The Pyrrhic Days

I know the chapters for this story are coming out slowly, but I am working as fast as I can. I find comedy is a lot easier to write that tragedy, so every now and then I have to write something silly to stop myself getting all Emo with this fic.

As usual, I own nothing but my ideas. And sometimes even they belong to someone else.

…..

Bruce Wayne watched the dark-haired girl fall asleep again, keeping in mind the worried look on her face when she'd discovered that her boyfriend wasn't there. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd have been worried to wake up with him too. Self-awareness was a vital virtue when one had so many things against oneself, and he knew he was a scary-looking guy.

That said, he'd offered to go out and look for firewood, but Clark had insisted. That was weird. Why would he leave his girlfriend alone with a guy who had just killed two people? Why would he leave his girlfriend when she was injured with a guy they had just met? Hell, why would he leave his girlfriend full stop?

There was something not right about this situation, besides the obvious. It wasn't like Clark was a bad guy; Bruce would've gotten a vibe if he had been. His vibes had saved him from many a backstab back in his old neighbourhood.

…..

Bruce Wayne had come from a wealthy family, although you would never have known by looking at him. Even at the age of ten he'd been a scruffy, scrawny little thing. Though it wasn't really by choice. Some notion or another by his father or his mother kept constant disruptions a facet of everyday life. They were rich, his father was smart and his mother was pretty, but that didn't make them sane.

He remembered his father, the Armani suits, the smell of cigar smoke and cognac, expensive aftershave and paper. The smell of success. He remembered his mother, her elegantly coiffed hair, the tight smiles, the gems glittering against papery skin. The trophy wife. On the outside, they filled the stereotypes that society expected them to. But the stereotypes didn't really fit, and occasionally it showed.

Mr. Wayne was a gamy wolf in shark's clothing, rough and rumpled with bared teeth when he should have been sleek and smooth, streamlined. Being clever didn't make him a good businessman, and they weren't as rich as they could have been if he'd been able to keep a hold on his temper. He'd been raised in a large family and had ideas about privilege. You had to fight for what you got, and even then you were lucky to get it. Young Bruce led a sparse life, with few comforts and material possessions, under his father's tutelage.

His mother was different, not just from her husband, but from everybody. Perhaps if she hadn't married Bruce's father she would have been in a mental hospital. Bruce suspected she was bipolar, although he'd not acquired the terminology until he was at least thirteen. He'd simply called her crazy. Some days she would be happy, well dressed, singing softly to herself as she arranged flowers in a vase. Other days she'd be screaming about germs, crying streaks into her carefully-applied mascara as she scrubbed the kitchen counters with bleach. She was a hypochondriac who filled Bruce's food with all sorts of supposed remedies to keep her microscopic enemies from hurting her little boy.

They were as bad as each other, Bruce thought. He was pretty savvy from a young age, and very talented at figuring people out. He knew the youngest chambermaid was stealing jewellery from his mother three months before she figured it out. He knew his Dad was going to lose that big deal he was trying to broker with a Chinese company just by the way he never shut up about it. That didn't mean he didn't love his parents, it just meant he knew them.

And when he heard that they were dead, he wasn't even remotely surprised.

…..

Bruce lit up another cigarette, then checked his packet like an afterthought. Shit. He didn't have many left. Smoking sometimes helped him think, but he was running low on his thinking sticks. He smoked it slowly and watched Diana sleep.

Now, there was an activity that seemed to help him think. She was a little like his parents in some respects. The air of success clung to her like some nameless perfume. Her hair, even sleep-rumpled as it was, was styled to a degree that you usually saw on middle-aged women with disposable income. Her uniform was the usual mass-produced crap all the other girls wore, but her shoes were obviously expensive. Still, she didn't seem like she was well put together. Something about her clumsy, long-legged gait and her nervous stance didn't sit well with the way she should have been. Not that she wasn't gorgeous, of course, but she was like a swan trying to be a peacock. It just didn't sit right.

Clark came blundering back then, and Bruce abruptly stopped eying up his girlfriend. Not that he was afraid of the farm boy pounding him, but when one was fighting for one's life, one needed all the help one could get.

…..

John sat on a rock and watched the sun climb high in the sky. He didn't have to look at his watch to know it was coming close to noon. He'd been walking since sunrise and he was tired and hungry, but he was nearing the top of the hill so he could only afford to stop for a few minutes. Technically he couldn't afford to stop at all, but he knew if he didn't his psychosis would take over. Some weird feeling was creeping up on him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Then there was a rustle in the foliage just behind him. He turned quickly to face a possible attack.

But, as it happened, he was damn lucky. The person he'd been trying to find had stumbled across him.

