11: 27 PM Day 0
Silence pervaded the classroom. It was pokey and drab, with only one weak fluorescent light that flickered every other minute to illuminate it, meaning that the kids could only make out the gaunt silhouettes of the three figures at the front of the classroom. The students sat hunched on the floor, some in close packs with their brethren whilst others isolated themselves in corners, almost all of them cowering in fear, understanding all too well the reason why they were there.
A calm mellifluous voice spoke from behind the desk "Sanderson turn the other lights on please". A well built man approached the entrance to the classroom (which for whatever reason was lacking a door) and quickly pressed two switches. Nate Benedict, along with most of his peers, shielded his eyes with his right hand as another two fluorescent strips unleashed an unforgiving bleached white light that engulfed the room. He was seated on the uncomfortable wooden floor next to his two closest companions; Simon on the left, Ben on the right. He glanced at Simon who was frantically rubbing his eyes; clearly he too was having difficulty adjusting to the sudden shift in brightness, but essentially seemed intact and moderately alert. The same could not be said for Ben who was bent forward and hyperventilating, seemingly on the brink of passing out. Ben was too astute to have any delusions about what was to happen next, his cousin Joanna had prepped him on the tactics the Americans had employed to ensnare their students but he had never believed the UK would follow suit and act so barbarically. Nate put his arm around the almost catatonic Ben, and reassuringly muttered "It's going to be all right I promise, don't worry we'll figure something out", Simon looked over in concern but was relieved to see Ben's breathing rate slow as he sat upright, his face drained of any colour but his lips pursed with staunch resolve; he had to be strong, now was not the time for timidity and weakness.
"Could I have your attention please?" the voice was unmistakably gentle. Nate relinquished his grasp on Ben and turned to where the sound emanated from to see a man behind the teacher's desk rise from his seat and walk towards the students. A pair of camouflaged soldiers meanwhile remained standing behind the desk, forcefully clutching their AK 47s and smiling malevolently. The man was of average height, attired in a faded beige cardigan and brown corduroy trousers, Nate estimated he was probably in his early 50s judging by his finely combed grey hair and goatee. He bore an uncanny resemblance to one of Nate's previous chemistry teachers and seemed ill suited for this position, as his genial manner belied the seriousness of their situation.
"I imagine that many of you are aware of why you're here - I'm guessing this because you seem like a gifted bunch - however I nonetheless extend a warm welcome to all of you on behalf of the Battle Royale administration who look forward to seeing your efforts within the program."
Nobody spoke. Any vague hopes that this was something other than 'Battle Royale' quickly dissipated as they were faced with the inescapable reality of what was going to happen to them. Frankie Almond Smith promptly began to sob loudly on Liz Dunn's shoulder whilst Cassandra Douglas clasped her hands to her mouth and looked desperately at her beau (the striking David Colville), praying that he would tell her that this was nothing other than a thoroughly sick joke. However one look at his ashen face told her this truly was for real and she too began to weep.
"Oh come now, there's no need to cry. Simply do your best and who knows you might even win? Remember everyone's a potential winner, it's just that some are better at hiding this than others"
Simon was about to ponder the validity of this statement but felt too downcast to use his considerable IQ to do so. Only Edward Devereux did not appear phased by these words, he simply sat there looking utterly bewildered. Diminutive in stature, with greasy blonde hair and round spectacles, he was without doubt an unimposing figure. He was also very autistic and often could not comprehend what was occurring around him or understand people's behaviour; he had absolutely no inkling of what the 'Battle Royale' program consisted of. He raised his hand.
"Please sir; I'm confused about what this Battle Royale program is?"
Fergal Mills and Tian Berkley rolled their eyes and snorted at his ignorance, Phil Argyle - the third of Tian's triumvirate of aggressive louts - looked incredulously at the clueless Edward, wondering how anyone could be so sheltered from reality.
"The Battle Royale program is put most simply, a game ....."
"A game!" Edward perkily interrupted
"Yes were you will go head to head with your classmates"
"But how does one win?" asked an increasingly puzzled Edward, oblivious to the glares his fellow pupils were giving him. The man gave the briefest of sly smiles and then answered; "You eliminate one another until only one remains".
"Yes but how do we eliminate one another" came Edward's irritable response, he couldn't understand why this bizarre and eccentrically dressed man was constantly skirting the question. At this point Liz pushed Frankie from her shoulders and leant towards him and hissed;
"For fuck's sake, how do you think idiot? We murder each other!" Edward's bewilderment swiftly metamorphosed into blind terror.
