This was too damn long not to break up, so the second half should be up shortly after this one.

No one knows where the ladder goes
You're gonna lose what you love the most

Madison Carell.
Foster, Rhode Island.

My ears buzz incessantly, an endless line of static pervading my headspace.

Everything aches- my head, throbbing with every stunted heartbeat. My neck, curled at an unnatural angle. Something digs into the skin between where my hair ends and the collar of my shirt begins, but I'm too drowsy to lift a hand to scratch the offending area.

I'm not sure where exactly I fell asleep, but I really wish I'd drifted off in a position that didn't aggravate my old back injury. A little annoyed at the familiar detested tightness, I try to stretch, but my left hand feels trapped, and when I yawn and try to draw my hand backwards, something on my wrist rattles metallically. Confused, I force my eyes into a bleary sideways squint.

Grey. Everything is grey. Grey walls, grey floor. Grey-brown desks. Grey faces. My classmates are each slumped over their own tables, most motionless but for the occasional snort or twitch. I'm momentarily relieved to have just fallen asleep in another drab economics lecture until the lack of windows or garishly bright decorations fully sets in.

Where exactly are we?

I try to sit up- slowly, since every muscle protests being arranged in a new position- but find that while I can straighten my neck and torso, I'm physically restrained from getting to my feet. Even if it weren't for the shackle on my left wrist chaining me to the desk, my feet have been secured to the floor. Attempting to kick or pull out of the cuffs only results in a painful pinching around my ankles.

Speaking of pinching… I bring my hand up and graze my neck with the back of my hand. There rests an icy metal collar, throbbing ever so faintly in response to my own heightening pulse. If I listen intently enough, I can detect a whisper of an alarm tone.

I call to the first person I can see. "Blake," I whisper. "Blake!"

My voice is drowned out in that grating crackling, which I now realize comes not from my head, but from a television positioned at the top of the front wall. Newspaper-colored arrowheads crawl ominously across the screen. I don't know how long it's been on, but its piercing whining is starting to prod the others back into consciousness. And just in time, too. I'm not one to be paranoid, but as the only one awake, I'm starting to get seriously nervous.

I watch as Blake and Dane, in the adjacent row, slowly come to. Sleepily, they notice their confines, and attempt to pull free. At the very front, Gabrielle takes a more aggressive approach, straining and thrashing against the desk to no avail.

"It's no use." A sickly familiar feminine voice, echoing my thoughts, resounds through the room. The volume makes me wince. "You won't escape."

The crackling cuts off. Gasps and half-drowsy grumbles cloud the stale air as Anabel materializes on-screen. She's more polished than I've seen in days- her hair is straight and gelled without a wisp out of place, and her glowing cheeks are smooth and pristine. There's an odd gleam in her eyes, her gaze darkened under neatly applied eyeliner, and my insides twist like the fingers I clutch and knead on the desk before me.

"What's going on?" Doran blurts out, voice cracking in his panic. "What did you do to us?"

"Why are we locked up?" calls Jeremiah.

"Where are we?"

"What time is it?"

"Let me go!"

Anabel seems to be either unaffected by or uninterested in the chaos occurring in front of her. As everyone's cries and shouts wrestle over each other, her expression is unchanging. I can't tell what she's waiting for.

Monica eventually snaps. "Shut up! You want answers, give her a fucking chance to answer one of them!"

As the room falls into uncertain silence, Quincy shoots her a dirty look. She just rolls her eyes, too fed up to care.

"Good girl, Monica," Anabel grins, her teeth glinting like diamonds. "As you all are hopefully now aware, this was no ordinary field trip. You were sent here for a purpose far bigger than yourselves, for something far more monumental than your self-righteous minds could possibly conceive. Perhaps a few of you ignorantly enjoyed the relative freedoms of the last few days, but you are anything but free, children."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Yuto grumbles from the far corner of the room. "You mind giving us a straight-up answer instead of boring us with this cryptic bullshit?"

