come_sailaway | BATTLE ROYALE EVENT: ISLAND

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BATTLE ROYALE EVENT: ISLAND

[Friday's cheerful voice comes over the morning announcements, requesting that everyone who signed up for the shore excursion gather in the atrium to board the tender. when they have assembled, she leads them over,

the door shuts. there is a noise, like air coming from a nozzle. they lose consciousness shortly after that.

they wake up on a cement floor; solid, with none of the sway they'd grown used to with weeks on the sea. there are quite a few things they could notice first. perhaps the fact that, whatever they were wearing before they got into the tender, they are now wearing school uniforms. perhaps they notice the collars around their neck first: metal, tight enough to be a nuisance but not enough to choke. they could notice that there are no windows, but that there is a door, sealed though it is.

and maybe they notice the TV set up in the front of the room, playing despite not seeming to be plugged into anything. but, they'll definitely notice the very familiar face on screen, even though she's not dressed as she usually is.]

Welcome, Serena Eterna passengers, to your first shore excursion! I'm Gal Friday, your friendly cruise director, and I'm here to explain the rules!

[her voice and manner are, somehow, even more artificial-sounding than they usually are.]

You are currently on a completely deserted tropical island, with no fresh water or sources of nutrition outside of what we're going to give you! Over the course of the next few days, you are all going to engage in a no-holds-barred battle to the death! Only one of you can come back to the ship alive, so do your best to make sure you're that person! I'll be there to pick up the winner in the morning!

Now, I'm sure some of you are going to be very upset that you'll have to kill people - but, that's okay! After all, we need people to die, too, right? That can be you! Of course, if all of you decide to not kill anybody, that's a bit of a problem... [her shoulders droop dramatically, but then she brightens up again.] That's what the collars are for! If nobody takes a life by midnight on the first day, the collars will activate, like...

[there is a noise like an airgun being fired. Friday's body jerks, but then returns to normal.]

That! The collar will also activate if you attempt to take it off, or if you attempt to leave the island! Not that you can, anyway; the barrier is very much still active!

You have all the weapons and powers you brought with you, and a special bonus: Along with some basic survival gear, and enough food and water rations for three days, you will also get a random weapon! It could be something very good, or very bad! It's just a matter of luck!

[Friday lifts a duffel bag up to the camera, visibly struggling to hoist it onto a nearby table. she unzips the bag, pulling out an AK-47.]

Oh, I guess I got lucky! I'm sure you guys will be, too! Now, be sure to do your best, but be mindful of the time! We only have three days until we leave port; if you guys haven't finished by then, the collars of everyone remaining will--

[a violent spasm sends her collapsing to the floor. she pulls herself up once more, but can't seem to vocalize anything beyond choking noises. eventually, she falls again, and the tape continues to run with little more than agonized yelps and desperate attempts to breathe. it will continue to play for another two hours before going silent, but they're not likely to stay for that. shortly after she falls, the door opens.

it is early morning on an unnaturally quiet tropical beach. when everyone exits what appears to be a sort of bunker, the door slams shut again. on the white sands before them are a series of duffel bags, branded with the Serena Eterna's logo and embroidered with everyone's name.

Welcome to Battle Royale.

I'd run.]

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Anyone watching on the cameras back on the ship, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross Ebalon's path right now, will one hundred percent see that his "nice boy" mask has completely slid off of his face and fallen onto the ground only to shatter into a million little unrecoverable pieces. There are reasons for this shift in demeanor, of course — but it's not like the general populace of the island will know why that is.

He's gone from not caring about the games at all and not being particularly pressed about any outcomes to suddenly needing to kill everyone in his path, like a switch flipped somewhere in his brain.

Oh, it's been a while, he thinks, since he's felt the need to absolutely devastate everything. A good five hundred years, give or take. Happening across the good doctor Watson himself is just poor luck for only one of them. From the trees appears Ebalon, magic crest flared at his back and his staff in his hand. Sharp blue eyes assess the man, how much of a threat or inconvenience he may be to Ebalon in the moment — not that he expects he'll be harmed by someone who can't even do magic.

"A boring target," he mutters mostly to himself, though if Watson hears that's Watson's problem now isn't it? "But I suppose you'll do for now. Huhuhu, you'll squirm for me, won't you?"

Not that Ebalon intends to give him much of a choice. His words and honestly ostentatious, decorated approach are the only warning Watson gets to the fact that he's going to be attacked before a spear-shaped beam of white moonlight attempts to pierce the man's leg, seemingly flying out of the sky itself.

Better run, Watson — if you can.

The sounds of Ebalon's voice is all the warning he gets, and that momentary thrill of adrenaline that sings through him is the only reason Watson can react in any way. He's been trudging through the trees alone for some time, but he's a soldier at heart, and always will be, and at the flash of moonlight -- which, to be fair, he has no idea what it even is -- instinct takes over and he throws himself to one side in an attempt to avoid it. The attempt is not entirely successful; the moonlight slices through his thigh and he hisses in pain.

He is very much out of his depth and he knows it.