"But why us....who are you...why do we have to play this game, I don't want to, it's not fair!" Edward stammered angrily, tears welling up in his eyes.
"Now there's no need for histrionics" the man chided pleasantly "I can't give you my name for security reasons, but you may use the alias Mr. Samuels. You are here because your school was selected by an impartial lottery. However since there are no definable classes at Bray Wood school in your year, we simply selected the top Science set, feeling that the higher level of intellect you posses and your wide ranging scientific knowledge would make you best suited for the Battle Royale. But I'm afraid Edward there's no option not to play, it's compulsory for the 32 of you and the only way out is death or victory, I'll leave you to decide which option you find more palatable."
Suddenly Simon felt even more uneasy; had Mr. Samuels made a careless mistake or was it intentional? He looked around the classroom, trying to discern who was there, afraid that he already knew who wasn't. Simon slowly raised his hand, receiving a withering look from Liz in the process.
"Yes Simon?" his voice was still gratingly amiable and his smile was ridiculously toothy and wide.
"Mr. Samuels where's Martyn Taylor?" the smile quickly vanished and was replaced by a frown as Mr. Samuel's face became much more severe. He paced back over to his desk and turned to face the entire class, when he spoke it was tersely and with bitter disgust.
"Martyn Taylor awoke before the rest of you. It was necessary to have an even number of boys and girls for the sake of fairness. As there were a larger amount of males, administration concluded it would be necessary to liquidate one of the boys. When Master Taylor regained control of his senses he became very difficult and obnoxious, much as our psychological profile on him had predicted. He will not be participating with you, I trust you understand."
"You killed him!" wailed Frankie. She'd despised Martyn intensely but now seemed like as good an opportunity as any to get angry and the overflowing of her emotions was proving remarkably therapeutic to her nerves.
"Of course" replied Mr. Samuels with masterful indifference.
"Genuinely?" asked Daniel Swane, feigning an expression of horrified revulsion at the news - he too had always been at odds with Martyn, even more so than Frankie, and was secretly elated by the report of his demise.
"Yes, Martyn is most definitely deceased. I'd show you his corpse but it's not a pleasant sight. He put up a very fierce struggle and was surprisingly strong; it all ended up being a rather messy affair." Mr Samuels then proceeded to gesticulate to an unpleasantly large blood stain etched on the wall at the back of the classroom. Simon felt nauseas; he didn't dare contemplate how they'd ended Martyn's life and was revolted at Mr. Samuels's casual tone. The students sat and stared at the patch of blood, each imagining what had occurred (with varying degrees of accuracy); the only sound was Frankie's now amplified whimpering which cut through the sepulchral silence like a rapier. Liz was getting frustrated at Frankie's incessant crying; her school blouse was becoming increasingly damp around her shoulder blades and these torrents of emotion showed no sign of abating. She decided that the best course of action was probably to try and comfort her, but Liz herself was so shaken up that she was completely unsure of how to do so.
All the meanwhile Joanna Simpson was staring at the map of an island (that she assumed correctly to be the one she was currently stranded on) which was pinned on the board behind Mr. Samuel's desk, trying to calculate a plan of action. She was briefly concerned that it might be a dummy map used to deceive them of the Island's layout, however she knew that there was no choice other than to put her faith in the honesty of the BR administrators - something she was justifiably reluctant to do. Samuels himself had questioned BR admin about the advisability of allowing the pupils a preview of the Island and the locations of the buildings, but he had been informed that only the most resourceful students were likely to examine it (unless the others were directed to do so) and hence they deserved a reward for taking the initiative.
Seeing that Joanna was beginning to raise her hand, Mr. Samuels quickly spoke again with his grotesquely affable vocal intonations "Can we please leave inquiries until later; I need to explain the rules by midnight and I've only got fifteen minutes to do so, so please settle down and pay attention" after briefly savouring the pleasurable silence he continued, "the program has a duration of 72 consecutive hours, if by the end of it there is not one single overall winner all remaining students will be executed" he paused again, "the Battle Royale will be broadcast across the country, no doubt you'll observe the many cameras placed around the island. Please do not vandalise or try to defile them in any way; we will not tolerate this kind of deviant behaviour." He picked up a pencil from his desk and with a warm smile snapped it in two. The class flinched in unison.
