Chapter 5: First Night

Summary:

The students have just been released, and the first night has started.

Perched carefully on a structure of rocks, Hannah Ballard swings her long, gangly legs idly. She's not worried about being seen; she'd managed to tuck her body into a particularly large space the rocks provided (read: not very large at all, barely big enough for her to fit), and doubts anyone not looking for her would notice. And she doubts anyone is looking.

Below her, tossed carelessly at her feet, are her duffel and daypack. She hadn't bothered opening the daypack yet, other than to retrieve the map in the outside pocket; opening the daypack means acknowledging the weapon, and acknowledging the weapon means acknowledging this game, and not acknowledging the game is the biggest form dissent she can show right now.

Not to mention what's about to happen.

She's at the far west side of the island, hidden amongst the trees that go all the way down to the edge of the beach. She'd asked Franz to meet her here in the form of a note, scribbled at the bottom of the sheet of paper on which she had written that she would kill her classmates, then folded up very small and tossed onto his desk when she'd passed in front of him, timed carefully for minimal witnesses. And when she'd first seen her map, seconds after stepping outside in the cool night air, she'd been especially pleased to find that the western shore had been a respectable distance from the school, far enough that they could stay for the most part uninvolved with anything or anyone. But once they met up, they could move around a bit, find somewhere better to settle. The whole island is a village, so there are plenty of empty homes they could find.

Hannah doesn't much care that only one can leave, making alliances rather pointless in the long run. She knows she doesn't have a chance of winning, and she doesn't even want to, not if her survival comes at the cost of everyone else's. She doesn't want to do that. She can't kill her classmates. All she wants to do is spend the last days of her life with the only person here she's sure she loves (only as a best friend, of course), then maybe she can die happy and feeling loved too. This isn't an alliance, because she's sure Franz doesn't want to play either. This is just a partnership with an inevitable end.

It's not that Hannah doesn't trust her study group not to descend into anarchy, but Kenny Ackerman (what was up with him, anyway?) had a point. Thousands of other classes had clearly been willing, and they all had the added disadvantage of playing against just their classmates. Most of Hannah's classmates are still safe and snug back in Trost, while nearly half of the people here on the island are people she'd only see after school and had only spoken to about, like, algebra or grammar or something. She doesn't know anything about them. And while that doesn't necessarily mean they're willing to kill, it also doesn't mean they aren't.

It's just not fair, any of it.

She can see the ocean from here, her first time ever on a real beach. The air is heavy with the smell of salt. It's a pretty spot, and makes her think of what she's missing. The riverside field trip was supposed to be a lot of fun; the highlight of the year. She'd been looking forward to it for a week, even despite Eren Jaeger's pissing and moaning about the added coursework whenever it was brought up.

Eren's weird.

Hannah tries to stop thinking about any of that. It's just depressing. It's been nearly twenty minutes by this point, which means Franz should be released soon, if not already. Once they're together, she can stop worrying. Everything-well, not everything, not even close to everything-will be okay.

Another fifteen minutes pass before she hears two gunshots in quick succession. She sits up, heart pounding. Franz should have been released by now. He should be making his way over here by now.

"Franz?" she whispers, loudly as she dares. She wriggles out of her hiding place and drops to the ground. Her back scrapes against the rock as it snags the back of her jacket, but she hardly feels it. She considers her daypack for only a second before deciding against it. She doesn't want to kill.

Instead, she heads toward where she'd heard the shots. Once again, it's quiet. She doesn't dare call out again. The trees around her start to thicken and she's having a hard time seeing now. Before, this trek hadn't been nearly as terrifying, since only three other students had left before her. But now… almost half the class is roaming the island now, and at least one person-with a gun-is very, very close by.

Hannah is trying hard not to think. So when she sees the body, it takes her longer than it really should before she realizes it's a body. By then, she's standing right over it. Him. Franz.

Hannah had never screamed so loud in her life.

Then she drops to her knees and begins CPR.

"Come on," she says, voice thick with tears. "Franz, baby, come on. Come on." Mouth-to-mouth is only recommended in cases of drowning, but Franz isn't waking up and Hannah is desperate.

Holding his face in her hands, his skin is still warm. If his skin is warm that means he's alive, doesn't it? Or he can be revived, at least? God.

The scariest thing is his eyes, which aren't quite closed all the way. His lids don't move, and his expression is almost calm, if it weren't for his slightly raised brows. She knows in her heart he's dead. She starts to cry, resting her head on his chest and sobbing. She'd never told him she loved him. She'd never told him she loved him.

