An Unfair World: Again

You sat on guard, sitting on a rock at the entrance to Ariel's little alcove. Your shoulder wound hadn't been horrendously deep, but most of the bandages had bled through anyway. You had taken the trench knife, handing the weapon the petite blonde's assailant had left behind to her sleeping hand. The safety was on, so she wouldn't punch a hole through you or herself while she slept. The revolver was lighter in your hands than it had been before, now that conviction had settled in your mind and body. Pain still seeped from the hole where the thick-bladed knife had been, and your white shirt had a permanent crimson stain.

You didn't give shit about how you felt.

Hours passed, and sleep was beckoning you to her lap like a siren, and you tried desperately to stay awake. Your head bobbed forward, your eyelids sinking like weights had been attached to them. The folded vest you had placed beneath your childhood friend's head was beginning to look very comfortable, and you contemplated whether or not you should lay down next to her.

Sleep decided for you, and you put your back against hers as you laid down beside Ariel, hoping that you didn't upset her with your attempt to find rest and solace in oblivion.
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Everything swam in your eyes; the world churning and swirling inside your vision. Your head throbbed, and sticky, warm blood clung to the side of your head, turning your dreads into a sickly mass of hair. You vaguely recalled having your fly open, and you now realized that your white briefs were exposed and your pants had also begun to ride low around your hips. You tried to fix that problem, but your fingers wouldn't do what you told them. You basically ended up having to pull your pants up, struggling and hopping around not withheld, with fists.

Punching yourself in the groin had been very unpleasant.

But that was nothing compared to the flaming roar of pain that surged through your body. Your eyes looked around trying to find an answer, but all that you received was a second brutal rush through your body. Your fingers felt tingly, and your hair stood on end in places. A third shock dropped you; falling to your side and trying to keep from heaving your last meal onto the ground. A figure stood above you, clad in deathly white while their hair seemed like it had been white before it was bloodstained.

You knew that face.

And she (you figured that much) knew yours.

The girl leaned over you and slammed her fist into your nose. And hell girls should not be able to hit that hard. You put your hands up to try and defend yourself, but your assailant simply hit you from a different angle. Another blow landed on your neck, and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. She brought her left hand down, and a cascading shock surged through your body, setting every single nerve end on fire. You reeled from her, but the young woman's heel collided with your face, stopping you. Bleary-eyed, you could barely make out the small, black object in her hand until she brought it down onto your chest.

You could hear your own pulse stop.

She had ceased the beat of your heart.

Darkness began to set in on your vision, taking the outside first as numbness crept from your extremities towards your core. You couldn't move, you couldn't blink, you couldn't even tell this bitch off as you slowly faded away. Your vision was reduced to twin pinpoints of light.

You really didn't want to go like this.

You went blind.

BOY #2: JACOB LORENTZ DEAD
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You glanced down at the droplets of blood that had landed on your shirt during the short-lived brawl with Lorentz. You didn't mind having them there, but this was one of you last good uniform shirts, as you had either "improved" or burned the others. It was ironic to you, though, that on the day you should be thrown into a field to kill your classmates, you had decided to actually follow school protocol. Instead of just throwing on a tank top and jeans, you had put on the slate-grey skirt and white shirt like the rest of the dorks in your school. The bright red tie and faux-torn leggings you wore, on the other hand, were a nice 'FUCK YOU' to the rules, or so you liked to think.

But you didn't really want to break the rules much anymore, mostly due to how the principal had been treating you the past few months. Principal Saarela was a kind woman in her early thirties with her medium-length blonde hair kept up in a bun. She looked, and often was severe at times, but she also had a motherly instinct that was the mainstay of her attitude towards all the students. She scolded more than she expelled, and she doled out punishments sparingly, save for the most grevious of crimes. You often had to visit her office, due to the fact that you broke the dress protocol more often than anyone else. It was because of this frequency that she had ordered you to meet her in the gym, in place of detention or suspension. It was there that you found out that she was an extremely skilled fighter, as she laid you out on the mat round after round. That's when she told you something she hadn't told a single other person, save for her sisters.

She had been drafted into the Program. And she had won.

She also informed you of her much that your class would be selected for the Program, and she wanted you prepared. Week after week she trained you, writing off the extracurricular activity as martial arts or fencing or whatever she had decided to teach you that evening. She was brutal in her regimen, but kind in her correcting and supporting. Your foster parents had trouble understanding or even controlling you, where principal Saarela commanded a silent respect in lieu of her trust and compassion.

She treated you like a daughter, and you treated her with respect.

And it was all so worth it; she was right, and you were ready for it. She had turned you into a finely tuned instrument, but she had also given you a single command. Kill only the wicked. You agreed with it, even though you didn't want to have to kill anyone. Miss Amelia had also told you that the world was an unfair place; where the weak were preyed upon and exploited by the strong. She wanted you strong of mind and body, for she believed that you were already a shining example of good character, choice of clothing not withstanding.

As you, Abigail Allassandrini, stood over the cold, limp corpse of Jacob Lorentz, taser in hand, you wonder whether or not she had made the right choice.
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"Solomon, wait!"

You were becoming sick of how she trailed you like a lovesick puppy. You had specifically ordered her not to follow you, but she did it anyway. You rubbed your temple, sighing in frustration before turning towards your companion. "Listen, Nikita," you glared directly into her eyes, grabbing her shoulders in an attempt to further convince her. "I have told you this many times before: stay away from me, so that I may ensure your survival." She blinked, pale eyelids covering irises of lavender. That had always been an odd characteristic about her that you enjoyed, though your relationship was purely platonic. She shrugged then, swinging her machete around by the handle as she looked up at you.

"Your point?"

You seethed in anger, throwing your hands up and stomping off before running long digits through your light blonde hair in an attempt to soothe yourself. The railroad spike, clearly a cruel joke from the makers of this sick game, clanged its protest against your hip. "If you keep stomping around and pitching a fit," Nikita called after you, gesturing towards your bout of irritation. "Someone's gonna hear us both, and then where will we be?"

A voice, somewhere beside you, answered the question for you.

"You'll be dead."

You turned towards the sound, pulling the metal stake out from your belt and preparing to pounce. Two figures stepped out from the thicket they had been in, and you realized the poor planning you had made when you decided to stalk prey through this forest of aspen and oak. One of them was more muscular, and a bit shorter, than the other. His head was clean-shaven, and he held an AK-47 in his grubby little hands. The other was taller with well-groomed blonde hair and a pair of wireframe glasses that sat a little too forward on his nose. In his left hand was a scalpel. In his right was a small hand-held device that was rapidly beeping. Nikita noticed it as well, and questioned it. "Is that a-" "Tracking device? Why yes, it is." The blonde smirked, and the buzzcut kid leveled his rifle at the two of you.

"Spencer, kill then please."
"No problem, doc."

You ran, hard and fast.

You had to get away.

Dying was not on your agenda for today.