Day 1 5:01 AM

The sun rose into the sky; a yellow behemoth of energy, its rays of sunlight spreading languidly across the island like treacle, illuminating even the darkest corners and momentarily instilling an intangible feeling of hopefulness in Simon Holcombe (Boy #6).

"Ok, it's my shift now – get some rest Simon," said Joanna Simpson (Girl #6), rising from the settee she had perched herself on and walking towards him. She took the shotgun from his hands and patted him gently on the shoulder. Initially she'd proposed that all three of them alternate between doing guard duty and sleeping, however ultimately only she and Simon had fulfilled this proposal. Tulista had been exhausted and now was sleeping soundly in one of the bedrooms. Simon and Joanna found that they were so frazzled with worry that sleep was quite impossible and hence they concluded that they'd let Tulista snooze whilst the two of them kept watch.

This proved to be a pleasantly uncomplicated task; all it entailed was walking around the apartment, checking to see if anybody was in the vicinity of the building and (unless it was Ben Ackart) firing off a warning shot to scare them away. Simon had soon cottoned to the fact that the shotgun wasn't loaded – Joanne blushed and quickly gave him some ammunition – but as of yet, there had been no need to fire it; no other students had yet ventured towards them, the apartment block being so far north and inconveniently positioned for a prospective 'resident' to reach it.

"Thanks Joanna, but I'm just going to sit here for the moment."

"Suit yourself; make sure you wake Tulista in about half an hour, Ok?" Joanna commanded, briskly strolling out of the living room to begin her patrol. Simon remained seated on the windowsill, gazing dreamily into the distance. He couldn't sleep, he was tired beyond belief but he could not, no matter how much he tried, get any sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes all he could think about was that gunshot, imagining Ben falling limply to the ground, dead because Simon didn't have the patience (or the courage) to wait for him. He was wracked with guilt, which was only compounded and perpetuated by the fact that he'd never much liked Ben.

He'd often felt that Ben had taken something from him – namely Nate. He hadn't felt that way about Nate (he held no interests in that particular sexual arena), but their ties of friendship that had once been so strong, seemed to have loosened shortly after Ben arrived on the scene. Ben hadn't attempted to instigate any kind of estrangement between Nate and Simon (he was far too docile a creature to do that), but his very presence seemed to cause Nate to increasingly disregard Simon. Perhaps Simon should have tried to directly address this issue with Nate, but it was too late now anyway; Nate had probably been unceremoniously stuffed into a body bag in preparation for him being shipped back home to his grief-stricken parents.

Given the circumstances of their first meeting, it would have perhaps seemed unlikely that such a close friendship could have developed between Nate and Simon, but then again, human beings have always been an inherently unpredictable species. At the age of six, they'd attended the same primary school and on one especially sunny July morning, Nate had felt a strange compulsion to push the (then rather small) Simon onto the gravelled playground. At the time, he'd never really spoken to Simon and neither liked nor disliked him; he just had felt an overpowering urge to see him fall to the ground and voyeuristically watch his reaction. Simon tumbled and howled with pain, clutching his badly grazed knee, Nate now feeling an oddly remorseful sensation. There were the inevitable reprimands; Nate was coerced into apologising to Simon and was made to sit in the corner during playtime, where he moped and scowled for the twenty minutes before the school day ended.

In retrospect, Simon wondered whether this was simply Nate trying to break the ice with characteristic dramaturgy, as over the course of the days that followed a friendship blossomed between them. Whilst in the course of life, many friends invariably come and go like bus boys in a restaurant, their amity had endured for a decade and Simon put huge value on it.

And then they started school at Bray Wood.

Simon didn't think it odd that during the first two years Nate chose to be including Ben in their group (to which Martyn Taylor had also been added – by Simon as it happened), he was something of a loner but he slotted into the niche of charismatic smartass quite comfortably. The thing Simon relished most about knowing Nate was being able to see past the façade he projected to his fellow pupils; to know that beneath the veneer of cocky indifference he was actually quite a kind soul. Simon always knew that Nate would sensitively listen to a spillage of his emotional distress and would counsel and console him. With hindsight however, Simon realised that Nate had only once in their friendship, during the third year, elected to confide in him. And Simon had screwed up magnificently.

