijacked my laptop to write this! I'm in a rush, so be mindful of errors! And... DON'T FORGET TO LOOK IN THE BARREL FOR THE KITTIES! There's, like, five of 'em! One is black, two are white, one is calico, and the other is made out of bubblegum. -But I might have dreamt that because my sources say that it doesn't make much sense. *confused*

Lastly: Am I the only one who thinks that ice cubes are like little square fish that swim in our drinks? Unless the cubes are the round kind.


...

Only one rule, they said. Who 'they' was, nobody knew. Then again 'nobody' was a generalized term. 'Nobody' could've been 'anyone' or 'everyone.'

That one rule... was as simple as could be.

The rule?

One bag. No additional luggage.

One bag? Could it be that easy?

Why, yes it could, and it was.

-The bus was inconspicuous. Just an average charter bus for touring, with faded letters alongside a dull paint job. Nice clean headlights and tinted windows. Why the windows were tinted, nobody asked, and nobody recieved an answer.

What a wonderful symbiosis of imaginary beginnings and crude endings, one would imagine.

But again, that bus, as real as a bench and as abstract as oxygen, it pulled up to a rest stop, brakes squealing in protest and a hairy driver opening the door and gruffly beckoning passengers.

"One bag," the hairy man grumbled as a single person stepped aboard, shouldering a messenger bag and offering the kind of smile strangers share while perusing the aisles of a supermarket.

That smile on that lone passenger, so bright and charming... but so careless and routine, probably offered to kin and offenders alike. It was practiced, easy, and noncommittal.

The smile of a future politician.

The smile of someone who might lie through their teeth to present a case that was not theirs to contend.

That passenger, he walked right past the hairy man, blonde hair bouncing like the narcisistic bitch from the Brady Bunch. He offered the politically correct smile and turned away, not sparing a second glance as he eyed his empty surroundings on the short journey to the back, where he seated himself and pulled his brown suede messenger bag into his lap.

He looked out the window; the door cried angrily as it was coaxed shut.

Such a rickety old bus with such clean leather seats and freshly matted floors.

This passenger, blonde with blue eyes, still smiling... he noticed all these little details but said not one word to anyone -not that there was a soul of importance other than himself.

It was just him and that dirty, hairy old man in a flannel shirt and boots that smelled as if he trekked through a farm: that manure smell. Horse shit on his soles and fuzzy-knuckled hands on the wheel.

That man was the reaper that would guide everyone to their demise -not that they had any reason to think this.

This was just another trip to camp, the same trip that was made every year.

Nothing to worry about.

-The next stop came about an hour later. Just another boring town in the middle of nowhere. A small diner where a mother offers her son a hug and said son grabs a plastic WALMART bag with his left hand; the bag's contents rattle and the plastic handle stretches, warning of an oncoming breakage, but the holder quickly lifts the bag and hugs his right arm around it, protecting it like a mother hen to her chicks.

The bag doesn't break.

The redhead holding the bag takes a deep breath as the bus rolls to a stop and the door opens. He forces away all traces of apprehension, taking a step up, up, up and up.

There are four steps, all so close together, he notes mentally, still hugging his disposable bag and its jostling contents.

"One bag," a bearded man mutters.

The redhead nods, shifting his bag noisily in gest as he responds with: "my meds; I'm sickly, sir."

The man says nothing, and the redhead doesn't explain any further; instead, the new passenger takes a seat cattycorner from the driver. Then he places his bag in a small cubby above his head.

The bus door whines upon shutting and then they're rolling again.

This passenger is not like the blonde. He doesn't smile like a politician. He doesn't act like he's a bigshot. Instead, he's the exact opposite. His voice is small when he speaks. There is very little confidence in his stride; his hands shake like an old person at a nursing home.

And his eyes are hidden, not by hair or a conveniently placed shadow, but by the smoked lenses in a pair of swimming goggles.

"My name's Matt," he says to the driver, but he's ignored.

The ride continues.

The scenery never seems to change, and when it does, it's unappealing.

Hours pass.

There is no need to stop for gas. The fuel guage doesn't seem to move. But there is no need to worry just yet.

At least, not until the first passenger -the blonde with the cynical smile and predetermined lies -gets up and, gripping the edges of seats to aid his balance, gradually works his way to the front of the moving bus; he takes his bag with him -it's his precious cargo.

It's odd, he notes, batting his long lashes over his blue eyes, how the bus ride seems to fill him with dread; he's been to camp every year for as long as he can remember, but this feels different.

"I have to use the bathroom," he says to the driver once he gets to the front. His peripheral vision catches sight of another passenger, but he pays no heed. His attention is split between his engorged bladder and the driver. "When's the next rest stop?"

The driver doesn't answer.

The blonde takes on an agitated expression, brow creasing and lips thinning. "Dude, I have to piss. And I don't remember Math Camp being so far away. Can we take a detour or something?"

Again, the driver is silent.

But the redhead to the blonde's left speaks. "Math Camp?" His words are soft-spoken as they are choked out.

The blonde nods and feigns interest, hoping to distract himself from his need to excrete. "Yeah, Math Camp. I need to brush up on my Advanced Calculus."

And the redhead's hands shake more visibly; his bag rattles more with every bump in the road. "I might be on the wrong bus," he says meekly, head rolling off his neck and stopping quite suddenly; he's looking at the worn denim that covers his lap.

Arching a curious brow toward his hairline, the blonde seats himself next to his fellow passenger. "Where are you supposed to be going?"

"Basketball Camp," is the response. There's a pause before he adds with a hopeful lilt: "I'm Matt, by the way."

"Mello." A terse response.

Both boys are about the same age, but the fact is so obvious that neither seem to notice at all.

