Battle Royale Fan Fiction ❯ Battle Royale: All American High School ❯ Rules of the Game ( Chapter 2 )

-------> TONIGHT ON A BRAND NEW EPISODE OF “BATTLE ROYALE!”

 

The students have arrived! They don't know it yet, but they are all about to be placed into the most frightening reality show on the air! Today they will learn the severe consequences of challenging the government as well as being introduced to the rules and regulations of the game! Before the evening is over, two students will lay dead at the feet of the viewing audience! Will they be ready for the harsh reality of the game? Who will survive? Who will die? Will anyone be left standings? Get ready, faithful viewers, because the game officially begins tonight! All on “BATTLE ROYALE 5: DESERTED ISLAND!”

 

At 2000 hours tonight on America Network 7.

 

GOD BLESS AMERICA AND THE GOVERNMENT! <--------

 

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Chapter 2: Rules of the Game

 

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I wake up and my head feels like its been beaten in with a ton of bricks. I look up to see myself in a classroom but it's not one I'm familiar with it. The walls seem to be made from lumber and are all a deep brown coloration. The windows seem blocked out by some sort of metal. I look around to see everyone from my homeroom sitting in the classroom. I see Zack and Karen and... But something's off here. They're all wearing strange sliver collars.

 

I look down at my own chest and see a similar collar around my neck. I also check my nametag and notice it's different as well. Printed on the tag, right beside “CHRIS BROWN,” is a number. Five. I'm number five.

 

Now, what the fuck does that mean?

 

I don't like where this is going. This whole thing stinks. A quick view-over the classroom shows that similar numbers are printed on all of the student's nametags. These numbers, these collars. All of it makes me think we've stumbled into something seriously bad.

 

I look up to the front of the classroom to see an old fashion chalkboard resting on the wall, behind a large wooden desk. Written on the chalkboard in big letters are the words “WELCOME HOMEROOM CLASS B!” I look around the room again to check and decide that everyone from my homeroom is indeed here. The class slut, Ashley Nixion. The jock, Trevor Herbert. The tomboy, Shelly Ganner. The popular guy, Matthew Snyder. The whole gang's here. Shit, this is about that special assemble, isn't it? The fucking school set us up. I knew they'd fuck us over one of these days. Just then the small door in the far corner of the room opens and Mr. Stephens enters, followed by a small group of soldier. I should've known that shark was involved with this.

 

Mr. Stephens stepped in front of the chalkboard and gives his trademark shit eating grin, except now a bit of psychosis that I hadn't noticed before appears beneath it. Mr. Stephens keeps smiling and says, “Wake up students!”

 

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*SMACK*

 

I wake up suddenly. What's going on? A glass full of a gray liquid is slammed down in front of me. What's going on? I feel a hand grab my noise and force the liquid down my throat.

 

Holy shit! I'm awake now. What was that stuff?

 

Brandon Custer here again. I look around quickly and see many students I recognize. I also see soldiers going around the room slapping the other sleeping students and forcing the same liquid down their throats. Before long the entire class is forced out of their drug-induced sleep into drug-induced awareness.

 

I look around, once more in disbelief. Holy shit, this is actually happening, isn't it? The collars are the give-away. I saw the show once at a friend's house when I was young. My mother didn't let me watch it and, honestly, I wasn't all that interested, but curiosity got the best of me. All the kids on that show wore the sliver collars. I check to find one around my neck. Oh, God, this is really happening isn't it? Oh, God, oh, god, oh...

 

“Students! I do hope you are all awake now. I absolutely hate it when students sleep in class. I hate it when such wonderful, potential filled minds go to waste. When I was a boy, I never slept in class. I was far too interested in passing. Of course, that was before the Leader came and showed us all the way, isn't it?” Mr. Stephen's deep, baritone voice was clearly recognizable. Why doesn't it surprise me that he's in on this?