Nate had been sitting quietly in his study; his demeanour was pensive and he looked genuinely unhappy. Unsettled by this, Simon inquired as to what was the matter, eventually prising the truth out of Nate that he was in love, with perhaps the most unlikely of the school's candidates. Of all the reactions Simon could have had (disgust, sympathy, indifference etc.), he chose the worst one of all; he laughed raucously, despite not being particularly amused, and from that moment on one of the ties that had bonded them together was irreparably severed.

Joanna returned to the room and slouched onto a moth-eaten couch. Simon was rather attracted to her; she wasn't an archetypal beauty but her resilient calmness and irresistible sass made her very appealing to him. Whilst Simon trusted her completely (she wasn't that backstabbing type – was she?), he knew she was lying about something and suspected she didn't have complete confidence in the honesty of either him or Tulista. Perhaps it was her nationality that charmed him (he had a fondness for those American accents) or maybe it was her quick wit and easygoing persona. Either way it sadly didn't make much difference; Joanna had politely declined the offer of going out with him, but Simon was understanding and felt no ill will towards her because of it.

"Did you have an interesting shift?" Simon asked, bored by the lack of activity and anxious about the upcoming six hour report.

"Oh yeah it was a real thrill ride; I gunned down sixteen kamikaze playboy models, met Sigourney Weaver and found a treasure trove of nail polish. No actually it was just the same old dull routine." She answered drolly.

"Is it just my imagination, or is this Battle Royale becoming more and more like school?" Simon said, yawning and languorously stretching his arms.

"You could say that," Joanna muttered, twiddling her thumbs and staring up at the ceiling, the tediousness starting to get to her.

"Joanna, we need to talk," Simon started to say and seeing her expression quickly clarified, "not about you and me, or any kind of emotional dilemma about love and so on and so forth." Joanna looked mildly relived; Simon took a long prolonged breath and continued, "Joanna, why did you lie to me?"

Joanna looked truly taken aback; the wall of self-assurance she had erected around herself momentarily crumbling to reveal a fragile and frightened child. She stared at Simon, making no effort to conceal her astonishment.

"Joanna, did you genuinely think that I would believe a story about a magical self-help book that gives you all the inside knowledge about the political machinations and secrets of the Battle Royale program? If the BR program is government sanctioned, then a book like that wouldn't be allowed publication." Simon gently said, he wanted the truth but wasn't about to start abrasively demanding it.

Joanna sighed and got to her feet. Her eyes were sore and bloodshot from sleep depravation; she rubbed them gently with the back of her hand.

"You're right of course," she said, "the book was a lame explanation but it was the best I could come up with in the heat of the moment."

"Tulista seemed convinced," Simon suggested rather feebly.

"Tulista is scared beyond belief and she's almost certainly panicking about whether she'll ever see Krisha alive again. Considering her position, I'm not surprised she bought what I said; she's seriously distressed and needs assurance that everything is somehow going to be ok, that's why she wants to believe me." Joanna offhandedly explained.

"So everything you said was just a lot of fabricated shit was it?"

Joanna gave a bitter laugh, "No everything I said is (insofar as I know) absolutely true. How I know all this information is another matter however, it's much less innocent than the reason I initially led you to understand."

"Joanna," Simon said, standing up and walking (slightly apprehensively) towards her, "we'll never be able to work as a group if we're not capable of being honest with each other. Whatever the explanation for this is, I'll hear you out and so will Tulista and we won't judge you because of what you have to say."

Joanna turned away, wiping away a tear that was surreptitiously sneaking down her cheek.

"In that case," she said hoarsely, "you'd better wake Tulista and then...I'll tell you everything."