For what seemed like an eternity, all he could do was stare at her, his mouth trying to form words but failing. He just couldn't find the words to describe what he saw. Shayera was, to put it frankly, a mess. There wasn't a spot on her that wasn't covered with blood. There were black circles under her eyes and her hair was muddy brown, stuck to her scalp in ragged clumps making her look like some kind of ancient witch. Most frightening, however, was the look in her eyes. It was like looking into the eyes of a rabid animal.

He gulped thickly and moved towards her slowly. Her response was to raise the weapon she was carrying, the one practically dripping with gore, in front of her.

"Stay away from me! I'll kill you!"

He was relieved to hear her voice, so much so that many of his other fears were stripped away. If she could talk, she hadn't lost her mind completely. Now it was only a matter of talking her down. He eyed her weapon warily. She had probably killed someone with that in self-defence. Naturally it would have made her nervous.

"Shayera, it's me. You know, John Stewart?"

Her eyes flickered, for just a moment, but they were still unfocused and darting around a lot. They were very red too…could she even see him properly? His eyes drifted to a series of dark bruises on her neck. He knew from reading medical books that strangulation caused burst blood vessels in the eyes that distorted vision.

"Shayera? Can you see me?" he asked in a daringly loud voice. Her hearing might have been affected too…

She squinted and her weapon fell to thump at her side. It seemed she didn't have enough energy left to keep it raised. He watched her carefully, looking for any signs that she recognized him. For a moment it looked like she was going to say something and he strained to hear. But instead she fainted dead away.

He leapt forward to catch her just before she hit the ground. Instantly his hand was coated with an unmistakable sticky wetness. Just then, the psychosis decided to kick in. That familiar cold feeling descended over his entire body and his mind went completely blank.

Except for one phrase, repeated over and over again.

She's going to die.

…..

Kelly Beauregard and Jen Sellers had been friends since they were five years old, and they'd never had any problems communicating with each other. When they were seven Jen accidentally ruined Kelly's favourite Barbie and told her outright, without hesitation. When they were eleven Jen pushed Kelly out of a tree as a joke. Kelly broke her arm and had to spend the whole summer in a cast, but she forgave Jen straight away. When they were thirteen, Kelly kissed a boy she knew Jen liked, but Jen didn't mind at all. She figured keeping her friend was more important than some icky boy.

Opposites attract, and that seemed the case with the two girls. Kelly was tall and slender, with long blonde hair she usually tied back in a tight chignon with a single curl cascading in front. She liked to consider herself glamorous, wearing only red lipstick and no other makeup despite the fact she was prone to acne. She talked through her nose like Katherine Hepburn and wore a girdle under her school shirt to give the illusion of curves.

Jen, on the other hand, was the consummate tomboy. Her black curls were cropped short, pixie style, and she was small with a tendency towards chubbiness. She had an abiding love affair with the colour pink, the least sophisticated colour in the spectrum. She had been very distressed when she developed breasts and attempted to hide them with baggy clothes, only changing her mind when Kelly let her know how jealous she was.

Nevertheless, the girls had several things in common. They both had a huge crush on Clark Kent. They both hated Diana Chamberlain, although they were nice to her face. They both had binge-drinking sessions on weekends, whether they were together or not. They had the same taste in music and in boys and they could talk to each other for hours about anything.

But on the island, they found talking to each other was almost impossible. They'd been together for eleven years, every day. They'd even found each other in the midst of the Program's chaos. But even if they did manage to defend themselves against the other students, even if they did kill all the other contestants, the two of them would be left. And only one was allowed leave the island alive.

They sat together in the bay, sifting the soft sand between their fingers and sneaking glances at each other. On the outside it looked as though they were sharing companionable silence, but really they were wondering how, if it came down to it, one would deliver the fatal blow to the other.

"She's always taking the boys I like. She says she's sorry, but she never stops. She doesn't care if she hurts me."

"She borrowed my favourite shirt and ripped it. She didn't bother apologising; she just assumed I'd forgive her. What kind of friend would do that?"

"She's such a suck-up. "You look great today, Diana! Did you get your hair done?" She hates Diana! She's so fake!"

"She'll get me first. She's sneaky like that."

"She'll get me first. She acts so sweet, but I know what she's really like."

Kelly rummaged through her bag and pulled out the bread they'd been supplied with. She broke it in half and gave one half to Jen. Jen smiled and thanked her. Kelly told her she was welcome. They were the first words they had said to each other since the game started.

But when Kelly took out the bread, she'd peeked a look at her supplied weapon. It was a small bottle of hydrochloric acid. Kelly watched Jen munch the bread as she stared off into the distance. Kelly unscrewed the cap off of the little bottle and grabbed her bottle of water. Then she tipped the contents into the water.

"Here, you must be thirsty," Kelly said, handing the bottle to Jen.

Jen smiled and took two gulps of the water.

"I guess I was wrong. Maybe I can trust her…"