Battle Royale UK :: Prolouge

Battle Royale UK :: Prolouge

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"Eleven past nine? FUCK!"

Emma had glanced at her watch as she jogged down Broker Street. In her back pack (a bag of the ‘dull pink coloured with a faded cartoon cat image’ variety. She had meant to purchase a new 'more stylish' bag for a while now but due to putting the task off, had yet to do so) the few contents inside of it clashed together with each step she made.

Once again, Emily Anderson was late for school.

It was no surprise to any of her classmates that Emma had missed the morning register. The last time she was on time for a morning lesson must have been around two years ago, where her English teacher; a fragile old woman, almost had a heart attack from the shock of it all. At this point, most teachers had given up on punishing her. To be fair, terrible time keeping and scruffy appearance aside, she was a good student. She was polite and would constantly get above-average marks. The one exception to this of course was Physical Education, where the burley sports teacher's had long put her down as a lost cause for any sporting event many years ago.

So no, it was no surprise that she was late once again. Not that this made her feel any less guilty. She was well aware of her own laziness but no matter what steps she would take to be more efficient, she would always find something to distract her (What was it this time? Oh yeah, I saw that new magazine in the shops today. The one with the key ring. But then I got browsing and lost track of time in the process)

"Quarter-past,” she sighed, glancing at her watch once again. “DAMMIT! Not today!"

She tried to jog a bit faster, her curly brown hair looking far messier then usual as the wind blew against her. Her mother would always try to make her tidy herself up just a little.

"Emily Marie Anderson!" Her rants would always start this way, as if the addition of her middle name would persuade her to do as she was told "If you would just brush your hair and present yourself in a more ladylike manner, you would be beating off those boys with a stick." Of course, every time her mother would straighten her hair, her father would be in the next room ready to mess it up again with a "Hey there honey. Have your hair however you want. Now come out and play a bit of football with your old man and your little sister." Her mother would always scold him, telling him to stop treating their daughters like boys. She would never stay mad at him for long however (How could she? It was impossible, even as a rebelling teenager, to stay mad at the biggest kid in the house) and sometimes, she would even come out and play with them. Dad would keep saying how her mum could have played for England's women team, to which she would just shake her blushing head.

"Oh shut up Henry, don't be silly." Before adding a much quieter "I wasn't THAT good."

"Seventeen minutes past!” It was time to focus on the task at hand. “Oh god, please still be there, please."

She was unable to run anymore due the stitch that had been building up ever since she had started jogging was just too much now, so she changed to a fast walk. She was quite slim and healthy in appearance, but her stamina was admittedly horrible. (If only I was more like my little sister. Hedgehill Primary School's star female striker, yeah!)

It was somewhat ironic. Had this been any normal day, she would have been on time, as lessons at St Greensworth were scheduled to start at half past nine. But today was not about a maths lesson. No, this was Year 11's big trip. THE trip. The last one before all the exams and the last one her class would ever get to go on together. She wanted to get there on time, just this once. Really, she did. But alas, her she was, now twenty minutes late. She still had one last hope that they would hold up the bus for her. I mean, it was to be expected that she would be late and it wouldn't be a class trip without the one Emma Anderson.

She turned the last corner to St Greensworth Secondary School preparing to wave to the 35 other impatient students and her teacher, Mr Graves "Graves is one of those cool teachers." she giggled "We'll have a laugh about it and then we can get this trip underway! WOO!"

But the bus wasn't there.

"... what?"

She moved a little faster, looking up and down the road for any sign of a bus hiding behind a wall, ready to pull out as everyone laughed at her look of terror. Ha ha. Very funny. Now let me in guys.

But there was no bus. Anywhere. There were only a few younger students hanging out around the school entrance. An unusual sight for Emma. Usually when she arrived, the gates would be empty aside from the odd late kid who had overslept and a few problem children who decided the cool thing to do was to not go to lessons at all. Every now and again, she would even see the headmaster, Mr Hammersmith, putting the group in their place, sending them off to class as if sending them to the electric chair. School boys, walking the mile. Walking the green mile.

