"You know that I care about you?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Well, I promise I'm never going to hurt you. Not even for this."
"Thanks. And I'll take care of you, as well."
"Thank you."

Oddly enough, two couples shared almost identical dialogues to one another, both taking place roughly a quarter of an hour apart, both pairs consisting of a male and a female, and both instigated by the cruel hands of the government. The only difference was the context in which they occurred. The exchange between Catherine Harding and Matt Sherman being in grassy undergrowth, the morning sun shimmering weakly across the metal collars that enslaved them to a limited future. The dialogue between Neil Davey and Tina Syme was held at gunpoint, each party separated from the other, both however being encaged in the still blackness of the night until one sent the other to the grave. As the six o'clock report crept over the sleepy island, none of these four people were in a particularly good mood.
Although they could not hear the report, of course, the two adults sat on their icy seats, wondering who in the class was already dead. This situation, Neil contemplated, was an unfortunate parody of the times in which he'd sat in White Hill's staff room at break- or lunchtimes. Back then, he would be relieved to be in the room, away from the terrors who made his job so unbearable. They would all be running around outside aimlessly, whilst in the comfort of the staff room, Neil would laugh off the morning lessons, bitch about absent colleagues, and make fun of the curly-haired fat kid in year seven who always seemed to get in everyone's way. Now he was alone in this awful place, forced with a disgusting dilemma that made his entrails squirm whenever he stared down the cathode tube at the woman who was avoiding his gaze.
Tina Syme was not looking at the screens; she was keeping her head down, and trying to prepare herself psychologically for the impending tragedy. The term that could be used might be "preparing oneself for the worst", but this seemed inappropriate somehow, owing to the situation lacking any potential outcome that could be interpreted as "for the best". They were screwed. She couldn't bear to see her husband right now; it was her fault they were there now, forced to kill or be killed. And it was all for what? A reaction to some stupid prank some kid had played on her three years ago? pupils have been playing tricks on their teachers for decades, Tina mused, and none of them have ever been obliged to undergo a wholesale Darwin-esque survival battle in order to ram the point home. None of it made any sense to her. She had been sliced in the leg all those years ago, made a complaint about it, and all this way down the line they choose to dig it up by threatening to kill her or he ex-husband? What rationale was there to understand? It was a stupid, stupid, thing not to leave it be, to go back to work with her head held high, dissatisfying those who ha hurt her, and still being with the man she loved.
For she still loved Neil. Even when she glanced him in the screen, his aching face glowed with a civilised intellect she could only wished she could have been with in more comfortable circumstances. The man was quite thin, and it seemed like he had lost quite a bit of hair since the divorce, but he still looked calm and composed, even though he must be petrified inside. Was it conceivable even now that he still loved her? It seemed so trivial on the outside, but Tina thought she would feel a lot better knowing that Neil still cared enough not to disown her to save himself. But no, why would he love you, Tina? It's your fault that he's here. It's all your fault...
Jeyes watched the two captives with grim amusement. Neither was speaking to the other at present, but it wouldn't be long until they did, and once they begun, they would slowly turn against one another until the one breaks and sentences the other to death to end the mental torture. He had seen it all before; in one previous Battle Royale, the class' teacher and her assistant were cornered in similar circumstances; the two of them became steadily more paranoid until the teacher executed her friend and colleague in a torrent of fury. The teacher had hoped she would see her class one final time, but it transpired that there was no winner of that particular Program, and less than four days later (and almost certainly not by coincidence), the teacher apparently drunk herself into a stupor and drove her car into a tree.
It intrigued Jeyes how adults would behave in a similar circumstance. There was no way an adult would fully understand why they themselves would be put in such circumstances, and that suited Jeyes just fine, as there was no particular reason for it. In many respects, it was a bit of a pastime, almost like a perverse version of a reality TV endurance show, one for which he was the viewer, director and architect. Naturally, he had been given permission to go ahead with the mini-project from his superiors, but it was simply an accessory, a diversion from watching the children murder one another for three days straight.
His camera was still switched off, but he was able to watch the man and woman on their respective screens; neither of them were doing anything right now, so it was a bit on the boring side. A soldier was in the room with him, serving no purpose other than to keep track of their progress, and to inform Jeyes if something eventful was occurring. There was a knock and the door opened behind Jeyes and the soldier; Shepherd came in holding a sheet of printed paper, a look of urgency on his face.

