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"Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."

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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"	07-20-06, 11:54 AM (EST)
"Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."
LAST EDITED ON 07-23-06 AT 08:13 AM (EST) -------------------------------------------------------- *Before* -------------------------------------------------------- *{Topic Title: The Players, The Game, The Editing: Society Islands}* {Gardener and DESMOND are visibly in conflict for the leadership of Turare, while Haraiki seems to follow the leader of the moment. (In particular, compare this to Angela's attempts to seize any kind of long-term control, and the resistance she sees from her own tribe...)} {...if anyone's seen Phillip's story arc, please report to the front desk immediately...} {...MARY-JANE is being shown as smarter than our average eye candy, but all that intelligence seems focused on how she can best use her looks to her advantage...} {...if Connie is getting the villain's edit-- regardless of what the multiple locked threads in Fanatics think -- Alex, as her given counter, is not necessarily being shown as a hero...} {ELMORE proves that if the cast-to-lose theory hadn't existed before he came along, he would have forced its invention.} {...we only know TONY through his romance with Angela, and that's not a good sign -- the camera treats her as an individual and him as an adjunct...} {...the biggest question mark of the week came from ALEX's tarot card reading. We have to remember the first principle of series editing here: we are never shown anything that we're not meant to see. Somehow, the cards we saw -- and perhaps even the one that was hidden -- are going to come into play here. Most of this is likely to come from the editing. It's easy to work those themes into a season. Death? We see a little death every week, each time a torch gets snuffed. Temptation, unexpected twists, moon images -- none of that would be very difficult to evoke just in the course of normal editing. Burnett must have thrown a party when this footage hit the table: it gives him all the storyline he could possibly want, and he won't need to do much to get it. In that sense, the cards likely mean nothing real: it's just a plot hook to hang Alex's story on -- and the story told will be what the editing wants us to see. Mystic-based discussions on the meanings of those cards and what the last one might have been are best reserved for the appropriate thread. However, what this episode did do is establish Alex as a long-term character. We've had hints from Jeff's pregame statements that she either makes the jury or just misses it. I think this confirms her as being around until the merge at an absolute minimum, and also indicates that subsequent episodes will continue to focus on her here and there until she's finally voted out, with extra emphasis where Tarot parallels can be found. Normally, she would seem to be a strange choice for a temporary main character. While Alex's ability to provoke emotional responses in viewers can't be disputed -- see any one of the forty-seven locked threads in Bashers for details -- and her occasional insights that seem to have her playing the game against the game make her interesting to watch for strategy followers, she's very low-key. Watch her during challenges: she has the weakest emotional responses of any contestants to victories -- just barely acknowledges them -- and is equally quiet during failure. As we've seen in her confessionals, she can be irritated, she does get angry -- but that's in private, and most of that has been shunted into the Survivor Gold program. If not for her activities, she would almost be lost among the stronger, louder personalities of her own tribe. Under normal editing, we might expect Alex to fly under the radar for a few episodes before getting a momentary focus just prior to her exodus. That was blown out of the water the instant the cross came out. We're clearly meant to follow her. We just don't know where she's going.} ------------------------------------------------------------------ *After* The knocking started before I could reach the bed. More of a pounding, really. Someone wanted to hurt something, and the door just happened to be there. I peered through the security port. Ms. Bracia was staring back at me, looking decidedly unhappy. She lived three floors down in the largest of the apartments, with two small children, one angry cat, and a series of visitors that were eventually supposed to filter down to one workable husband. It hadn't worked so far, although her continued attempts to find something that would had left her with a vast supply of lingerie, some of which she wore to collect her mail from the entrance boxes -- and two small children, plus the cat, left behind by one of the longer-term visitors: two months. She was wearing some of her silks now, a peek-a-boo nightie with the window areas temporarily tied shut. There was probably someone waiting for her return. It wouldn't be her children. Her children spent a lot of time elsewhere. "Yes?" I called out. Opening the door wasn't an option yet. "I want to talk to you, Cole!" Words very slightly blurring into each other. Apparently the party had started both early and often. "About what?" No, this door could definitely stay shut until further notice. She leaned in towards the lens. One of the ties started to slip. "Which