In desperation he reaches for his revolver and fires in Ebalon's direction, even as he struggles to his feet and starts to run. In the fall he's lost his bag and sniper rifle, but there's no chance to get them back at the moment, and he still has his cane in hand. And, well, he needs it a little more right now than he normally does.

Well, there's no dodging a bullet, not even from a man who can teleport freely; Ebalon's attempt at teleporting himself some distance away in a flash of moonlight is too late and the bullet winds up embedded in his upper arm. For a single moment, he looks irritated, but a wicked smile soon after takes its place.

"Good. Good! You're more interesting than I thought you'd be!"

It's almost like he doesn't feel the searing pain, monstrous as he is; his advance is basically unhindered, though he's astute enough to put a translucent shield around himself with the next flourish of his staff — it's thin and it'll likely shatter after a hit or two. He's not expending much effort to make it overly-powerful, since his magic is being used for other things.

Ebalon trails after Watson at a semi-brisk walk. Not a run, oh no, a walk, and should the man get too far ahead Ebalon will just have to teleport forward a few feet before continuing his advance. This is all quite calculated on his part, though the question of if it's actually intimidating or exceedingly stupid can only be answered by onlookers and Watson himself.

Up ahead, buried in the debris of the forest floor, Ebalon makes an attempt at drawing a sigil made of white moonlight on the ground proper, trying to kite Watson into it with the intent to blow up the sigil the second he steps into it. It'll do damage in the form of searing, white-hot pain, but it's not enough to kill. Oh no, it'd be too soon for that.

For Watson's benefit, his eyes better be forward.

Intimidating, maybe, but definitely unsettling, especially for someone who doesn't have real experience with any form of teleportation. This is wrong, all wrong, he saw that bullet hit, and Ebalon just... shrugged it off, as though it were nothing, an annoyance. Watson has been shot and he knows perfectly well that's not how it's supposed to work. He also knows perfectly well that between new and old wounds, outrunning is a fool's errand: he's slow, and clumsy.

He glances back at Ebalon in pursuit, then forward again as he attempts to put some distance between them, until something in his path causes him to abruptly skid to a stop. He has no idea what that sigil is, but grant him the sense to realise that it might be something not worth messing around with, not when he's been attacked with actual magic, which he doesn't know a thing about.

So Watson squares off, as best as he can while he clutches his wounded leg, standing on the edge of that sigil. He's breathing hard, his expression wild, even a little crazed. His gun is still in his hand, and that's familiar, sensible, so he lifts it and fires it off two more times in Ebalon's direction.

Ebalon may or may not be revealing the fact that he's certainly not human despite what his appearance would suggest; bullets being seen as an inconvenience rather than something to full-stop avoid is the biggest hint available, since Ebalon hasn't exactly shapeshifted in public. He'll be quick to rip the bullet out of his arm and heal the wound when he's done here. For now, one arm can stay mostly-useless.

"Good eye!"

This really is just a game to him right now. Were he in his right mind, he'd wonder if others out there are similarly off-the-walls unhinged at the moment, if they're having fun somehow. He can't be the only one, but that doesn't matter right now. One false step could very well send Watson careening backwards into that sigil while it waits patiently to explode on first thing to step within it. The bullets collide with Ebalon's moonlight shield, stopping them in their tracks, though in the two places hit it cracks like glass. He's not even bothered enough to deal with it, to recast his spell. If the shield breaks, it breaks, right?

Instead, he raises his staff skyward to focus his magic into white spheres that seem to undulate and warp in the sky above. There are six to be specific, all roughly the size of a basketball, and Ebalon fires them off one by one. Left, right, forward, from behind, right, left. His intent is clear: to land a hit that'll send Watson back into that glyph behind him. That, or to take out a limb — Ebalon is the sort to play with his prey, after all.

The crack in the shield would be more encouraging, that maybe there is some way to take Ebalon down, but Watson only has one more bullet, and if he's going to use it, it's got to count. Oh, he has a blade in his walking stick, sure, but he's only going to have one shot at that, too, if he has the opportunity.

He looks up at those spheres, without any sense of what they are except that they're unlikely to be good. Watson dodges -- to the right, to the left, back, and it's the last one that has him stumbling backwards into the glyph.

Pain, the sort that takes his breath away, the sort that blocks out all thought except that of the pain itself. The last time he felt something like this was on a battlefield in Afghanistan. He smells horse and blood and gunpowder, but maybe it's only that he expects to smell those things, because that's what he smelled then. Watson sinks down to one knee, only keeping himself up that much because he's clinging to his walking stick.

Edited (forgot a word) 2022-05-11 21:34 (UTC)

It's a searing, bright white light that'll surround Watson when he falls back into the glyph, lasting only a few short seconds but enough to sear skin and create myriads of open wounds. Ebalon finds himself mildly impressed, for what it's worth — many he's used that same trick on don't usually find the strength to stand after that. Were his hands not full, he might have offered a slow clap.

"I seek information, doctor," he says slowly as he approaches, like he couldn't have just opened with that in the first place — no, he has to be dramatic. "One of the living participants in this game has heavy artillery of some variety — more than that paltry thing, given the damage done. Do you happen to have any information for me before your flame is extinguished?"