A trio of small year 8 girl's confirmed her unfortunate suspicions. The bus had held on for a bit, yes. (They also mentioned that a really tall guy came at about ten past and just made it. That must have been Matt Olsen. Nice boy. A bit too goofy looking for her tastes though.) But at quarter past it couldn't wait any longer and pulled off in the opposite direction that Emma was arriving from.

Emma shuffled through the school gates, the fading pink bag now dragging along the asphalt. There were supervisors put in place for students not going on the trip, but as far as she knew, everyone in her class was going (Even that freaky guy at the back, Alexander, looked excited about it) so the chances of them being prepared for her arrival were slim. Not that she would feel like a fun filled day of insultingly simple puzzles with only a teacher’s aid for company anyway. She missed THE school trip. She felt like just dropping to her knees and crying her eyes out right there in the middle of the school yard. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. 'Maybe,' she thought to herself 'Maybe I should ring June and apologise for missing it. Tell her to have fun without me.'

Then a thought struck her.

Quickly, she lifted her bag onto her shoulders and moved towards Mr Hammersmith's office. She had been in this room so many times before that she could get to the room blindfolded. (Left after the maths corridor, straight through the technology department.) Mr Hammersmith wasn't as bad as alot of students and even some teachers would think. Tired of giving her the same lectures on punctuality, he would often tell Emma stories about his own family and fun memorable students. (Emma was apparently one of them. How touching.) In a way, he was like a kindly old grandfather; gruff around the edges but on the inside, a heart of gold. She was sure he could persuade Graves to turn the bus round or even, while the thought of old Mr Hammersmith and young Emma Atkinson side by side in his rusty old car chasing this speeding bus to their destination was amusing to her, he may even escort her there personally. He was cool like that.

"Morning Mrs. Cratchit!"

The spectacled old lady with her sharp nose and tied-up grey hair looked away from the computer screen to see the familiar freckled beaming smile she would often be met with just about every morning. "Oh, good morning dear. Late again are-" she paused mid-sentence and glanced at the clock "Weren’t you meant to be on a field trip today Emily?"

Emma blushed "Yeah. But you know, it's me and I'm, well, you know-"

Mrs Cratchit rolled her eyes and let out a sigh of disbelief. "Somehow, I'm not surprised dear. Mr. Hammersmith is on the phone right now but if you just take a seat, I'm sure he'll sort you out in a minute."

"Thanks miss."

Emma took the familiar seat outside of the office and gazed around the room, the tapping of the computer keyboard could be heard over the ticking of the large clock that was just above the door frame. 9:28. Lessons will be starting in a couple of minutes and the bus was already 13 minutes away. Come on sir, hurry up! If I don't get moving, I'll never catch up to that bus on time. She kicked at the ground as old Mrs. Cratchit remained hunched over her desk, her nose and crooked back simply adding to her image of an aging vulture perched alone in the desert.

A shout of anger echoed out from the office.

Emma almost jumped out of her skin. She noticed from the look on Mrs. Cratchit's face that she too had been taken aback by this sudden outburst from the usually calm headmaster. Emma had never heard him this angry before. Even when telling off the particularly bad children, he never raised his voice quite like that. Just who was he taking to?

"Did you hear me dear?"

Huh? Emma span round in her seat, she hadn't noticed that old Mrs. Cratchit had moved over to her.

"I said I'm just going to go check if everything's ok. I'll be back in a minute."

Emma silently nodded. As she watched the old woman open and close the door, she caught a glimpse of the portly old man inside slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. The phone was off the hook but hanging off the desk.

What was that he said just then? Outrageous? Disgusting? Something about bringing those children back right now?

Maybe it was just some high achieving student pulling out of the school for some reason. But then again, why would Mr. Hammersmith get so angry about someone leaving? People leave schools all the time. No, this had to be much worse.

Perhaps there was a mad man in school, currently making demands to the headmaster before he starts shooting. A horrible killing spree! In this school? Oh please no. But then, why would they leave a defenceless girl out here in the open like this? No, that didn't quite add up. Besides, no-one should be in their classrooms yet.

