14 June 2012
It had been three days since we were drafted. 3 days of hard graft, of senseless murder, of sleepless nights. I could see the scores lined on the Walls of the sky. The arena, of course, was ten times as big for us, but then again, we were all victims here.
Our motley crew was a disjointed, unstable, but, overall, efficient team, equipped with some of the worst combat skills ever invented.
Dermot, the tame hedgehog, rocked in his little plastic chair as the night drew in. I could see the sky reflected in his eyes: the dying sun glinting onto the stainless steel butter knife he clutched, knuckles White from stress. His earlier encounter with a giant, and extremely obtuse centipede had ended in tears, on both sides, leaving the fatragrate to scuttle under a massive rock and cry for five minutes, before narrowly escaping a horde of angry bees.
We had started out on the south side of the island, with the rest of the general public, but slowly trekked to the more hilly north to find shelter and food. Everyone had either volunteered or been selected for the fight, with Promises of food for your family and a free pen bandied about with little care.
The three of us were still waiting for Mary, the flash-jumping weasel, to teleport back here with food, as the stars set in and every shadow suddenly started to look more ominous. For days we had been out in the jungle. Alone. Each one of us had had to kill to survive. I myself had earlier duelled with the nice elderly couple from room 2B, leaving them face-down in the river, for the fish to eat.
By some extreme coincidence, we had all found eachother in the same tree: the four smallest candidates to enter, bound up together by the biggest living thing on the island. I, one of the little Red people, had to be thankful that the weather had been mild, or else I might have melted. Dermot was originally a cameraman for the event, but fell out of the helecopter after a particularly dramatic breakage of wind. Mary had flash-jumped into the area by accident, and was unable to break out, and so far, we had not even been able to get Aristotle the lobster to talk at all.
Dark had risen by this time, and all that could be heard was the far-away sound of brutal massacre, and the Clickity Clacking of Aristotle's claws as he snored. My red, transparent skin was not exactly the most useful camouflage in the world, but at night I could easily pass for a nervously done poo if trodden on.
All kinds of species had been dragged into the event. For the first few days I could see hawker hurricane angels flying too and fro, before the frogmen's marching band found some ground to air missiles and blew the lot to smithereens. Even a couple of Glarces had been seen, poncing about and talking of their own might, before they were quickly dispatched by a Yast with a garlic crusher.
We had thought of calling ourselves 'Small & Mighty', so we might one day be remembered, but we soon realised this abbreviated to S&M, and promptly dropped the idea.
My eyelids were beginning to close, and the warm sky had almost started to appear natural, even though the stars spelt out "you're going to die soon" and "ha ha ha hahahahaha", but then I felt something. A movement from below. I peered down through the branches of my tree. Light. Cold, electric, light. I could hear voices, too. Hushed whispers in the darkness. Dermot must have heard them too, as I heard the click of his flat-pack chair closing, and the slight rustle of his branch as he shifted place.
They were too quiet to hear, but I could make out the shape of a giant rabbit, a Poirem, and a young woman furtively clutching a machine gun. And then I heard a breath behind me. A low, close breath. with the new light, I could see Dermot sleeping comfortably, his chair still unfolded. My back arched. My head went rigid. I had not heard the click of a chair behind me. I had heard the click of a gun.
OBR: The Four Smallest Candidates • Opuss № I