The grin slips off Anabel's face. Immediately she's up face-to-face with whatever camera is broadcasting her to our location. "Fine. I'll give you answers. But, for what it's worth, Yuto, this sort of behavior is precisely what landed you in this situation. You are the textbook definition of disrespectful, irresponsible, and self-centered. That is only going to make the news I'm about to break so much sweeter. And, why? Because I get to be the one to finally put you prideful, pretentious snots in your rightful places."

Yuto furrows his brow and leans back in his seat- trying, I can tell, to play it off. But her words are bothering him, too. Where did Anabel's sudden rudeness come from? What is she hinting at?

She releases a tense breath and allows her glare to relax back into the same sweet smile that's been her signature at school. It's unnatural given the circumstances, and I wonder if it was ever truly real. "In response to your questions: It is currently three-thirteen on Friday morning. We- you all- are locked in a secure room at the edges of camp. Soon, most of you will be released into the surrounding wilderness, where you will have seven days to eliminate your competition using whatever means necessary. Come out on top, and you will be graciously allowed to return home to your family. But if, by nightfall next Friday, more than one of you remains, then the entire mountain will detonate, taking no survivors."

I'm still drowsy, so it takes a few beats for her words to sink in. Even then, I don't think I'm quite sure what she means. Eliminate our competition? No survivors? She couldn't possibly mean…

The same question in mind, Simone calls out from the front, "Are you saying that we're all going to die?"

"You must kill each other," Anabel specifies, a smirk crawling across her lips. "Or we'll kill you."

Will I know when it's finally done?
This whole life's a hallucination

Audrey Spenser.
Las Vegas, Nevada.

For a long moment, no one says anything. Only the lights, hanging tensely from cord pulled taut, hum nervously above.

It starts with a tightness in my gut. I press my lips together, but can't stop myself from exhaling through my nose. Soon my whole frame is trembling, and then I can't help it. My light laughter picks up until I'm giggling loudly and freely.

People turn around to look at me. Anabel narrows her eyes. "Do you find this funny, Miss Spenser?"

"I just… I just…" I wheeze, incapable of forming a complete sentence. "I mean, come on. Right? It's- it's funny. Guys. She's not serious."

"I am serious," she snaps, frustrated.

"No, you're not," I chuckle. Clearly, she's kidding. And clearly, they drugged me up a little too hard, because everything's still a little fuzzy. Not that I mind the sensation.

"I am." She slams her palms on the table. The clamoring bursts through the speakers. "What I find funny is that you of all people would doubt me."

"Why's that?" I wipe the creases of my eyes with the neck of my t-shirt.

"Miss Spenser. Don't pretend to be so innocent." Her lip curls into a sneer. "You did a hasty job of covering your tracks. No VPN, not even an attempt at data erasing. Anyone could see that it was you who hacked into Ms. March's private emails."

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," I say, leaning back and rolling my neck around to crack it. That shit took way more energy than it was worth, honestly. "Why does it matter?"

"What did you see when you got in there?"

"Oh, I don't know." I mentally take myself back a few weeks. It was a Thursday afternoon, and the single fan in the Precalc room was broken, giving me even less of an initiative to actually show up to class. Instead, I propped a window open in my dorm, laid out on my bed, and vowed to finish the last six episodes of Game of Thrones before I slept so that I'd finally be caught back up. But twenty minutes in, I was seized by the strangest compulsion, inspired by swirling rumors about the fate of the school and of our Headmistress' odd days-long disappearances, and figured I'd put some of my own questions to rest.

I assumed that she was simply lazy, like me, and that was why her password was so easy to crack. Finding anything of value, however, proved to be a greater challenge. After a period of browsing through a plethora of Talbots promotional emails- that explained her tacky sense of style- and skipping through extensive email chains between her and Anabel that I figured were practically spam themselves, I came across a conversation between her and a mysterious Benjamin Caville.