It was whilst Shepherd was watching two marks on the largest map approach one another that he was given the printout. It was simply an analysis of the events involving the six girls who had holed themselves in within the old nursing home, and the dialogue surrounding the four deaths within. He scanned the transcript with his eyes and left wordlessly for the room where Jeyes was currently located. He didn't see the blue dot on the map which was marked "19" approach a yellow one numbered "11".
So when Matt Sherman did see Catherine Harding, he was truly alone at that point. He called out to her, and ran in that direction. Yet as he did so, he noticed there was something in the expression on her face, something that warned him to be cautious, so he stopped about ten yards short. The look he had glimpsed in her eyes was a strange one; it looked like a mixture of sorrow, regret and desperation. She didn't say hello to him, but eyed him up and down with eyes narrowed in suspicion. Matt was a little confused.
"Cathy? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
Without warning, she bounded forward with remarkable power and speed and hit Matt around the neck with something solid and sharp. He dropped to the floor, bewildered slightly by what he had just felt, and eyed the girl with shock. She cursed to herself, and pulled a black bin liner from her weapon. She unsheathed a broad sword, one with a plain handle that sat in Catherine's grip comfortably. She looked into Matt's astonished eyes with an odd expression; she seemed truly sorry, but at the same time, utterly determined to kill him.
"Matt," Catherine said with a sweet voice, "You're a great guy. Have I told you that?"
She stood over him with the handle in both palms, poised to bring it down on his throat sacrificially. He kicked her shin, and she grunted, pushing the sword downwards. With lightning reflexes, Matt grabbed the flat of the sword with his palms, stopping its descent momentarily. He adjusted his grip on the blade, as it was slicing through the flesh of his the harder Cathy pushed: thin slivers of red were breaking over across his palms. Catherine strained to break through his resistance, but he twisted the blade off to one side, then another, squirming on the ground like an eel. She gave one hard push and the blade slid downward.
It slashed into the earth and became stuck in the muddy ground, the slush turned slightly pink by flecks of Matt's blood. He was in agony, but didn't care; the handles of the blade were in reach now, and he gripped tightly onto the handle, trying to pull it further into the earth. Catherine was wrenching it upward, hoping to yank it free and slash downward for a kill, but her victim was putting up a tremendous fight; the blade was stuck fast, like Excalibur in the stone. Matt's senses were heightened once more; he thought that it he could get to his personal bag, there may be something in it that could help. He packed it most mornings, especially when the weather was going to be bad and he was obliged to wear extra layers of clothing. Although the layers helped keep him warm, they often led to his immense sweating, especially on the days when he would need to hurry into school if the buses were running late, and when the weather was bad enough for the school to turn on its heating. It was probably in his bag, if only he could get to it...
Distracted by the thoughts of his possible counter-attack, his grip had weakened on the sword, and Catherine successfully pulled it out of the ground and slashed it down on him again. He squealed; the blade had gashed the side of his chest. He contorted on the floor and Catherine looked down at him with apologetic triumph. She had won this fight. She had proven to herself that she could defend herself, even slay those close to her. Just one final swing of the blade and it would be game over for Matt. Isobel would understand why you are doing this; you're doing this for mum. Do her proud. The girl raised her weapon one final time, and received an unexpected kick in the solar plexus. She doubled up in surprise, the handle now pressing against her belly as she gripped her stomach with both hands. Matt stood up, ignoring the pain over his chest. The bag was nearby; he ran over to pick it up. He put his bleeding hand inside and fumbled around, hoping he could put his hand on it. But no, Catherine was charging at him once more and he raised the bag as a shield; she ripped it apart like paper, its contents tumbling on the ground. She shrieked aggressively and swung the blade over and over. Matt dodged it repeatedly, leaping back with each turn, trying to lure her away from the bags contents, for he had seen what he wanted lying on top of a slashed exercise book. Giving the swordswoman a wide berth, he returned to the pile of possessions, and picked up the can of deodorant. He shook it up, knowing he would have to time this absolutely perfectly. Catherine eyed the boy, seemingly livid he was defying her by still being alive, like a matador baiting a bull. He didn't have a gun, it would seem, or else he would have used it by now. No, he would be an easy target.
She hurtled forward, ready to slam the sword through his body when, at the last second, Matt lunged forward to intercept her hand with his, brought the aerosol squarely into his attacker's face, and sprayed with gusto. Catherine stumbled backward, nuzzling her burning eyes with both fists. It had worked; she had dropped the sword. he picked it up, looked at the injured Catherine, then advanced forward to do what he came there to do.