They both simultaneously turn their attention to the bus driver, so hairy and unkempt -he could never have a professional desk job looking like that. His beard is blanketed in yellowy-orange dust, presumably from Cheetos or Pork Rinds. That same dust rests on his dirty fingertips, tattling on his last morsels.

The hairy man says nothing. And the boys turn their attention back to each other.

"I'm going to Math Camp."

"I'm supposed to go to Basketball Camp."

"Why? You don't look like a ball player."

"I am."

"But you're scrawny, short, and I can hear you wheezing. You're not conditioned to be an athlete, Mac."

"My name's Matt, not Mac."

"Whatever."

Silence overtakes them. The bus driver coughs a few times with long intervals of quiet breathing in between.

It's hard to say how long they'd been on the road, but the sun outside the tinted windows has moved postions, showing the change of time throughout the day.

Chronology is funny.

The boys find their stomachs rumbling.

"I'm hungry," the blonde fusses.

"... I'm fine," whispers the redhead, but his stomache gurgles loudly, as if reprimanding him in some way. Then he reaches his bag from the cubby, pulls it into his lap, and peers inside.

Mello, all blonde and all confident, eyes the bag curiously. "Any snacks?" he presses, leaning close to get a peek, but what he sees isn't food.

Orange bottles with white caps. Prescriptions. All so full of tiny capsules.

Matt grabs a bottle, uncaps it, grabs two pills. Grabs another bottle, uncaps it, grabs one pill. Grabs another- he repeats the process until there's a variety of meds in his palm; then, as if swallowing a handful of those miniature M&M's, he swallows them all by pressing his hand to his open mouth and tossing his head back. Then he puts it all away and places his bag back into the cubby.

"No snacks," Mello says dryly, looking away and trying to ignore how he felt at what he just witnessed. Without asking or having it explained, he could guess that Matt was sick. After all, the redhead was pale, wheezed with almost every breath, and could hardly keep from trembling. Coming to this realization, the blonde got up and returned to his original seat in the back.

-At long last came another stop. By now, Mello has forgotten his need to urinate, and Matt has fallen asleep.

The driver pulls the lever that opens the door, and a third person finally boards the bus.

This kid, the latest passenger, he's crazy. His eyes are dull but his cheeks are stretched wide with a terrifying smile. He's paler than the sickly redhead and his feet are socked but not shoed. In his hands, he does not tote a bag. Instead, he carries a video camera with its red light indicating that it is in use.

"One bag," the driver says.

To that, the pale one says: "I have two."

"One bag," the driver repeats.

The pale boy holds the camera in one hand and scratches his head with the other, ruffling his white curly locks. Then he turns around, looking through the margin of the door that remains open.

There, standing just outside the old charter, is a man in a lab coat and slacks; he's holding two suitcases; his arms are lifted, offering either suitcase for someone to take.

Reluctantly, the pale passenger turns and steps off the bus long enough to grab one of the suitcases at random; then, with just a few short strides, he's on once again and taking a seat. He drops his suitcase in the middle of the aisle, uncaring of any form of courtesy or protocol.

He focuses on his camera again, filming the dirty, hairy bus driver, the sickly redhead, the mostly empty bus, and then, finally, the blonde with that ever present smile.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but before any sound emerges, the driver closes the door, which emits a terrible sound... and then he speaks, loud enough for all to hear.

"Passengers 1, 2, and 3-" his voice has a slight southern drawl and his every word is sharply annunciated. "Now that everyone is on board, we can head... to Wammy's."

"What about Math Camp?!" the blonde shouts.

The white-haired boy is sure to catch the outburst on film.

The redhead snores slightly but does not stir; this is also caught on camera.

The driver says nothing more.

Mello is unfortunately reminded of his bladder; it's ready to burst.

Matt's bag falls from the cubby and the bottles drop and roll in every direction, many popping open and emptying themselves all over.

And that pale, pale boy -the one with the camera -he sees it all. He holds it up to his face like a masquerade mask, and he films. And he smiles that frighteningly crooked smile, but no one cares to notice.

-Finally, the bus stops again.

This is the last stop, everyone knows.

There should be relief in this fact, but there is none.

The bus door opens, and the boy with the camera is the first one out. He's dragging his bulky suitcase behind him on tiny wheels, and he's recording anything and everything. The second person out is the blonde, his messenger bag over his shoulder and his bladder motivating him to sprint down the aisle and jump down the small set of stairs; he steps to the side and drops his pants to relieve himself. Then, finally, the redhead groggily awakens to his spilled medications before dropping to his knees and grabbing handfuls of the little orange bottles; his breath falls in panicking gasps as he gets up and stumbles down the steps, fearful of the little capsules he's leaving behind.

When the bus door groans and slides shut, the boys take in their new surroundings, but what they see wasn't anything what they expected.

-For the smart boy who wanted to enforce his intellect, the sickly boy that was full of jitters and wanted to be an athlete, and for the slightly manic boy that longed to show the world what he saw... life was over.

Everything they knew -their homes, schools, friends and families -was gone. Lost. Would never bee seen again.

But did they know this?

No, not yet.

Even as they looked at the sign that read "Welcome to Wammy's: the Weight is Over" and had several skulls that were graffitized around the text, they could not know the horror that was to come.

But the fear was there, in the pits of their stomachs, slowly trying to eat its way to their brains. Like parasites.

And all the blonde could think to say, was: "This isn't Math Camp."

And the redhead said nothing; he simply adjusted his goggles and tried to keep hold of the medications he cradled.

But... the boy that was decked out in all white, he focused his camera on his fellow teens and said: "No, this is Wammy's. And this... is Fat Camp."

...


/Uh...please give me some feedback on this. It might be left as a OneShot, but I could continue it. I dunno. Review? *MEOW FACE*/