"This guy Ben said something- I don't really remember too much of it, honestly, I was still thinking about Game of Thrones…" I strain my memory. "Oh, yeah. Ms. March was all freaked-out because she thought that what happened to what's-her-name, Sabina, and that other kid who ODed, and the kids who fell off the wall, weren't accidents. Like, that someone here caused them. Oh, and there might have been something about some tragedy happening before the end of the year." I shrug. "But honestly, I was really tired, so who knows."

I don't comprehend why everyone's glaring at me until Monica says, "You knew about this? And didn't think to tell anyone?"

"Well, it's not like anyone ever asked me," I scoff. "And what did I even know about, if none of this is even real?"

Alex speaks up from behind me. "Actually- Sawyer… said something yesterday." His eyes are wide with panic, and he seems to stare right through me. "He was telling me to- to- to prepare myself, somehow, to break ties with everyone. And to understand that it's me against the rest of you. There can't be any friends… relationships…" He winces as he meets my gaze. "...if I wanted to survive."

Now the accusing glares are all on him. "And you didn't think to tell anyone else about that?" Trina whines. "We could have escaped! We could have gotten the hell out of here, but instead, we're locked in this fucking classroom like convicts!"

"Like you're innocent," Alaina scoffs. "After what you said last night."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I saw you before the meeting," she says. "I don't think they're the only ones with some secret intel. So what did Anabel say to you to get you to do what you did?"

"She didn't say anything," Trina smiles, trying unsuccessfully to hide her lie. "Simone knew… blabbed about it to me… it was very typical, honestly."

"I did not!" Simone counters.

"Really?" Trina cocks her head. "And who's going to believe that?"

"I did tell Trina that if she shared what we knew about Griffin, I'd reward her for her loyalty." Anabel looks thoughtful, not appearing to notice Trina's look of offense at being called out. "That's something you'll quickly have to learn, children. Trying to rebel will get you nowhere. Playing by our rules, however… that's what will help you to survive."

"Yeah, okay," I yawn. "Well, until you prove that all of this is real, I might just sit here and stare at the wall. Because your voice is kind of grating on all my nerves, and I'd rather not focus on it if I don't have to."

Anabel glares. Her face fades from the monitor. For a few seconds, I enjoy the silence of an empty screen. Then the television lights up once more, this time with aerial footage of a highway accident.

The camera zooms in. A yellow school bus, tipped on its side on the edge of the freeway, is engulfed in flames. Fire trucks surround the scene, but they're too late.

Words crawl across the bottom of the screen. SCHOOL TRIP ENDS IN TRAGEDY.

A CNN reporter describes the scene. A school bus full of Haversmith seniors caught fire on its way out to town. Rescue crews are attempting to scour the wreckage for survivors, but so far all they've recovered are mangled, unidentifiable bodies.

The clip shifts. Haversmith's eight stories rise from a dense forest. Parents have swarmed the gates, some crying and pleading, or livid with rage. Others stand at the mob's edges, seemingly unsure how to react. Couples wring their hands and share nervous glances. Many of them bear close resemblance to the kids seated around me. I recognize Alaina's striking eyes as her mother shouts into the crowd, and Harper's father, who has her identical dark hair and eyes.

Another reporter contextualizes the tragedy and offers more current news. Twenty-nine of the bodies have been located and confirmed dead. Coroners are continuing to determine who has died and who, by any miracle, may still be alive. But the task is likely to take days or even weeks to complete.

The video skips ahead. Now, Simone's parents, according to the names printed at the bottom of the screen, are being interviewed.

The reporter asks a question off-screen. What would you say to your child if they were here with you right now?

The mother blows her nose loudly. "Simone, honey, we should have fit more time for you and each other into our hectic schedules, but we always thought there would be a better time." She sniffs and looks miserably at her husband, who steps forward to continue.

"Even when you broke into that car or were caught after burning down Emerson's bakery," he says, as his wife chokes back a sob, "we were too self-centered to realize that you just wanted some of our attention. Sending you to school so far from home felt like the best option to straighten you out, but in retrospect…" He coughs to attempt to cover a crackling in his voice. "We should never have let you out of our sight."

Why does that sound so familiar…?