"Now, I want you all to put on a good show, not only for the sake of the viewer ratings but also for the dignity of your families. Remember everyone's watching you, so make the effort to impress and show them what you're made of. The viewers will also have an influence over how the game progresses, so it's worth garnering their favour. Every six hours I shall make an announcement detailing the number of deaths, the perpetrators of these kills and the areas of the island that are to become danger zones an hour after my reports have ended. The viewing public will nominate which zones become dangerous and their decision will most likely be predicated upon who currently inhabits that particular part of the island and whether or not they're doing something constructive and/or entertaining with their time. Every six hours they will also vote for their favourite kill, the individual who is bestowed with this honour will be the recipient of a useful prize. If you want to attain this 'gift' (and trust me, you should do) make the slaughter innovative; don't be afraid to be creative that's what the people want! If there are any disciplinary matters the BR administrators will consult the viewers and they'll decide upon a suitable punishment."
Joanna put up her hand again, but this time didn't wait for Mr. Samuels's approval for her to speak.
"Mr. Samuels, are there any cameras in the buildings?" she asked curtly, pleased by his evident surprise at the question.
"No there are not" he answered simply, his voice reversing from faux conviviality to succinct monotone "You will not interrupt me again; if you do the consequences will be highly undesirable". Many of the students were perplexed by both this question and its answer; however Joanna understood exactly what this meant and knew what the implications were.
"To continue; some of you may be aware that you currently have metallic collars around your necks". Only Edward was not conscious of the slim piece of metal that snugly wrapped around his fairly thick neck and on an impulse began to tug it. It was too tight he only wanted to loosen it; there was no reason for him to die prematurely from suffocation. He suddenly became aware that the others were moving away from him, expressions of disbelief adorning their already aghast faces, Edward ignored them (why were they always so unremittingly nasty to him?) and continued to pull on the collar, now exerting a greater force on it than before.
Suddenly he felt his hands being wrenched away from the collar; he yelped in pain and looked up to see David Colville looming over him.
"Don't touch the fucking collar!" David yelled exasperatedly. Bloodshed was inevitable but he wanted to delay it for as long as possible or maybe even wholly prevent it somehow.
"Such concern on your part is touching David, but you needn't have worried," trilled the obviously amused Mr. Samuels, "a student's collar will only become active when he or she exits this building, so do feel free Edward to continue with your futile efforts to extract the collar from your neck I can assure you the only thing you'll accomplish is giving yourself a rash".
Frankie brushed aside a few locks of blonde hair from her perfectly proportioned face and raised her trembling left hand, convinced she already knew the answer to her morbid question.
"If the collars are activated, that means......"
"They'll explode." said Mr. Samuels flatly. Frankie gulped and spoke again, her voice wavering with anxiety as she began her second morose inquiry.
"You mean we'll be decapitated?"
"Most certainly not my dear," he replied, looking truly baffled by the suggestion. Frankie stared blankly at him in utter in confusion, he smiled darkly and explained, "The blast will merely blow a large gash in your jugular, and you'll bleed to death within a matter of seconds."
"I think I'm going to be sick." gasped Frankie.
"Charming," Mr. Samuels sarcastically mumbled, "Although I would've assumed that - judging by your svelte physique - you weren't a girl with much of an appetite and thus wouldn't have had much food to regurgitate. But I guess we all make mistakes....." Frankie glowered furiously and even toyed with the idea of lunging at him and plunging her expertly manicured nails into his piggy little eyes. However Liz was holding her arm in a vice like grip and Frankie was far too scared and tired to do anything dramatic.
"The collars will only be detonated if you enter a danger zone or if you attempt to remove them or cause any kind of trouble. Believe me when I say that you will be quite incapable of detaching these collars from your necks, so unless you want to make the game easier for others by carelessly sacrificing your life I'd counsel you to leave your collars well alone."
Nate had tired of Mr. Samuel's cheeriness and total indifference to that fact he was condemning 31 out of 32 children to death. Was he going to die? Perhaps, but he wouldn't go without a fight or without damning the insane hypocrisy of the Battle Royale act.
"Why are we here?" Nate calmly asked.
"I'm sure I made it quite obvious the first time I explained and I've no desire to repeat myself"
"No, I don't mean the procedure for selecting a class, I'm referring to the BR act itself and I'm asking what your rationalization is for it?"
Mr. Samuels walked the brief distance from his desk to where Nate sat (which was at the front of the class, as always) and peered down at him, his expression totally imperceptible.
"You would be Nate Benedict I presume?"