neighbor did you want to get kicked out of the building?" Oh, for... "Mr. Brooks." Instant, neutral, flavorless. She paused, leaned back. Her nose stopped taking up two-thirds of her face. "Oh..." The shift in emotional gears was clearly producing the same sort of grinding I usually heard from people taking driver's ed burning out their first clutch. She knew she needed to get into another mode, but had no real idea what it should be. "Well... I guess that's okay, then..." "Fine." Still no tone to it. "Good night." "Um -- yeah..." She started to turn, glanced back at the lens. "Sorry to bother you..." And back down the stairs. I wearily shook my head and turned off the light. Ms. Bracia... well, it wasn't as if I liked her. We didn't move in the same circles and I saw no need to schedule my trips to the front door around the idea of seducing the mailman. I felt sorry for her kids, and I knew other people had felt enough of the same for CPS to visit her every couple of weeks, but so far, nothing was happening, which was the usual result with CPS. Drop by, make noises, generate paperwork, leave. But she hadn't been who I was thinking of when I'd said the line in confessional. Mr. Brooks wasn't either. It had just been a metaphor. Metaphors were lost on most of the people in the building. They lived for here and now, maybe next week on the outside, anything that existed outside of what they could see wasn't worth paying attention to -- and what they wanted to see existed on a very local scale. While I obviously wasn't the only person in the building who watched reality shows, there were days when I swore I was the lone person who kept up with world news. Things happened every day beyond my doorstep, and even if I would never see, influence, or be a part of them, I wanted to know what they were. I needed to know that there was more to the world than a few cities and a hill. And now I'd been out there -- and my neighbors didn't know how to deal with it. The more religious had shot me dirty looks every time they saw me on the staircase, but they hadn't felt any need to say anything yet -- at least, not with me that close and able to respond. A couple who thought they were being funny had tried hitting me up for loans, and don't worry: they'd pay me back. It's not as if I needed to worry about money with a million dollars in my pocket, right? (I had patiently explained that any payment I might receive for being on the show wouldn't be issued until after my final episode was aired, whenever that might be, and as such, I was on my normal budget until that time. Or in other words: steal a cell phone, then call someone who cares.) One enterprising soul was trying to get information out of me with the I-will-never-stop-asking-questions-until-you-finally-break method, bombarding me with pointless queries about everything he'd seen on the show, from the style of the opening credits to the number of flaming sticks in the production company logo during the closing ones. I gave him the same response every time: I kept walking. No answers, no dismissals, not even an acknowledgment of his existence. On Tuesday, he'd finally shown the first cracks when he screamed after me. "Damn it, Cole! Give me something I can sell!" Pass. Although if he could get over five million for the information, I'd consider splitting it with him if we assumed equal responsibility for the fine. I got under the covers and stared at the ceiling. The scars were itching again: purely psychosomatic, but the quick scratching provided real relief. Behind my head, the quasi-muffled sound of breaking glass came through the wall as still another bottle managed to offend Mr. Brooks by being inexplicably empty. It had been a very long week. ------------------------------------------------- Before ------------------------------------------------- {Has anyone seen the latest annoying riddle from our Sucks correspondent? He's late this week.} {So are all the other spoilers. I can't remember a season that was this locked down. I think part of it was the isolation: they really brought in their own crew, didn't hire many locals from the other islands -- the more long-timers they had, the less chance of anyone talking. We've got predictions across the board for this episode, but they're all based on preview analysis and best guesses. We don't have a boot order set in stone this time. It's kind of refreshing -- but it's also really annoying.} {Majority picks from our not-talking-to-each-other-really section of the Internet: Reward to Turare, Immunity to Haraiki -- which would mean Alex, as the logical boot, gets voted out. Which would make the editing people feel really stupid and the Tarot card group retreat back into the dreamcatchers from whence they came, but that's their best deduction from that challenge footage. Which still might mean Alex finds the hidden idol and bounces the boot to someone else, but...} {Y'know, she's not as good at bouncing as I thought she'd be. What's she wearing under those long-sleeve blouses, steel?} {We're all agreed that the prior annoying riddle referred to the Tarot reading, right? Truth without an end -- no last card...} {Pretty much. So that guy at least believes the show will be edited to follow the deck. I agree with the editing people that far, anyway: it'll be easy to find those images. This is why fortune tellers can get away with the scam: everything's so general, you can make just about anything apply -- and when you have a full-scale production team behind you and get the bonus of taking things out of sequence...