Had... Did it have something to do with her class perhaps? The one that had left on that bus just 15 minutes ago. Her mind filled with all sorts of bizarre scenarios.
What if Mr. Graves had taken her class to something 15 year old boys and girls shouldn't be subjected to, like a real life 18 movie? Would Mr. Graves get fired?

But what if it was worse? Maybe the bus had crashed? Then all her classmates had... no, Emma no. He said something about giving them back. They can't have crashed. Their fine Emma. Relax.

Wait. What if terrorists had-?

A bell rang and a startled Emma jumped from her seat. She almost forgot where she was. She looked over at the office door, still closed. She could swear she heard some soft crying in there. Was that Mrs. Cratchit? She sat down again, the sounds of muffled tears almost drowned out by the constant ticking of the old clock above the door. Emma sat there for a few minutes, thoughts spiralling inside her head. Maybe it wasn't her school bus. She should probably stop jumping to conclusions, but based on a timetable sheet on the wall, her class was the only one scheduled not to be there that day. It could have been something else but based on the circumstances; she just couldn't help but think it had something to do with her class mates.

The wait was driving her insane. I need to know, she thought. Are my friends ok? Gingerly, she stood up from the chair, her bag in hand. She edged towards the door and opened it slightly. This all seemed like a build up to a cheesy horror movie.

The door creaked as she peered inside. Mr. Hammersmith was gazing out of the window while Mrs. Cratchit was sitting in his chair, head in hands, seemingly crying. Mrs. Cratchit, a weak woman in appearance as it was, now seemed like that lone widow standing over her husbands grave. Mr. Hammersmith, despite being slightly overweight and shorter then the average man (Emma herself was around a centimetre taller then him) he still looked like a man of power. His large beard, bushy eyebrows and receding hairline gave him the appearance of a balding lion, the great head of the pack that the young lions respected and the lioness’ cherished. A proud yet kind man, if he wanted you to listen, you would hear him out. But of course, he would be more then happy to hear what you had to say as well before giving you the perfect advice. Emma was sure he was the wisest man she had ever met.

But right now, as he wiped his brow due to the sweat seemingly pouring off of him, this proud man looked broken. This kind man looked lost. This wise man looked, for the first time ever, like he just didn’t know the answer.

"Umm" she murmured "Sir? Miss? Is everything.... everything ok in here?"

Mr Hammersmith span around. His sad eyes instantly lighting up at the sight of Emma. "MISS ANDERSON! YOU’RE ALIVE!" What an odd thing to say. Mrs Cratchit also looked surprised. I guess she forgot I was out there, shrugged Emma.

Then something very strange happened. Old man Hammersmith was hugging Emma with all his might! "Oh thank goodness you were late. Thank goodness."

"Sir-?" Emma had no idea what to make of this scenario anymore.

As if returning to a harsh reality, Mr Hammersmith looked down at the ground, and then over to Mrs Cratchit. He indicated for Mrs Cratchit to go make some tea for him and Emma. Mrs Cratchit, with a handkerchief in hand, slowly left the room weeping. At this point, the headmaster was guiding Emma to the chair opposite his own large chair. It resembled a throne. A throne fit for a king.

"Please take a seat" Emma noticed that Mr Hammersmith now sounded alot more solemn. He seemed to be trying to find a different way to say what he needed to say but the words wouldn’t come. After a few seconds he decided it was best to just say it.

"This is regarding your class."

Emma froze. She was right. Something bad had happened to them. But oh god, what? Had she avoided it just because she was late again? Oh and Matt, he was late too, but they waited for him! Doe’s that mean if they left at nine like planned, Matt Olsen would be in here with her and not… oh god. The headmaster took her silence as a sign to continue.

"Our ever crumbling government has decided that our country is lacking discipline, especially in youths such as you. In an attempt to straighten the trouble makers out, they've taken a page or two from Japan, or as they would prefer to be called these days, the Republic of Greater East Asia. You've covered this in Geography correct?" Emma silently nodded. Japan had become a police state right? She had learnt that despite many of its great technological exports, many horrible events would occur behind the scenes. Compared to them, the English were free to do whatever they like; though she supposed it could be said that the nation had begun to run out of control. Even her own class had the odd delinquent among them who could be described as one 'of them trouble makers'. But what did this all have to do with her class?