Simone gasps. "That was what you said in my letter last night… those were their exact words." A look of horror crosses her face. "They really think we're… dead…"

The scene transitions once more. Two anchors in a plain newsroom relate details about the school. How this investigation has uncovered serious and recent offenses within the school, most notably attempts to cover up four student deaths in the last two years. School officials are likely to be sentenced to years in prison on charges of negligence, fraud, and child endangerment. And the rumors are finally confirmed: the once world-renowned boarding school is being closed for good.

With that, the display fades to black.

You're not alone in anything
You're not unique in dying

Jeremiah Whittaker.
Calgary, Alberta.

Anabel is back within seconds.

"Chanel, honey, we reached an agreement. I promised I'd tell the truth about the school. And this is it. Haversmith is finally being held liable for offenses it's been attempting to cover up with money- blood money- for years. But the real reason it's closing?" She clicks her tongue. "That comes down to you all. Losing nearly half its graduating class to a tragedy caused by its own carelessness is just the final straw. And so I thank you all, sincerely, for helping to finally deliver justice for your institution's heinous crimes."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Chanel growls. "You're killing us!"

"Not all of you," she corrects. "As I've said, one of you, should you choose to follow our guidelines and not be blown to pieces, will be let free at the conclusion of the contest."

Her reasoning- in fact, everything she's said so far- is beyond comprehension. "Why are you doing this? What did we do to you?" I practically beg. "And why are you so against this place? You worked here. You seemed… happy."

"I've never had any tie to any of you, or to Haversmith's halls," she says, her expression darkening. "I came to this school last year for one purpose only: to wreak havoc. The rest, I knew, would fall into place. Haversmith is no longer quite the caliber of institution it was once known to be. Gabrielle. Brandon. Shane. Quincy. Yuto." Their heads jerk up. "You have no place in this school. You are incompetent students and unpleasant, obnoxious children who ought to have been expelled long before I ever stepped foot on this campus. But your families were always willing to pass over a pretty penny to keep you enrolled, and in turn, the review board turned its head. It wasn't hard to determine that this school was stunted and corrupt, nor to begin exposing it for its flaws. All that was needed was a suitable tragedy."

"Wait." I shake my head, hoping I'm not hearing what I think I am. "Are you suggesting that… maybe… you're the reason those kids died this year? You had something to do with it?"

"Oh, I had everything to do with it," she smiles. "It's easier than you'd think to switch out a kid's prescription pills with something stronger. And as for the Archer boys, all it really took was a little tampering with the rock wall during the hour before class. You should have recognized my work, Harper, on the rock wall here at the edge of camp."

Harper doesn't seem to find this particularly funny. She glares at the despicable woman on-screen, but doesn't verbally lash out. Like me, I don't think she even knows the words to express her anger.

"But enough about me. We're all here for you, yes?" Anabel straightens her shoulders. "In case you're thinking somebody is coming to save you… you're all out of luck. There's no catch here, no flaw in our plans. No one doubts that at least twenty-nine of you are dead, much less your parents. You heard their words first-hand last night, yes?"

She turns to Griffin. "Oh, and Griffin, honey." Her voice, so affected and insincere, makes my stomach roll with nausea and hatred. Maybe not pure hatred… but something close. Something more intense than I think I've ever felt before. "I'm sure your parents had all nice things to say about you, too. Unfortunately, they weren't immediately available for comment. We made a few other calls, and another family was quite eager to give their thoughts on you. That's just how things worked out for you."

"Bullshit," Griffin grumbles, from the far side of the room. "You could have reached Max and Camilla if you really wanted to. Instead, you made my private life public, when it was no one's business but my own. They have no place in my new life and I shouldn't be in theirs after what happened. You're sick."

"Hardly," Anabel says. "Attempting to hide from your reality is selfish. If a boy's going to be a potential hazard to his fellow classmates, I believe they deserve to know."

"But that's not your choice to make," I find myself saying. "Griffin's right. How could you blindside him like that? Not even that, but you put Trina in charge to, I don't know, be your pawn or something."