 

Mr. Stephens continues, “You are a fortunate lot, students of Homeroom B. You have been randomly selected by the best computers in the country to take part in the most popular reality show on television,” I see the face of Josh Norton fill with horror. “I see that some of you are familiar with it. I know some of you are faithful viewers. You lucky few all ready now the rules, but for those of you not fortunate enough to own a telescreen, I'll explain. You have been selected for Battle Royale. All of you are currently on a small deserted village island off of the cost of Maine. Aside from my soldier guards and me there are no other adults on the island. It's just you forty teenagers. Soon enough you will all be given a randomly selected weapon...”

 

“Fucking bullshit!”

 

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“...off of the coast of Maine.” Mr. Stephens smiled the whole time. Maybe he got that Botox surgery. This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit. I'm not putting up with this. I know what this is all about. Fucking government screwed us over. I always knew it would happen, one of these days. Sure, asshole, I may not be “fortunate” enough to have a telescreen or the Commutation Network or any of that shit but I'm not stupid. I've heard of Battle Royale. Heard horror stories of good people forced out of their homes to fight in this ridiculous attempt to strike fear into the hearts of teenagers everywhere. I'll just let you know, Shit-for-Brains, that it's not working. Teenagers are just as angry as they've ever been. I'm not putting up with this. This is fucking bullshit. Fucking bullshit.

 

“Fucking bullshit!”

 

Mr. Stephen continues to smile, “Chris Brown. Boy number five. Do you have something on your mind?”

 

Fucking smartass. Yeah, I have something on my mind. “You think this works? You think that ritually sacrificing forty high school kids to the public is actually deterring us from fighting you? You government fucks!” I'm really fuckin' angry right now, in case you can't tell.

 

Mr. Stephen's smile continues to mock me. “Why, Christopher, I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about. Battle Royale is a public service. You should be proud that all America will know who you are.”

 

“All of America? You shit!” I stand up in my desk. “You fucker!”

 

Mr. Stephen's smile changes somehow. “What about your mother, Christopher? What would she think about your language? You have a dirty mouth!”

 

My Mother? What did you do to my Mother? I hold off these thoughts, can't let them win. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Yeah, that sounded good.

 

Mr. Stephen's smile continues to dance its wicked dance. “Your poor sweet mother. She's been drinking herself into the hole for several years, hasn't she? It's a shame that your father didn't die in the war; maybe the government could have supported you. To bad your father left your mother because she was such a massive alcoholic. Does that bother you on some level, Mr. Brown? Boy number five?”

 

My thoughts begin to come out as angry snarls. “What the fuck do you know about my family?”

 

“I know the only reason you've stayed a float for as long as you have is because of the help of an overly generous uncle. I know that your father left you when you where very young. Did he leave because your mother drank or did your mother drink because your father left? I personally believe that it's because your mother was such a fucking drunk. Let the class know, Chris, did your father want you? I wonder. Because if he did I can't image that he would leave like that. Do you think he just forgot to pull out of your mother's cunt when he came?”

 

You fucking bastard. “You fucking bastard. You bastard! I'll fucking kill you! I'm going to rip off your head and fuck your stump, you fucking piece of fucking shit! How dare you say that? Fucker! Government fucker!”

 

Mr. Stephens smiles a particularly evil smile and says, “Shut up, you misfire.”

 

I lost it, so to speak.

 

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“Government fucker!” Chris Brown screams.

 

I don't like where this was going. I feel like shouting at him and telling him to shut up. Can't you tell he's playing you? Shut up Chris. You're a good student. Your quiet but I've never been bothered by you. I know some kids make fun of you because your poor, but I don't mind. Please shut up. Don't let him do this to you.

 

“Shut up, you misfire.”

 

Chris' already red face burns even brighter. Sweat rolls down his cheek. Maybe it's tears? I'm not sure.