"So what happened exactly?"
Jeyes was looking at Shepherd, who was trying to explain what had happened between the group of girls that had included the two Emmas.
"From the intelligence we have, girl seventeen, Newton, overpowered girl nine, Graves, with the chloroform somehow," Shepherd explained with indifference, "and then when she was unconscious used girl fifteen MacNeill's razor blades to slice nine's wrists open. Staged suicide, essentially. It seems that she did this when she knew the other girls would be talking in the other room, discussing an attack plan against us, sir."
Jeyes nodded. "Did the execution go well?"
"Yessir, signs say it went without a hitch; though what happened afterwards are a bit unclear."
Jeyes asked for elaboration on this. Shepherd explained how the four remaining girls found Charlotte's body, how Martina had apparently turned the gun on Paula, how Emma Newton seemingly confessed to the other two girls, then killed herself.
"...but until we get over there to run a preliminary examination on the bodies, we won't know for sure."
"Have you run a reverse-time Micro Scan on the building?"
"Not yet," Shepherd said in response to the suggestion of a pinpoint-accurate way of locating people. "It only happened a few minutes ago, and the backups need to be archived from the satellites first."
Jeyes nodded. "So where are the two surviving girls at the moment?"
"Girls numbers seven and twenty left the building moments after the incident," Shepherd relayed. "They're heading south-east, I think."
"So the building is clear?"
"That's affirmative; no other students within that zone at all."
"Good, well in that case, you may wish to take a ride out there with a team. Make sure you use the GPS to avoid all the students," Jeyes said, giving Shepherd permission to go out onto the island. "Do you know who was issued the sniper rifle?"
"The sources say it was boy number seventeen, Robertson, but he's located on the other side of the island, and we shan't need to go anywhere near that location."
"Okay then," Jeyes said eventually, turning back to the screens. "Just make sure you're all careful, okay?"
"Roger that, sir."
Shepherd turned and left the room with the piece of paper, and tried to arrange a small team of suitably-trained recruits to go with him. He only took the best, only taking those who looked like they weren't doing anything worthwhile at that moment. Meyer was on the phone, trying to track the whereabouts of one of the pupil's fathers, who had seemingly gone missing after being told his child was in the Program. He ignored Shepherd's request of a reverse-time Micro Scan of C-3, and instead swivelled in his stool to look at the map, upon which many of the dots were clustered together in groups, or at the very least, pairs.

Catherine's eyes were streaming, but she could make out the figure of the boy coming towards her with her sword. Fuck. She didn't have a weapon, so maybe she should run whilst she still had the chance.
Still partly blinded, Catherine hurried as fast as she could away from Matt, who looked totally puzzled by her erratic behaviour. He looked as the girl blundered blindly away from him, and he took chase, ignoring his wounds. He was a sportsman, a sprinter on the school's athletics team, and the star fly-half in White Hill's Under-16 rugby squad. When his powerful legs started working at full speed, he was like a train, an unstoppable machine with pistons steaming ever forward. Such was the case here, and although he was wounded from his struggle, he knew he could catch up with Catherine quite quickly. The sword in his hand was weighty, so he shed its weight, making a soft thud as it hit the mud. He dashed after her, clutching his split side. His school shoes were ill-adapted for the weighty lumbering of his injured body, but his pace remained racy. She was ten metres ahead of him, then five, then three, two, one... she was in reaching distance and fatiguing. Matt bounded forward, grabbed her waist and rugby tackled her to the ground.
"Get off me," she squealed, her eyes brimming with tears. "Please! Leggo of me!"
But Matt kept his grip firm; the slices she had taken from his hands and side were throbbing with pain, but grip remained strong, and although she wriggled and squirmed, he would not let her go. After what must have been three minutes of resistance, Catherine stopped fighting and began crying like a baby. She couldn't shake her attacker; she was going to die here and now. She'd tried, but Matt was a better fighter. They had been friends for so long, why had they turned on one another now? It was her fault; she had instigated this fight. They had known one another for how long, what, six or even eight years? They had been in the same class at primary school.