Daniel Swane (Boy #4) was, to his mind at least, an unsurpassed illusionist. He didn't specialise in that cheap magical kind of illusionary tricks, no he was what he would describe as a 'social illusionist'. He was two faced; an expert charmer who could woo the women and amuse the boys before he cut down a lesser social entity with a vicious insult (though out of earshot of those he wanted to impress – something that he never failed to achieve). He was treated with reverence in the way that only a deftly manipulative person can be and despite not being much of a star in the looks department, remained the most plausible contender for the title of 'year's most popular male student'. He was also smart. Very smart; his one rival in the brains department being the now deceased Nate Benedict. He smiled to himself as he rushed through the forest, he'd of probably gone after Nate if given the opportunity, but now he'd been helpfully spared the bother.

His parents had always told him he was a winner; not necessarily on the sports pitch, but definitely in the classroom and he intended to carry this success through to the Battle Royale. But it wasn't so simple; he couldn't just go on a bloodthirsty killing spree, millions of people were watching and judging him at this very moment. He'd always intended on leading a life of prestige and comfort as an adult, something that would be harder to attain after his victory if he was perceived to be an amoral mass-murderer. No, he would have to choose his targets with care and engineer the situation to his advantage, somehow making the kills acts of self-defence or at the very least not malicious but out of fear or maybe a tragic 'misunderstanding'. Every move he made must be a self-conscious one; he mustn't appear weak and vulnerable but he also must refrain from clearly contrived attempts at heroics, he must be a noble everyman fighting for his life but retaining his humanity. He was a superb thespian, his performances on stage entrancing the audience as they marvelled at his theatrical prowess. His life was a performance, an intricate tapestry of different personas that he alternated between in order to get what he wanted; but Battle Royale would be harder, he could not for a second stop acting out the part he had created for himself. Daniel had always liked a challenge (particularly an acting one) and Battle Royale would be his masterwork.

Daniel slowed down, he was in some indeterminable area of the forest and needed to look at his map and find out what his weapon was. An hour or so previously, he'd been walking past the Church on the south side of the island and heard a gunshot ring out, he hadn't stopped running since. He halted, breathing deeply with exhaustion (he wasn't exactly in peak physical condition), he was tall and slim with very dark brown (almost black) curls and facial features that could either be construed as roguishly attractive or leeringly cunning. He sat down on the grass, it was covered in the damp of early morning dew but he didn't care, he obtained his map from his bag and started to search for his weapon. Simon Holcombe and Ben Ackart would be his two prime targets; he'd always detested Nate and his posse, they were amongst the few who saw right through his mystique of brilliance into his dark core of egotistical emptiness and they made sure he'd never forget it. Now that Martyn and Nate were no longer of this world, he'd just have to make do with disposing of Ben and Simon (though preferably in a way that wouldn't reflect badly on him – was that actually possible? He'd think of something, he always did), before he became the fulcrum of the nation's attention as he triumphed over his peers; the true champion of Bray Wood.

The glory, the spectacle, the exaltation and the victory would all be his – nothing could stand in his way; he was more than ready for his 15 minutes of fame.

He extracted from his bag the metal case that purported to contain his weapon. Trembling with excitement and anticipation he slowly opened the lid. He gasped and turned away in disgust, trying not vomit in revulsion. Those sick fucks – how could they do this to him! He couldn't let himself throw up; that might be seen by the viewers as a sign of weakness and that would be completely unacceptable, he wanted to portray himself to them in a completely different light. Slowly, shaking with trepidation and squeamishness, he stared down into the metal case.

Martyn Taylor's decapitated head stared inertly back up at him.

"So everything you told us was just a load of truth-evasive bollocks?" Tulista snapped, having been roused from her slumber by Simon she was uncharacteristically irascible, her eyes burning with anger. Simon was finding himself extremely attracted to her, perhaps it was they way her hair was so tousled and unkempt and yet her face still radiated perfection. Of course it could just be a hormonal imbalance created by the Battle Royale; his body realising that as death may be imminent, the need to reproduce was greater.

"Tulista, don't jump to conclusions," Simon quietly advised her. Joanna was slumped lethargically in one of the musty old armchairs; Tulista sighed and seated herself next to Simon on the decrepit old sofa.

"I'm sorry, I just...I really felt that we might...well, what with your knowledge, have a chance of getting ourselves out of this situation," Tulista said meekly. Joanna sat upright in her chair as though coming alive again.