Nate nodded in agreement; maintaining eye contact with his foe - a tactic that usually disconcerted his teachers but did not seem to be having much effect on Mr. Samuels.
"Allegedly you're the unofficial leader of your year's intelligentsia elite, from what I gather"
"A diminished intelligentsia now that Martyn is six feet under" Nate coldly replied.
Nate could certainly stake a claim for being the school's resident theorist and philosopher and a talented orator to boot, with preppy good looks that counterbalanced his scholarly intensity. He possessed charisma aplenty and was fortunate enough to have a select clique - and it most certainly was a clique, though Nate made no effort to deny this - of likeminded and equally brilliant students. Martyn to some extent had existed on the margins of this group (he was perceived by Nate and Ben to be too much of a crude anarchist to comfortably conform to their Marxist ideals) but Simon and Ben were most certainly, as termed by Liz, his 'lackeys'. The three even resembled each other with their brunette hair styled in a short French crop (they'd had these hairstyles since arriving at Bray Wood and felt no compulsion to change them) and could usually be relied upon to make provocative and droll remarks during lessons that were either boring or taught by a self-important doddering old fool. But if Nate was the leader, Simon the wit and Martyn the self-absorbed brute, Ben was the demure book lover, surprisingly meek in comparison to his three cohorts with a placid demeanour and a caring nature.
"It will be quite some time before Martyn is laid to rest I can assure you" Mr. Samuels brusquely informed him, an enigmatic smile forming on his lips.
"You haven't answered my question"
"I wasn't aware that I was required to obey your commands. Or perhaps the BR admin just screwed up and forgot to mention it to me; they can be so careless sometimes, it truly does defy belief" said Mr. Samuels with absent-minded derision, he appeared distracted and uninterested in the conversation, but Nate persisted.
"How can you morally justify this inhumanity? We're not even the juvenile delinquents the BR program is supposed to deal with, we're reckoned to be model students of superior intellect".
"And so modest as well," Mr. Samuels retorted sardonically, "did you just assume that because you attend a prestigious boarding school that commands fees of up to £17,000 a year, and because you happen to be a group of over achieving schmucks that you were automatically exempt from Battle Royale?"
"By your own admission, you chose us specifically because we were in the top Science set and deemed to be intelligent." Nate was managing to suppress his bubbling rage but his voice was becoming noticeably more agitated as his anger mounted.
"So you believe it would have been fairer to select a Science set with an inferior IQ to yours then, because their lack of intelligence would've made it more acceptable for them to die, is that what you think?"
"Why force any set of students of any intelligence from whatever type school to suffer this?"
"There are innumerable reasons."
"Name one." Nate challenged, he had not yet broken eye contact with Mr. Samuels who was becoming observably angrier with every well chosen word Nate uttered.
"In case you hadn't noticed, the world is in ruins. Economies are failing; even more people are unemployed than at the peak of Weimar Germany's industrial meltdown. And what do you children do? Nothing, other than perpetuate our problems. You ignore what's happening around you and relish the irresponsibility adolescence supposedly allows you; even before you're legally of age you drink, do drugs and screw each other without caring what infections you catch. You increase the adult world's grief by playing truant and participating in crime, often attacking your elders - your betters - without remorse. Well now it's our turn to fuck everything up, and you're the little brats who are just going to have to endure it, just like we adults have endured your behaviour for centuries." Mr. Samuels did not at any time raise his voice; he kept it quiet, accentuating every word in order to instil fear within his already petrified students. He had not yet looked away from the defiant Nate and was resolute in his intentions to prove beyond doubt the unquestionable logic of Battle Royale.
"You were not selected because you were the best or the worst, the strongest or the weakest, you merely did not have lady luck on your side. And before any of you begin to wallow in self-pity, regarding yourselves as paradigms of chastity and virtue who do not deserve to be here, I'm well aware that many of you have had chequered and sordid pasts that have involved you inflicting hurt upon others. So don't put up any kind of pretence that you're anything other than vile little shits, all you have that differentiates you from the rest are scholarships and rich daddies. Only when the youth realises that what it's doing is fundamentally wrong will the government abolish the BR act. So Nate, are you able use your brain to understand that – or are your grey cells working overtime on preening yourself as a martyr to the tyranny of us adults?"
For seven interminably long seconds there was not a sound, no one dared even breathe. The students knew that Nate was playing with fire and that no matter how many clever points he made he would be powerless to extricate themselves from their predicament, but they awaited his response with both awe and trepidation.