She remembered the upset she had felt when her family had been forced to move from Bristol, when her father had been given a promotion. She had cried for days, she knew she was never going to see her old friends ever again. But after they betrayed her, she wouldn't have wanted to anyway. Luisa and Andrea. Ever since reception class the three girls had been inseparable. They were like the Three Musketeers, just female and very young. They would play together, work together; at one point they even created their own secret code, but that was soon abandoned in the way such children's projects are. But three weeks before the move, little Catherine had been forced to tell her friends she would be moving away. At first they had been sad and upset; they tried pleading and asking Catherine to stay, but there was no way she could do anything about it. So they turned on her. It was Andrea that started it, she would whisper to Luisa in class and throw snide glances at Catherine, refusing to speak to her. Andrea ignored her for days on end, choosing to pretend her friend was invisible. Distressed, Catherine turned to Luisa for help, only to be disappointed by that girl's betrayal, as well. No, Luisa sided with Andrea, choosing to turn her nose up at Catherine, being as spiteful and rude as an nine-year-old can be.
So it was with no friends that Catherine left Bristol and moved with her parents and sister to London. It was Early March at the time, and when she moved into her new class, they were halfway through the year. She found the hard way that kids don't like being friends with kids that stand out. Catherine had no friends, a bright red school uniform that stood out against the sea of navy blue during school assemblies, and a funny accent that made the mean girls nickname her Farmer Cathy. She would be told off by teachers in the corridor for not having the right school uniform, but would be too afraid to say anything, as the taunting of her distinct Bristolian accent taught her to keep her mouth shut at all times. The change from being a bubbly, gossipy little girl to a quiet, introverted loner was distressing to see, let alone to experience. She stopped eating properly, choosing to pick at her food instead. Her parents became distressed but they didn't know what to do, as they were adapting to their own new lives. It came down to two people to help get Catherine back on track. Her big sister was very helpful; though she was undergoing changes as well, she was in Year Six and would soon be moving to a new school anyway. It was with this in mind that Isobel Harding managed to keep her mood in control, and spent a lot of time with her younger sister Catherine appreciated this, and over those months, the two girls grew closer than the Three Musketeers had ever done. Gradually, Catherine stopped hating her home life so much; she started talking to her father again and began to understand the benefits of her new situation.
With this in mind, she began to behave more proactively in lessons. She would start putting her hand up to answer a few questions, and busied herself with her classwork. Over the Easter break her parents bought her a new school uniform, allowing her to break away from the memories of her previous school and start afresh. She returned to school after the break and decided she would start making friends. It took some calculation on her part, but she opted to try a girl who seemed to have a number of friends in the class, but seemed relatively friendly. She apporached her one lunchtime.
"Hello."
"What do you want, farmer-girl?"
"I wondered if we could be friends," Cathy said nervously, knowing what the answer was going to be.
"Buzz off."
The other girl's friends laughed and giggled in appreciation, and Catherine slouched off, feeling low once more. What a waste of time. But was it? A hand tapped her on the shoulder, and she twisted round, hoping it was the girl wanting to apologise. It wasn't. It was a boy, one who played football with the other boys, yet was not as boisterous and liked to work quietly from time to time.
"Hi, Cathy," said the boy. He was blond and had pale blue eyes.
"Hello," she sniffed in reply.
"I heard what the girls said to you over there. That was really mean of them."
"I know," she sniffed once more, wondering where the boy was going with this.
"They're a bit nasty anyway. I'd be friends with you, but..."
"Why not?"
"Well," the boy shuffled on the spot, mumbling, "you're a girl."
For once, Cathy laughed. "And you're a boy. Boys smell."
"Girls are soppy."
The two children stuck their tongues out at one another then burst into laughter. They spent much of the remainder of the lunchtime blowing raspberries at one another from across the table, but it was good-natured fun between two friends.
"Your name's Matthew, right?"
"Yes," he nodded exaggeratedly at the end of the break. "But everyone calls me Matt for short."

"Matt! Matt! Don't!"
So many years down the line, and the two of them were wrestling on an island. She was still squirming, but the boy kept his grip firm around her waist. He was wondering why she was resisting him. Even though he had been gripping her for a good while now, she still seemed to fidget with zeal, making his wounds ache miserably. After a while she stopped and started sobbing hysterically. So that's why. She's just scared. Nothing grand, nothing rational, just fear, pure fear. What was he going to say to her? It was like she was the lonely girl at school once more, and he, the boy who needed to make the effort to reach out to her. He gritted his teeth and called out over the pain:
"I'm not going to fight you, you muppet!"