"Have you guys forgotten that we're about to fucking die here?" Chanel interjects. "Like, sure, this is sad and all, but how much does it matter compared to us literally being murdered?"

As much as Griffin's betrayal bothers me, Chanel makes a fair point.

No one knows what to say for a good few moments.

Somewhat awkwardly, Dane clears his throat. "Maybe I'm being finicky," he starts, "but you said that most of us would be released outside. To... fight each other. What about the others?"

Anabel smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Hanson, for listening so attentively. This brings us to our next course of events. You recall your fearless leaders, yes?" Fearless? More like heartless. "Baptiste-" She nods to the row on the far left of the room- "Sawyer, Milo, Giselle, Zara, and Rosalie?"

Freya's shoulders slump, and my heart drops. "Are you going to kill them, too?" she asks, her voice hinging on heartbreak.

"Of course not," Anabel chuckles. "No, no, they're on our side. In fact, nearly all of the adults you came into contact with over the last few days aren't really staff members. They're millionaires. And they're spending their money on you. Why bet on things so trivial as which horse can race the fastest when you can put your money on a kid to survive a death match?"

Death match. Her words run frost-coated daggers through my chest. That's what this is. And what's worse, almost, is the reasoning. The rich, once more, are preying on the powerless. Turning a blind eye to the world's true problems so they can indulge in their own darkest desires. I'm caught in the middle of something I despise.

"You're sick," I repeat. For some reason, rather than buckling under all my fear, I feel… inspired. Fired up, even, and even more compelled to speak up. "This isn't fair. How can you just let this happen?"

"I'm offended that you think that's all I do, Mr. Whittaker. Let this happen," she sneers, mocking me. "I help call the shots. I have the utmost control over what can go down in the next seven days, and if you're hoping not to be targeted, you're not exactly helping your own cause right now. I'd suggest staying quiet, unless you'd like to get yourself killed before these Games even start."

Any comebacks I have drain from my tongue. Body trembling with fear and frustration alike, I force myself to be silent. I have to. If I want to survive…

No. This isn't about my survival. I'm not the one here who's most worthy of living to see the rest of her life. If I want to help anyone else survive, I need to be sure I live to get the chance.

"Now, we have a bit of a numbers problem," she continues, eyes scanning the room. "Thirty of you is simply too many. With Benjamin and me taking command, and Kimiko doing God knows what, but inevitably sitting this one out… we have only twenty-four playing Benefactors. Which means we're going to have to narrow the field down before we can place any monetary bets. Numbers, see. Doubling up ruins the fairness of it all…"

I shouldn't be surprised by anything she says anymore. But every word shakes me to my core. Narrowing down the field, in her terms, really means killing six kids right now. How should that be any more shocking than the initial news of our death? Is it because it's more immediate? Or was I foolishly holding onto some hope that, with time, we'd all forget about this insanity and continue on with our lives?

All the philosophy I've encountered- through essays and readings, through discussion, through my own quiet thought- couldn't really prepare me for knowing my death is coming soon. It's irrational to fear death, yes, but that concept always made more sense when it was metaphorically eyeing me through glass, naturally unavoidable yet forever distant.

"Just spit it out," Giles says, fed up by Anabel's stalling. "Who's going to die?"

There's a collective shuffling in our seats. The lights continue to hum.

The woman onscreen smiles. "On the right side of your chair should be a piece of paper and a pen. Please take these out and put them in front of you on your desk."

I stretch down for the materials, the movement complicated by my wrist chain and aching arms. Once I've secured them, I set them down and inspect the paper.

The bulk of the page is decorated by a grid of thirty faces, each labeled not by their name, but by a number. Under Quincy's portrait are the words MALE #1. Freya is listed near the middle, as FEMALE #10. Below each face, beside their label, is a checkbox.

Thirty faces. Thirty boxes. And a red pen, too slick for me to properly clutch.

As I'm about to make the connection, Jackson makes it for me, for once struggling to find words in his incredulity. "You mean… we have to choose?"