 

“Shut up! Shut up! You fucking fucker! Piece of fucking shit! Fucking cock-master fag! SHUT UP!” Chris sweeps off a wave of profanities and jumps from his desk. He runs across the room at the front desk. Oh, God, Chris don't do this. Mr. Stephens takes a rifle from the soldier standing next to him and fires.

 

Everything goes to slow motion. The entire classroom seems fixated on Chris and Mr. Stephens. And the bullet. The bullet flies from the muzzle of Mr. Stephens' gun and, at a hundred miles an hour, explodes through Chris' cheek. (The one I saw sweat or tears pouring down earlier) The bullet pulls away the mass of skin, muscle, and blood from Chris' body. Just for that one instant, the entire classroom was exposed to the inside of Chris' mouth. Chris body eases backwards a bit before Mr. Stephens pulls the trigger again. Another bullet comes flying out and makes contact with Chris' body in that strange spot that's not the shoulder but not really the chest. That mystery area explodes outward and splatters against the opposite wall. Chris' body turns around from the force. Before his body can slump to the ground, Mr. Stephens pulls the trigger two more times. One shot fires through his back and out his upper chest. Another blasts through his gut. I swear to God, I saw his heart fly out of his body and explode in mid-air. Chris' body finally falls to the floor, simmering in its own insides. Mr. Stephens, still smiling, calmly hands the soldier back his weapon. Chris' body lays there for a moment, shaking. Soon, though, it stops. All of this took maybe ten seconds, total. God, I think I'll see that image of his heart exploding burned into my brain for as long as I live. Which probably won't be very much longer. God... Shut up, Brandon. Don't think that way. You're not gonna' die. You'll find a way out of this.

 

Colin Little, boy number fifteen, I think, stands up and vomits all over his desk. Nicole Kovaleski, one of the smokers, laughs for some reason. I start to cry. I look up. Lauren was crying too. Matthew Snyder and Victor Adams, two of my friends, just sit there, a strange expression on their faces. It looks like a mixture of pity and guilt. Victor looks really guilty. He was a friend of Chris'. God, how must that feel? Out of morbid curiosity I look over at Luke Shipman. Nothing, as usual. He's face is as blank as that of an empty picture frame. Is he even human?

 

The soldiers drag the body out of the room. Mr. Stephens looks at the trail of blood on the floor. He turns to the remaining soldier and says, “Get somebody to clean that up, please.” The solider leave the room just as the other two enter the room again. What did they do with his body?

 

Mr. Stephen's smile never leaves his face. How does he hold it for so long? Why hasn't he gotten a cramp? Why am I asking so many goddamn questions? Am I loosing my mind? Shit!

 

“I'm sorry about that. Where was I before I got rudely interrupted?” Mr. Stephens ask.

 

“You just mentioned the weapons.” Dustin Butler says. He was a big person, probably because he was suppose to be graduated now. He got pushed behind a year. I remember him picking up the chair and trying to escape just before I passed out. I wonder what his story is.

 

“Thank you, Butler, boy number six. You will all be given a randomly selected weapon. Some of these weapons will be quite powerful, like the generic nine millimeter machine gun for example or the katana samurai sword. Others will be useful tools which may just help you survive. Examples include a first aid kit and a special GPS machine that reveals the location of other students on the island. As weapons, unfortunately, these items are useless. We expect you to kill someone else using your wits and take their weapons. The audience loves an underdog. Finally, I feel sorry for the two unlucky souls that get the two, so-called, “gag” weapons. In all honestly though, I don't think the owners of said weapons will find it very funny.” Mr. Stephens pause as a soldier with a mop enters the room and quickly cleans up the blood and guts on the floor as well as the vomit on Colin's desk. At this point, Amber Hamilton, probably the prettiest girl in the class, starts weeping uncontrollably.

 

“The weapons will be issued to you before you leave the schoolhouse. Now, everyone here is probably wondering about the collars around their necks. These collars contain a special exploding corrosive. Need an example, possibly? I know that the best learning technique is the visual one.” Mr. Stephens presents a list from the desk. He studies it. “Let's see. Who here has the lowest grade point average?”