This isn't a great bargaining chip, and he knows it, but sometimes desperate people may talk in their last moments, reveal information they ordinarily wouldn't in their panic. The magic in the air stagnates, no new spells being cast, not yet. Ebalon stands tall and proud, the butt of his staff hitting the forest floor as he waits eagerly to see what words will be thrown his way.

It's an effort to even hear Ebalon's words, with Watson's head as full of screaming as it is, both his own internal screaming and the memories of men long dead. He opens his mouth, not sure for the moment if he's not already screaming. He doesn't seem to be.

"Ghazi bastard," he manages, through gritted teeth, but no, that's not right, this is no Afghan soldier in front of him, and the only heavy artillery is in his head, surely? Focus, John. Focus on where you actually are and not where you think you are. He rallies a little, or attempts to. "I've no idea," Watson gasps out. It's an obvious effort to be coherent. "I've seen no one... with heavy artillery. You're wasting... wasting your time."

He's bleeding. He's bleeding, the blood he smells is his, where is Murray, he has to get back to the British lines, no, focus, don't let your last moments be like this, John.

"Oh?"

Ghazi, hm? Versed in the minds of men as he is, Ebalon takes this as some sort of trauma-induced flashback — the word PTSD does not exist in his vernacular, since those types of things aren't commonly studied on Elrios. Interesting, what the brain does under duress; a shame he doesn't have time to pick it apart further.

"I see. How disappointing." He paces back and forth at that, looking more bored than anything all of a sudden. "You see, whichever one of us is armed with such a weapon killed someone very important to me. Whoever they are, I'd like to find them, huhuhu."

The pacing stops, and he spins on his heel to face Watson. "I hardly expect you to recall this conversation, however. I'll make this swift."

Make it swift, he says, like he wasn't just playing around minutes earlier — but at least Ebalon is a man of his word in this case only. With his staff slightly raised yet again, he conjures yet another spear of moonlight, this time aiming to kill with a blow to the skull. The pain will likely be temporary, as if that makes this situation any better, any less sadistic.

Even if the where is a bit hazy for Watson, the what is not. This might be Afghanistan, and it might not be, and he might be hearing some things that aren't actually there, but his survival instincts hold true. He hasn't lived as long as he has, the sort of life he's led, without having good instincts. And he knows an execution when he sees it.

He could sit quiet and wait for the end. It might actually be the end, it might see him waking up on the ship in one piece. If there was truly nothing to do, then the thing to do would be to sit straight and accept his death with as much dignity as he could manage, like a gentleman.

But if he sees anything to grasp for, grasp he shall.

With a sudden effort, and with a grunt of pain he can't entirely bite back, Watson unsheaths the blade in his walking stick, and he lunges. It's not the most elegant of attacks, and the stick was all that was holding him up so both his aim and power are likely to suffer as he struggles not to immediately collapse, but it's a desperate, last-ditch effort to survive. The blade fine and sharp, good quality steel, and Watson's instincts are to dive for Ebalon's leg, just above the knee, aiming to strike deep at where he knows the femoral artery ought to be.

A cascading bunch of little victories for Watson!

Ebalon looks surprised at the sudden lunge, clearly expecting this to be a quick kill — and really, he had thought the good doctor lost his will to fight back at this stage. The shock only grows when the thin remnants of his moonlight shield shatter on impact, weakened from the two bullets that were until this very moment stuck in the upper half of it. They clatter against the ground, falling alongside shards of golden-white, though the magic doesn't touch the forest floor before fading into particles.

It really is too bad that the blade's power is stunted by not only Watson's struggle to cling to life, but the fact it had to cut through a flimsy defense first; Ebalon takes a cautious step back and the steel winds up slicing through his pantleg just below the knee instead. It's enough to make him grunt in pain, grit his teeth and bite back further responses.

The tenacity of humans is something admirable to be sure.

"Tch— My, and here I thought you were done for. I really would love to play with you more, but I must be on my way."

He has to go look for the person with the artillery, after all. But as he's casting his next spell — a repeated attempt to quickly kill Watson by turning his head into a smoking crater — it's very clear he's not standing on his cut leg at all. Nor is he using his injured arm, really — the pain might have caught up with him.

The thrill of success runs through Watson's veins. He might be well out of his depth, here, but he's done something, and maybe that's enough of a triumph to turn the tides somewhat.

Except he has nothing left. A day and a half of rations and an inability to sleep has his nerves frayed and his physical reserves low, and he's badly injured, and slowly bleeding out. After that last attempt he's fallen onto his hands and knees at Ebalon's feet, and he doesn't have the strength to rise again. He tries, despite everything. With a strangled cry of pain he struggles to make a weak stab at Ebalon's uninjured leg -- but it's a doomed effort, and Ebalon's magic comes striking down through the back of his skull.

Watson spasms, briefly screams as he convulses, but death is quick, and he collapses to the ground, staring with blank eyes.

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BATTLE ROYALE EVENT: ISLAND

Closed to Watson; cw slight torture

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cw: yeah uh Watson is just flashing back a little I'm sorry

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