Gasps emerged from between the sobs as the words sank in.
"Wh.. whaa--?"
"Cathy, it's me, you daft bitch," Matt said, reiterating the point with another insult. "I have no intention of hurting you. I've been looking for you since the game began."
She stopped struggling altogether; her legs eased up and Matt released her. Catherine shuffled back using her hands, and looked at him. He was in a sorry state, she could see. His hands were cut open, and his side...
"Shit, I cut you!"
She moved back toward him and gawped stupidly at the wound in his side, which was staining his jumper brown. Her sore eyes whipped around the scene to try and establish the whereabouts of her sword, and saw it lying in the distance, gleaming red in the weak morning sun. What have I done? I've injured him? I can't believe I was so stupid to fear him! He's been my friend for so long, and I was going to kill him...
"It's fine," Matt said, doubting his words. "It hurts a bit, but it can't be that serious, can it?"

"I want to apologise for what's happened to you. It's all my fault."
"No, it's not, it's nobody's fault. Least of all yours."
"I feel so guilty about us being here."
"You did the right thing. How were you supposed to know we were going to end up here?"
"I still feel guilty, though."
"Look," Davey said, looking his ex-wife in the eye. "You got stabbed and launched an official complaint about it. They said that unless you found the specific person responsible, they would not be able to act. For you, that was the end of it; case closed. If it helps, I don't hold you to blame for what's happening now."
Tina Syme smiled faintly, shuffling uncomfortably on her seat. Deep down, she knew she had feelings for the man in the other room; they had never really died away, rather were just pushed to the back when her life became so dark. She wasn't going to say anything now, though. It was just inappropriate. Neil, though, could sense what was on her mind, and decided to take the initiative.
"Maybe it's the wrong time to tell you this," he began, "but as I don't know how much time we have, I'll just say it. I care about you still. Do you know that?
"Yeah, I know."
"Well, I swear on my life that I am never going to hurt you. Ever. Especially not for this sick stunt."
"Thanks," Syme said, knowing how she should return the promise. "And I'll take care of you, as well."
"Thank you."
Many miles away, the proceedings were being watched continuously by Jeyes. The two captives had only just started to speak to one another again, and he was determined not to miss a moment of it if he could. It was his entertainment, his own fly-on-the-wall show that helped distract from his monotonous, never-ceasing work. Jeyes was obliged to monitor the execution of 11D, and he was disciplined enough to do so, but this was a digression from orders, something else on which to settle his mind for a while. After all, even a man supervising the slaughter of children is entitled to a bit of fun every now and then.
A bang at the door a few minutes later disrupted his thoughts on the teachers. Meyer wandered in, carrying a ring binder with various notes in it.
"Sir, just letting you know that Shepherd has reached the manor with the dead girls," he said. "He and his crew are verifying the identity of the students as we speak."
"Already?" Jeyes was surprised they had gotten there so quickly.
"Well, they took one of the off-road vehicles, and they didn't encounter any resistance along the way. There were virtually no students to avoid en route, so they just went as the crow flies."
"Okay... did you run the MicroScan for that house?"
"I'm requesting that data now," Meyer lied. He had ignored the request, but felt a guilty pang as he realised the order came from his superior. "Though looking at the data, it does appear that girl seventeen couldn't hack it, and shot herself."
"I see. So where do we stand with the pupils?"
"The two surviving girls have left the scene. Two other students had a struggle a few minutes ago: girl eleven and boy nineteen. I think the boy, Sherman, is wounded." Meyer recited these observations without even looking at the data. It was a gift of his to remember information on sight. Student numbers alone wouldn't have been sufficient information for most people, but for Meyer, Jeyes and Shepherd, it was adequate, as they had spent many years working by these references. "No major developments with any of the others, either, sir. Boy eighteen's group are moving northwest to meet boys thirteen and fourteen, like we expected. Girl four is tending to boy five's injuries in the clinic. Lastly, boy eleven's group are moving from the docks. That's about it."
"I see. What about our teams?"
"Mitchell and his team are winding up for the morning," Meyer said of one of his colleagues. "Chamberlain should be here for around ten-hundred hours to relieve him. We're getting a new team in place right now, sir."
Jeyes nodded. "Also, get Sacks and make sure he has everything he needs. I need him to start his work the minute the first danger zone comes into place at zero-eight-hundred hours."
"Roger that, sir; he's already dealing with the two from the bunker."