 

No, not another one. Why are you killing these people? My crying intensifies and a great anger fills me. I look up and see that Christina Keefer, a horrible motor mouth, quivering in terror.

 

Mr. Stephen's smile grows larger. “Christina Keefer, girl number eleven.” The soldier next to Mr. Stephens hands him a small detonator.

 

Christina begins to panic. “God, don't kill me! Please! I'll do anything! I'll work for you! I'll sleep with you! Please, God, don't kill me! I deserve better!”

 

Mr. Stephens' smile, for the first time this evening, disappears. He mimics her. “You deserve better? You, Miss Keefer, are one of the worst students in the entire school. You have failed all grades twice. The turning of the wheels of progress are the only reason you are still not in elementary school.” His voice grows louder and more maniacal. “You are a waste of air. You do nothing but talk with your equally vapid friends! School is a place to learn! Not to socialize! You are the reason Battle Royale exist! You deserve to die!” Mr. Stephens is practically screaming.

 

Christina responds, she sounds offended. “You deserve to suck my dick!”

 

Mr. Stephens smiles again and pushes the button on the detonator.

 

The collar around Christina's neck explodes. A small flash of light fills the room. A wave of blood flies through the air. Candice Hess, the girl who sat behind Christina, is sprayed with blood and ash. When the flash fades, Christina's head lays on the floor next to her desk. Her headless body slumps onto her desk and quickly bleeds out. The look on Christina's disembodied face is one of surprise. I look at her stump. God, I could see her spinal cord, all red and bloody. Christina's head is quickly retrieved by a soldier and placed in a large black trash bag. Her body was left at her desk. Candice let out a loud shriek. She goes on like that for a few seconds before stopping and going into a crying fit. Mr. Stephens straightens his tie and sighs.

 

“I believe that was inappropriate.” Mr. Stephens said. Aaron Albright, the only openly gay boy in the school, laughs loudly and feverishly.

 

Mr. Stephens clears his throat and speaks calmly, still smiling. “Students, our time together is almost over. If you try to enter the area around the school, your collars will detonate. If you try to enter the beach, in some feeble attempt to escape, your collars will detonate. If more then one player is still alive by the end of a three-day period all collars will detonate. When you are handed your weapons you will also be given food rations to last several weeks, several bottles of water, a few bars of soap, and ammunition if your weapon requires any. One last thing, as soon as you leave this building you are no longer students. You are servants of the public. Givers of entertainment. You are contestants. Celebrities in the making. Some of you will doubt it, but I guarantee all of you will play. Everyone plays. Now, let's start handing out weapons, brave contestants.” Mr. Stephens pulls another list from his pants pocket and begins to call out names. “Victor Adams, boy number one.”

 

Victor Adams, my friend and in my opinion the coolest kid in school, goes to the front of the class and takes a duffle bag. He then leaves the room, a very unsure look on his face. Mr. Stephens continues to call names.

 

“Samantha Barrack, girl number one.”

 

More names come and I recognize all of them. For the first time in my life, I hate that. I know that almost all of these people where going to die. Also for the first time in my life, I realize something else. The Leader had promised us that we where all worthy and important. I can't believe I thought he meant that bullshit. We're nothing but meat to these people. Chris was right. They're auctioning off our flesh to the public in order to keep things in line. I hate this. I hate you, Mr. Stephens. I hate Battle Royale. I hate the Leader. I hate America. I am going to beat this. I'm taking these bastards down, one way or another. There has to be a better world then this. I decide from this point on, I am going to swear more.

 

My name (boy number nine) comes soon enough. The tears stopped a while ago, instead they where replaced with anger and visions of bloody revenge, against whom, I'm not sure, but revenge none the less. I quickly take my bag and walked toward the door. I open the door and look out at the forest ahead of me. I run forward as fast as I could and never looked back.

 

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End of chapter two.

 

“38 contestants remaining!”