"If our government is only concerned with selflessly eradicating the problems posed by teenagers," Nate began, trying with limited success to suppress a smile, sure that he was about to undo the knot of lies that Mr. Samuels had so lyrically woven together, "then why does it televise the game so it can make an immense financial profit from perverts who want to see a kiddie massacre?"
Mr. Samuels silently turned around and returned to his desk, whereupon he opened a drawer and after a brief interlude of clumsily fidgeting inside it, extracted a snub nosed revolver and strode back to where the indomitable Nate sat. He pointed the gun at Nate's forehead. Nate didn't even blink. The mockery he'd make of this sadistic institution and its pompous flunky would be his ultimate victory over authority, the kind that Martyn had longed to accomplish but never was (and now indeed, never would be) given the opportunity to do so.
But Nate had other emotional facets and needs that only a handful of people were aware of. For starters, he was suffering from the common teenage affliction universally referred to as love. It is said that in life the two emotions that cannot be modulated are rage and desire, and Nate's love was insatiable and passionate (he'd always been a person with an enthusiasm for hyperbole). Luckily for him, the subject of his amorous wants reciprocated this love and their relationship had even been consummated, despite the fact they were underage. But whilst he valued this relationship above all else, there were moments when his pride took precedent over good sense and he lost control, becoming reckless solely because he wanted to demonstrate his academic superiority over everybody else. Whilst at School the worst reprimand his arrogance could incur was a detention, here the rules were different and both Ben and Simon knew it. However they did not try to deter Nate from pursuing his argument since they were well aware that their attempts to stop him would only be seen by him as an incentive to continue.
"Nate, if you insult me I will tolerate it – though not without giving you a nasty injury – however if you dare to slander the government, I shall act decisively and without mercy." Snapped Mr. Samuels, his ferocity was evident despite his voice's low volume. His face was burgundy red and the veins across his forehead bulged magnificently, it was clear to everyone - apart from Nate it appeared - that he had reached his boiling point.
"But Mr. Samuels," replied Nate with an expression of mock horror "I'm stunned you could even contemplate for a moment that I would make any attempts to disparage our government, after all why should I bear them any ill will? They've only forsaken me to either butcher my friends or be a member of the carnage myself – all perfectly acceptable of course. But then again I suppose it can't be helped that they're a bunch of emotionless fuckers, after all why....."
Ben had been numb with fear from the moment Mr. Samuels withdrew the revolver from his desk, staring at the floor as his vision blurred and his head pounded. Every possibility of what could happen next played out in his head in a swirl of gaudy colours and screams of anguish. He only awakened from this hellish trance when the two sharp shots rang out with excruciating clarity. He turned to his left, praying that Nate would be sat upright and smiling as boldly as ever, the two bullets having being shot into thin air as a warning. But when he glanced over, he looked straight into the eyes of the mortified Simon who was frozen in astonishment and terror. He looked down. Nate was sprawled on the floor, two puddles of rich crimson spreading across his white shirt from where the bullets had entered (Mr. Samuels had changed his aim in order to guarantee the pain lasting longer). Ben clutched his hands to his mouth and muffled a cry. Nate rolled his head to the right; he was breathing rapidly with what little oxygen remained in his lungs and was beginning to cough up blood. He knew that he only had a few minutes, maybe even less, before it was all over for him.
Ben leant forward, removing his hands from his mouth and trying to determine whether there was any way he could constrict the flow of blood. Suddenly he felt a clammy hand tightly take hold of his. Nate held on with surprising strength and choked as he urgently tried to articulate his last words. There were so many things he wanted to say to Ben; he'd said them all before but this would be the last occasion he'd have to reiterate them, however all he managed to do was stutter and smile ever so slightly. Nate had expected that his vision would become distorted and gradually fade as he died, but instead he found that he'd never seen the world with such lucidity as he gazed at Ben's stricken face. He'd always been an agnostic, but he thanked God (or indeed any supreme deity that presided over the earth) for letting the last thing he ever laid eyes on be the person he adored more than any other.
Nate's hand went limp. Ben - and Simon for that matter - stifled their tears, not wanting to give Mr. Samuels the satisfaction of seeing their hurt. Mr. Samuels remained standing, his pistol pointed at the class of shell-shocked 17 year olds.
"It is now 11:59 PM, in one minute I will begin a role call of students and release you onto the island. In the meantime, if anyone else has any similarly challenging insights about the workings of our government, please do feel free to share them with us."
31 Students Remain.