"As it stands." It seemed like Mr Hammersmith had paused long enough for Emma to take it all in. "They have decided to incorporate what is simply called the program. And unfortunately," At this point the tears were welling up in his eyes but he was able to hold himself together, presumably for Emma’s sake. "I have just been informed that our year 11 class A2, your friends; and in theory, you as well, were randomly chosen as the first British participants of this, for lack of a better word, blood sport. Right now, they are being transported to the location of the program and there is sadly nothing you, I or anyone can apparently do about it. Unless we should expect a long time placed inside a jail cell. Thankfully, this government is above killing random people on the street who appose the idea. At the moment anyway." He looked away.

"..."

Emma had tried to say something, but her mouth had gone dry and her thoughts clouded. She took a sip of the water bottle in her old bag, originally stored for the bus journey.

"S-sir. I don't quite understand. Bl-blood sport? The program? Just what is going on sir?" She kind of wished she didn’t ask.
At this point, the headmaster must have felt useless. There was nothing he could do like he said, but he shouldn't be blaming himself right? He didn't know it was going to happen; whatever IT actually as.

"I'm-" He paused. How DO you explain this to a 15 year old girl? I suppose now is as good a time then any. He tried to word this as best as he could

"Take the Americans. Just like the Japanese, they are run as a police state. Their method to help eliminate the problems in society is a variation of this program. A small select bunch of criminals; often murderers, drug barons and rapists, are placed in an isolated location. They are then giving one instruction." He paused again. Come on sir, spill the beans! "Kill or be killed."

Emma was obviously taken aback by this, but in a way, it makes sense. Small time criminals would be afraid of committing crime in fear of being placed in this program while the truly evil men would kill each other with no extra expense for the American taxpayer. Everybody wins right? Well, aside from those that died.

"The winner gets to go free, carefully monitored of course should he or she take up some old habits.” Emma nodded. “However.”

However? As soon as she said this, Emma glanced over at the door, hoping Mrs. Cratchit would walk in, tea in hand and just say that everything would be ok. She knew what was coming in the back of the mind. She just didn’t want to hear it.

"The Japanese,” he continued. “They have a similar idea. Except instead of convicts they send off a class of innocent teenagers to their deaths."

No. This is a joke right. Emma wasn't sure but she was sure her face had long gone pale at this point. Chances are, her freckles were the only sign of colour still on her cheeks.

"Yes unfortunately, that is the way of the Program. That is what they call Battle Royale. School friends fight to the death in a pointless “game”. The children kill each other to please a small twisted group of bureaucrats. One must win.” He thought against saying this next part, but at this point, he didn’t really have much of a choice “Or all of them will die."

This can't be happening. No, you mean, I will only see one of my friends again, if any of them come back at all? And if one doe's come back, that means he or she killed... oh god no. Emma’s mind raced once more. She pictured the twisted and contorted faces of her classmates, stacked up in a blood stained mess. The familiar faces of her friends looked to be still, their expressions fixed in a permanent state of pain. The scene was reminiscent of one of those cheap gory horror films, where the only intent was to disgust you with its sheer amount of violence. There was someone perched on top of the pile of corpses; she couldn’t tell who, smiling in their now blood stained uniform.

Why would anyone think this was a good idea? How could this be allowed?

"But thankfully.” The headmaster’s voice continued, as he tried to put on a brave face. Thankfully? What was thankful about all this? “You arrived late, as can be expected from you. You arriving late has in fact saved your life." He placed his hand on her shoulder and forced a smile. I guess one safe student was better then no safe students. "You, Miss Anderson. You are a very lucky girl. Thank goodness you’re safe."

"Yeah" she croaked. She could feel tears rolling down her cheeks "I guess I’m real lucky."

So why don't I feel lucky?


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