Hannah, you have to leave, a voice whispers. You can't mean to die here with him.

"Why not?" Hannah demands, lifting her head and clenching her teeth. "Why not? I'm going to die soon anyway. Why can't it be here?"

"...if that's what you want."

"Yes," she sobs. "Yes."

She's so preoccupied that she doesn't realize the last comment had been spoken aloud-that, actually, they all had. But she does, she stiffens slightly, pausing in her crying to let out a long breath.

"I'm sorry," the voice adds, and Hannah turns.

There's a bullet through her head before she can even open her mouth to gasp.

When Eren sees the large Smith & Wesson gun Jean pulls out of his pack, then back at the small double-edged dagger in his own hand, it occurs to him that maybe this alliance wasn't the best decision on his part.

Surprisingly, though, Jean merely looks at the weapon in disgust and puts it aside in favor of continuing to dig through his duffel. He mutters a curse.

"My tablet's gone," he says. "Shit, I hope they didn't confiscate it."

"Why?" Eren asks, voice dripping with contempt. Here they are about to kill each other, and Jean's more concerned about his stupid tablet. Priorities. "Anything illegal on there?"

He doesn't really care about keeping quiet; they're in the woods way out behind the school, and Eren doubts many others would have risked staying so close to a soon-to-be forbidden area, not with the threat of an exploding collar. Eren hadn't even wanted to risk it, but Jean had insisted.

Though, Eren thinks as he eyes the gun again, with something like that, Jean shouldn't have to worry about running across others.

Jean's glaring at him. "Not particularly," he snaps. "But in case you weren't aware, my tablet has Internet. And I've gotten onto blocked sites before. I might be able to figure out how to disable these stupid collars with that." He sits back on his heels. "Marco was using it last. If they actually let me keep it, it probably got mixed in with his stuff." Jean rolls his eyes. "Fucking idiot barely even knows how to use the thing."

"Marco can't use a tablet? Or is anyone not as 'tech-savvy' as you an idiot?"

"Yes." Jean doesn't seem to have picked up on the sarcasm. "At any rate, Marco would have no fucking use for it. What's he gonna do, Eren, play Tetris Friends during the childmurder games?"

"I don't know, Jean, what is he going to––"

Two gunshots cut him off, and he ducks.

Mina Carolina runs her fingers over the cool glossy cover of a comic book and shudders.

She's standing in the bedroom of one of the houses on the island. When she left the school, she'd sprinted straight through the parking lot, terrified of being ambushed if she went through the woods. That route ended up taking her to a residential neighborhood, and she'd realized that settling down in a house was a pretty good idea, all things considered. At least until the morning, when she could stop stumbling around in the dark.

Unfortunately, most of the population seemed to have locked their doors before leaving. She'd tried three houses before coming to this one. Increasingly desperate, she'd come to this house, climbed over the fence to the backyard and smashed a window on the back door to reach in and unlock it. Then she'd shut and locked the outer storm door behind her (it hadn't been locked when she came, thank God), which she'd figured should both hide her entry and keep anyone else from entering that way.

But despite her relative safety for the time being, she'd gone straight upstairs. And straight to this room, where she'd been camped out for almost two hours. It's just past four AM now.

The room probably belonged-belongs-to a boy, maybe her age. The curtains are open and people on this island apparently don't have blinds, so the light from the streetlights outside is enough that she can see okay. The kid's things are scattered all over the room-clothes and books and such. The bed is unmade, sneakers tossed carelessly in a corner. The neatest part of the whole room is the desk, stacked with comics. It's nice. She draws her hand back.

It's so unsettling standing here, she thinks. Obviously this island was inhabited, but actually standing here, amidst such obvious, mudane signs of life is… creepy, to say the least. It's hard not to wonder what had happened to the people that had lived here. Most likely, they'd just been moved to some temporary housing on the mainland, but… looking around, it must have been very fast. They must not have had any time to prepare.

Maybe some people even died, she realizes. Maybe they weren't moving fast enough, or tried to take too much, or complained…

The sound of glass breaking cuts her thoughts short. Her head snaps up, her heart stops and her blood runs cold.

Someone's inside.

What to do, what to do? It just depends, doesn't it? If the student is actually looking for her (she should have done a better job of hiding the broken glass pane), then she needs to get out. If they'd just had the same idea as she, and is just looking for a place to hide, then maybe the best thing to do would be to stay put. What to do?

She should try to get out. If they're looking for her, they'll find her eventually, and she'll be dead. If she moves around, maybe she'll at least have a chance of getting the jump on whoever it is.

Yeah.