"Excellent; tell him I'll be with him shortly."
"Sir," Meyer nodded, and assuming dismissal, left the room and went to run his errands. Jeyes heaved a sigh, and after asking a soldier to keep an eye on the developments between the two captured adults, also left to examine exactly what was happening between boy nineteen and girl eleven.

Who at that stage were no longer resisting one another. Catherine was still very apologetic about her attack and was trying to dress Matt's injuries somehow.
"Urgh, that's not nice."
"Do you mind?" Matt was trying not to pay too much heed to Catherine's words as she checked him out, but it was impossible to blot her words out completely. "D'you have to 'urgh' so much?"
"Sorry 'bout that," Catherine murmured quickly, "but the blood's congealed as it's stuck to your clothes."
Matt moaned. This wasn't something he wanted to hear particularly. "Just tell me one thing... do you think they're life-threatening?"
At first, Catherine said nothing. She couldn't tell exactly, not with his wounds clotted under his clothes the way they were. Although she wasn't an expert on first-aid, it seemed a bad idea to try and pick the dried shirt from the wound, as that would mean any scabs that may have formed would be lost, breaking a blood dam as they went. At the same time, it seemed like the cut wasn't too deep, and although it had taken a nasty chunk from his side, she reckoned it could probably be safe, just as long as the wound got treated properly.
"You're gonna be just fine," she said calmingly. "But we need to get you fixed up properly. There's a clinic on the map somewhere, so we could try going to there. Are you okay to move?"
"Yeah," he grunted. "Just as long as we're not too quick, okay? I think I overdid myself just then..."
Catherine helped lift him to his feet, and grunting slightly, the two students started moving. The only way Catherine could help stem Matt's bleeding was by removing her own jumper, folding it up tightly, and making him hold it in place as they moved. This was hurting him twofold, as his hands were of course also hurting from struggling with the blade of the sword. Catherine leant that sword to him, and he used it as a crutch, easing some of his weight onto the support whilst Catherine carried all of the bags.

In spite of their good intentions, neither of them seemed to have addressed the practical issue of finding the medical centre on their maps. Neither of them could, either; Matt was of course the worse for wear, whilst Catherine had loaded herself with all the bags, thereby disabling her much use of her arms. The two of them ambled slowly in the rough direction of the clinic, although their trajectory was off somewhat, and were slowly heading toward the massive hillside.
"Shit. Hold on a moment."
Matt backoned Catherine to a halt, and she did, curious as to why he was doing so. She knew they were probably not going in the right direction, but even so..."
"Look up for a moment," Matt commanded to his classmate.
She obeyed, wondering what he was going to do. He had the sword in his grasp; it wouldn't take too much effort to drive it through her, which he probably wanted to, after what she did to--
She spluttered in surprise to what he had done. The last thing she had anticipated was that he was going to pour water on her face. She snorted the water away and began rubbing her eyes aggressively.
"What the hell was that for?" she whined.
"I sprayed you in the eye," Matt explained. "You hurt me, then gave me a crutch to lean on; I sprayed you in the face, so now I'm irrigating your eyes. Keep still, girl. It hurts enough as it is."
She apologised yet again and stood still as the boy rinsed her eyes clean. When he was done, she smiled and asked him something that had been bothering her.
"You're brilliant," she breathed into his ear. "I tried to kill you earlier, and not only've you forgiven me, but you're also helping me. Why are you being so nice?"
Matt said nothing. He knew what the eventual endgame was going to be, even if he didn't like it. Instead he answered the question indirectly. "Do you remember when you first moved to London?"
Cathy nodded, wondering where he was going with this. "I knew you were having a hard time with the move," he continued, "and I knew that if I tried to help you, even in the smallest way, it would make so much of a difference. Well, nothing's changed. I promised myself I would help you in the tough times back then, and I'll protect you on whatever way I can now. You know that I care about you."
"Yeah, I do," Catherine replied.
"Well I promise I'm never going to hurt you. Not even for this."
"You won't?" Cathy said, feeling safer by the moment. "And I promise I'll look after you, too. I'll get your cuts treated."
"Thank you."
Matt leaned on his improvised crutch once more, putting pressure on the wound in his side. Catherine began to haul the bags once more, and the pair of them started moving once again, musing over their promises. Promises, as both of them knew perfectly well, were things that were often unfulfilled, or in the worst circumstances, made to be broken.