"Tulista we do have a very good chance of freeing ourselves from this 'program' and everything I said was true. It's just that I lied about how I came by this knowledge..." Joanna began, but Tulista quickly interpolated,

"Joanna, you've never participated in one of these American Battle Royales before have you?"

Joanna blinked and looked briefly nonplussed, "No Tulista," she said slowly, "I've never been in a Battle Royale before – if that's the reason you supposed I have all this info. If I had been in a previous Battle Royale and won, statistically the chances are I'd either of committed suicide or ended up being locked away in a mental institution – you may be a winner but the odds are you won't get out unscathed."

"I'm sorry I just thought..." Tulista blushed scarlet and started to fiddle with her hair out of embarrassment.

"It's Ok Tulista, as reasoned guesses go that was perfectly understandable," Joanna paused and looked down at her feet, wishing there was some way she didn't have to tell the truth. However one look at their faces told her that their anticipation was not abating, she took a single deep intake of breath and then began.

"First of all I need to provide you with a vague family tree. Ben's father is the eldest of three siblings, one younger brother and another younger sister – my mother. Ackart is the original family name but obviously once my mother married, she automatically adopted a different surname – not Simpson by the way; that's just an alias – that surname being Benedetti. My father is James Benedetti – a name which will mean nothing to you and would probably mean very little to all but the most politically aware of Americans. Two years ago he was a respected member of the senate, the economic problems and unstoppable crime wave were seemingly completely out of hand so he decided to band together with six other senators who were proposing the instating of a particularly radical law pioneered in Japan – namely the Battle Royale act."

Seeing the revolted expressions on their faces, Joanna hastily added, "Of the seven, only two were actually fully aware of what the BR program would entail. The other five were led to believe that they would be lending their support to a program that only targeted juvenile delinquents rather than regular school kids. Of course when the law was passed it became pretty clear that program was intended to be all-inclusive of teenagers, no exceptions made. My father was basically powerless do anything about it, but he was in a good position to get inside knowledge which he told to me at length, lest me and my class were ever drafted in to fight – yes even though I'm the daughter of one of BR America's founders, I was still going to be treated 'just like everyone else', to prove that there wasn't any bias prevalent in the BR administration."

"So is that it?" Simon asked.

"No," Joanna said quietly, "though my father was kind enough to give me this information because he knew it would give me an advantage over the other competitors (private tutoring was illegalised by the way – so I couldn't get out of school that way), however he never bestowed his knowledge to my other first cousin; John. Rather unfortunate in view of the fact that after the BR act had been in place for six months his class was selected to battle it out."

"Good God!" muttered Tulista.

"Yeah, John was an only child and his parents pride and joy. He was 'lucky' in his weapon; he got an AK-47. It was surreal; my father had always recommended I watch the Battle Royales so I could 'get some tips', but this time we watched John's Battle as a family. In a...well I don't know I suppose he was just overwhelmed with paranoia and terror, but whatever the cause he decided to shoot down fourteen of his fellow students (including many of his friends). His girlfriend tried to calm him down but...well he was so far gone I don't think he even realised who she was. He shot her in the head at point blank range – and he'd always maintained that she was the love his life – but then...I think he finally realised the seriousness of the actions, so he put the gun barrel in his mouth and..." Joanne trailed off; she gulped and continued, "Well I think you can fill in the blanks. Unsurprisingly John's parents want nothing to do with us after that and they moved away to...well they never told us where, the way my uncle looked at my father after John had died, it just..." again Joanna stopped, she was breathing heavily, combating the tears that were starting to well up in her eyes, "still at least they were stronger than my mother; I returned home from school a couple of weeks later and discovered she'd taken 27 Paracetomal tablets and asphyxiated in her own vomit, there was nothing I could..."

Joanna couldn't fight it any longer, she burst into tears, wailing and shaking with anguish, years of buried misery surfacing in one long gush of emotion.

The speakers across the island came to life as the clocks struck 6:00 AM and the first six hour report commenced.

"Good morning my juvenile little crumpets," Mr. Samuels's voice was even more annoying than previously, "it's time for me to announce which of your friends are now the devil's minions in a world that truly is far, far away."

27 Students Remain.