She grips the large kitchen knife in her hand. Her supplied weapon had been a set of darts, and Mina's aim is shit, forcing her to look for a more useful object. But only to use in situations of self-defense.

She doesn't want to kill. But if it comes down to it, maybe.

It's funny (funny-weird), but edging out of the room into the hall reminds her of the last time Annie had slept over at her house, just two weeks ago. It had been the middle of the night and they'd been watching real horror movies for several hours, as was custom for them, when Annie had uttered those despairing words: "I have to pee." It was just moments after the climax of the film, when she knew full well the upstairs bathroom was off limits due to plumbing issues.

Imagining Annie standing next to her now, holding her hand and fidgeting, is comforting, but only slightly. Mina is still terrified out of her wits. She's not in her house now, she's in the Program. Another child is here with her, and they might even be looking for her. Ready to kill her. She has to get out. She grips the knife tighter. Whoever is downstairs, she can't hear them moving around. But again, Mina doesn't know what that means. Are they quiet because they don't want her to know they're looking, or is it just basic caution?

At any rate, she has to be that much quieter. She goes to each of the three bedrooms and finds no escape routes; no porch roofs to climb on, or tree branches to grab. Nothing to try without risking breaking her neck.

So the only way out is down. She's biting her lip so hard it bleeds, but she hardly feels it. Going down the stairs is like prolonged torture. Her heart is beating so loud she's sure someone must be able to hear it. Breathing is terrifying. She feels lightheaded.

Her fingers tighten around the handle.

Back on the first floor, the situation feels even more surreal. There's the broken window, looking out onto another home. Making her way around, she imagines the family that had lived here watching her from the living room sofas. A classic horror movie, she thinks. The young girl evades the killer. The killer who, incidentally, is another young girl or boy.

Maybe the boy who lives here likes horror movies. Maybe, if he were watching, he'd be rooting for her.

Mina glances over her shoulder, sensing a nearby presence but seeing nothing. Just get back to the kitchen, she assures herself, staying close to the wall. Get to the kitchen, and you'll be safe. Just a few more feet, and you'll be safe.

She isn't safe.

Someone is standing in the kitchen with their back to her. Maybe it's too dark, or she's too detached, but she can't recognize them as anything past a dark silhouette. Short-haired and medium-height, but that could literally be anyone. She doesn't know.

Mina stands in the doorway of the kitchen, perfectly still. She raises the knife. She can see the glint of a gun in their hand. They turn around, and she can't react.

They move too fast.

"Holy sh––" Jean stumbles back, grabbing their things and hitting the ground again. "Fu––"

Without thinking, Eren stands. "Stop!" he shouts. "Stop it, I know none of us want to––" Then he's on the ground too, Jean's arm braced across his chest and hand pressed over his mouth.

"Shut up," he hisses. "Don't move."

Eren tries to wriggle away, but a third shot convinces him that maybe staying put is a good idea. It's too dark to see, but he thinks the bullet might have hit where his chest was only moments before. The fourth shot comes less than a minute later, and it definitely sounds closer.

Quickly, Jean scrambles for his bag, dumping it out and picking up the Smith & Wesson to hold in both hands. Eren can hear his teeth chattering, but he still manages to hold the big gun steady, aiming it where the shots had come. He doesn't ever shoot, just stays frozen on one knee, his shoulders shaking and breath coming in small uneven gasps, for what feels like forever.

Then Jean sniffs loudly and shakes his head, breaking the spell.

"I think they're gone," he whispers. "Shit. I––fuck. Fuck." He drops the gun and presses his hands to his face. "Fuck. I'm done. I'm fucking done."

Eren sits up. Even in the low light, he can see how pale Jean is, and crawls over to join him. "Listen––" he starts, but anything he had considered saying immediately dries up on his tongue when Jean drops his hands and glares at him. Even in the low light, his eyes glow with anger.

"Rule number one of this alliance, Jaeger," he says scathingly, shoving him in the shoulder. "We do not try to make friends with people taking potshots at us!"

Eren stiffens, flaring up. Any shame he had felt is gone now. "These are our friends, Jean!" he spits. "We aren't going to kill them! We aren't killing anyone!"

"And you think I want to? I've never touched a gun in my fucking life, let alone fired one! How the hell do you expect me to aim one of these things at my friends? But you know what, Jaeger? I'll do it if it means I can defend myself."

Eyes burning, Eren glares at him and turns away. He'd always known Jean was an asshole, but he didn't think he would actually be okay with this. This stupid game has only just started and he's already freaking out.

Behind him, Jean sighs. "Dude, are you crying?" he asks, sounding irritated. "Stop."

Eren furiously wipes at his eyes. "I'm not," he mutters. "I should have known better than to team up with you."

"Well, you didn't know better," Jean snaps, throwing his overnight bag and supplied daypack over his shoulder. "And we both need someone to watch our backs. But if you want to back out now, be my guest."

Eren is suddenly reminded of an experience he'd had five years ago. Shiganshina had just been bombed, his mom was dead, his dad missing, and he and Mikasa now lived in a home for orphaned kids on the former army base the Shiganshina survivors had been located to.

Life on the base sucked for everyone, but especially for the kids in that group home. There was never enough food or clothes or even blankets to go around, and a bunch of orphans weren't at the top of anyone's list. And a week after they'd started their new life, Mikasa got sick, and according to the hushed tones of the adult caretakers and the doctor standing outside the door of his shared room, was going to die.

Shortly after overhearing that conversation, Eren slipped out of bed and made his way to her room. He hadn't caught more than a glimpse of her in two days. And looking at her then, sweating buckets yet shivering, with her breathing light and fast, Eren had no problem believing that yeah, she was probably going to die.

So he took her hand, damp and hot in his, and somehow, she opened her eyes, though he'd been told she hadn't woken up in two days. She'd looked right at him, eyes bloodshot and glassy, and she'd said, "Mom?"

And Eren hadn't known if she meant her own mother or their shared mother, but it hadn't mattered because they were both dead, and Eren knew in that moment that Mikasa couldn't die.

So he'd whispered, very quietly, "Mikasa, you have to fight. If you're gonna live, you'll have to fight." He'd squeezed her hand. "They say you're gonna die, so prove them wrong."

And she'd just closed her eyes again. But she didn't die.

It's one of his most vivid memories.

You can only live if you win. You can only win if you fight.

Eren's not sure he wants to win. But he'll fight.

He wonders how Mikasa and Armin are doing. He wants to see them again, at least. Hopefully they'll fight long enough for that to happen. Then they can figure something out.

"I'm not backing out," he says to Jean finally.

He swears it was an accident. Nickolas Colton swears it was an accident.

He'd just been really freaked, ever since he stepped out of that school. And he'd run all the way over here, and smashed the window of the first house that looked suitable and easy-access. It hadn't occurred to him that anyone else could have gotten in.

Looking around for escape routes in case worst came to worst and someone had followed him (breaking the window had made such a huge noise, loud enough that he'd actually considered going back), he'd come to the kitchen. That's when he'd noticed the glass on the floor in front of the back door. I'm not alone in here. And slowly looking around, his eyes had fallen on the knife block on the counter, sans one big black handle. And they're armed.

The fear then had been so bad he'd nearly passed out; dizziness, vision fading, chills, that whole deal. He'd just started at the knife block, unable to move, when he'd heard a sound behind him. Or really, he hadn't heard anything, but had rather just sensed it.

It was like being on autopilot, what happened next; he'd turned around, removing his gun from the holster at his waist, and when he saw the dark silhouette in the doorway, he'd shot without even hesitating.

The gun had made the loudest noise, and the recoil had made him reel. The person hadn't moved, hadn't even flinched, but had just gone down without a sound.

"Jesus… fuck." Back in the present, Nick drops the gun and rushes to their side, but there's no point. He sees she's a girl now, and it takes a second for her name to come to him-Mina. Mina Carolina. One of the sophomores. He'd spoken to her maybe twice.

She's just lying there, her eyes still open, expression blank and unreadable. He'd shot her next to her mouth, and the left side of her face has collapsed in a red mess. Jesus.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He wants to do something, anything, but he doesn't want to touch her. He shrinks away. He can't help her anyway, she's dead. Man, he actually killed her. He killed someone. Even if she'd planned on killing him too, that doesn't change the fact that he pulled the trigger without even attempting to reach a compromise.

He's killed someone. Nick Colton is a murderer.

He doesn't want to stay here anymore. So with one last look at her body-he wants to help-he picks up his gun and bags and leaves.

"It would have been nice if we had some sort of way to contact Anka," Rico Brzenska mutters, ripping up a leaf before sighing.

Ian Dietrich glances at her and nods. "Yeah," he agrees softly. But she was seated too far away for either of them to be able to get a note over.

Rico only sat one row over and behind him, and so as she passed she tossed a tightly folded sheet of paper directly into his lap without once taking her eyes off Kenny Ackerman. Ian hadn't opened it until he'd been released into the cool night air. It had said, very simply in Rico's tiny, all caps handwriting, "BEHIND THE SCHOOL."

Ian had gone around back and there she'd been, tucked between the dumpster and dirty brick facade of the building. "Good idea," he'd whispered; he hadn't even considered going behind the school, instead concerned with getting as far away as possible when it involved his head being blown off. And he figures the rest of the class had the same instinct.

So here they are, deep in the woods behind the school, probably a couple hundred yards out. Ian doubts they'll encounter anyone else for a while, which is for the best.

This entire thing just… is terrible, basically. He doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to kill anyone either, of course, especially not one of his classmates or some sniveling 15-year-old he'd never spoken to.

His supplied weapon is a revolver. Rico had gotten a twelve-inch double-edged knife (which looked more like a sword than anything), which she'd been holding when he'd found her. Both weapons are tossed on the ground before them now.

"We were supposed to be safe, anyway," Rico goes on. "Make it to twelfth grade, and congrats, you now have a chance to be a useful member of society. Unless we decide to kill you for something else." She closes her eyes. "It's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." Ian scowls at their shiny new murder toys. "But I'd rather get killed for anti-government activities than be thrown into a deathmatch."

"The childmurder games," Rico replies, using the unofficial but widely known civilian-coined term for the Program. "This is going to be a hellish week."

"Or couple hours." Ian can't forget for a second that there's a decent chance they'll be dead by tonight. He touches his collar.

They fall into silence at that. He finds himself just looking at her, sitting crosslegged and slouching. If Rico dies, he's out, he decides. He can't imagine her dying, but he can't imagine getting out of this either. If she dies, he's out.

"I hate this," she eventually says, and he nods again. "This-" Then she goes still, and tips her head. "Did you hear that?" She's whispering now, opening her eyes. "Listen."

Ian obeys, and then he hears it too. Voices, close ones. Way too close.

Very slowly, he reaches for the gun. Rico gives him a look, one part alarmed and two parts, "What the hell are you doing?" He raises a finger in an "I've got this" sort of gesture. Then he shoots twice.

Just downward into the bushes and just experimentally, in part to determine their location and in part to scare them off. But then someone starts shouting, something like, "Stop it!"

He exchanges a curious look with Rico. Sounds like Eren Jaeger. She nods and he shoots again, uncaring about giving away their own location or wasting ammunition (he's got more bullets anyway, even a magazine for loading them) and just trying to figure out who else is there. But it's silent now. They'd gotten away, maybe, or were hiding out. Good.

If Ian were to guess, she'd say Eren was likely with Jean Kirschtein, just because they'd left one after the other back in the classroom. An unlikely combination, sure, but not impossible considering he doesn't know much about their relationship. He shoots into the bushes one more time, and motions for Rico to stand. In the newfound silence, they gather their things and move on too.

"I've always wanted to come back to the ocean and show you guys," Armin Arlert says quietly, looking out at where the first rays of sun are peeking out over the horizon. "But not like this."

He's sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest in the tall, sandy grass. Below him, the waves crash against the face of the cliffs. Mikasa Ackerman stands above and slightly behind him, arms crossed and short dark hair blowing in the salty wind. He imagines that they'd make quite the postcard, posed like this.

Of course, there are the little things to ruin the picture perfectness of it all. Like the guard ships that are posted a couple hundreds yards out and a uniform distance from each other, likely surrounding the island. Or the antique dagger (it even still has rust on the blade) clenched in Mikasa's right hand, only slightly out of sight. Or their silver collars.

He'd caught Mikasa absently tugging at hers twice already, and both times Armin had knocked her hand away. He was constantly feeling the overwhelming urge to do the same, but he refused.

They'd been up all night, and heard three, maybe four different sets of distant gunfire, one of which had been accompanied by a scream. Things had quieted down by five AM, for which he knows he should be glad, but four sets of gunfire means there are people already playing. Four sets of gunfire means four people are probably dead. And that doesn't take into account the silent weapons too-knives like Mikasa's and spring-loaded police batons like Armin's.

No quick death with this thing, he'd thought when he'd seen it. Good for maybe stunning someone in close quarters

Although it should go without saying, he hates this game.

"Think Eren's okay?" he adds, turning around to look at her. Mikasa shrugs.

"Knowing him, he's probably sprinting to wherever he hears bullets," she says. "Trying to spread the good word of teamwork and rebellion."

Armin's stomach lurches, both at the notion and her briskness. "You don't think he's-"

"I don't know." She taps her watch. "We'll find out in a second anyway."

Right on cue, there's the sound of speakers crackling to life and Kenny Ackerman's voice blares out.

31 students remaining.