} {And we have our riddle! 'Those who listen are those who learn. Those who learn are those who wish they could forget.' Does anyone know what minimum wage is for a hit man?} {Just checked Alex's forum: the hate posts are slowing down. I think that warning scared some people. Also, it's been a whole week and their attention spans are starting to run dry.} {Heh. You haven't seen the half of it. Do you read any other web comics?} --------------------------------------------------- After --------------------------------------------------- The title was easy to spot: {I hope you see this II} *{Alex,* It's called Clicks For Cole, and it was easier to arrange than I thought it would be. The old principle was altered a little: once you have the heart, the rest of the body follows. Apparently the heart is Abrams. Once he came in, most of the other cartoonists fell in line behind him. The program is simple: a thousand web cartoonists with banners on their sites, all directing click benefits towards you for the duration of the show. All proceeds go to pay off your bandwidth bill and keep your site alive while the onslaught continues. There may or may not be excess: those who go to see what all the fuss is about will also add to the expenses -- but this should hopefully keep you at break-even until the end. (I expect the heaviest activity to be in the first few weeks, then a drop-off, and then possibly a surge.) You'd be surprised at some of the names supporting you, I think. From the little that I knew about Darlington and McDonald, I was surprised when they signed on. Not so much for Taylor, who basically said that if he didn't join in, his wife would have killed him. Burlew's on board, of course, and Milholland, then Palmer showed up... It was easiest to get the X-rated artists on board. I know that won't help your image with the protesters any, but there's nothing you can do right now to improve their feelings towards you, so file that under 'no harm done, no further harm possible'. They were the quickest to understand: that this was about the right to self-publish your work without having someone trying to stop you out of their own misplaced sense of morality. They have to deal with it every day, and when they saw you dealing with it, they rallied behind you. That's what this is about at the core: freedom of expression. Explain it that way, and they started to arrive in droves. You're probably gritting your teeth right now. I don't think you like receiving whatever you can perceive as charity. But -- too late. It's in place, and it'll continue until it's no longer needed. I did it: you can't stop it. I told them to ignore any screaming you do about it. The ones you've done art exchanges with were vaguely amused. So. The cards are now in play. The debates have already started across the Internet as to what they mean (if anything) and why they were shown. Some of the clever ones think the show will be edited around the cards, and usually, they'd have a point there. They're waiting to see how the footage is distorted to match the reading, and Burnett could do it. We both know he's capable of rising to what's barely a challenge this time. Except that they're wrong. The show will not be edited around the reading. It doesn't have to be. When it starts, the reading will begin to control the show, and nothing any film editor can do will change that. *Remember: stay low. Keep your profile down. Play under the radar, and yes, I can see the irony there.* *Normally, I could say 'This is going to be the hard part.' But I know what came after, and comparing it to what's going on now, you may have just about an even match to deal with.* *Nearly.* *Stay strong. I'll see you later.}* Stay strong... I hadn't completely retreated into a shell of thin apartment walls and multiple locks, but I had tried to -- minimize -- my contact with the outside world. I wasn't going to run from every possible problem, but I hadn't gone out of my way to confront them, either. I had traveled just enough to meet my commitments. Shopping, and that was at least once every three days whether I absolutely needed to starve myself or not. Picking up the books, and that had been fun: I'd had to take a bus for that one, because hauling two hundred freshly completed paperback collections up the hill was not something I wanted to do unless there was an Immunity necklace waiting at the other end of it. (I'd still needed to carry them six blocks from the bus stop to my building, moving a box off the top of the pile, carrying it fifty feet, starting a new pile, and then restacking everything before starting it all over again. Three boxes, eighty pounds, about an hour. No one had helped.) Going outside for walks early in the morning when virtually no one else was up, getting some fresh air and checking the curbsides for lost change, because those bus rides didn't pay for themselves. It's a habit: always look for money, always pick it up when it's found. Even in a neighborhood as cash-poor as mine, people neglect the pennies and dimes that lie at the edge of the gutters. (Nickels are rare.) I flick my finger into coin returns on autopilot, check the floor near cash registers as a matter of course. In a typical month of just walking around on daily business, I can clear seventy-five cents a day, and that's counting the occasional hit at the 'please deposit a quarter to get a shopping cart, then run for your car without getting it back' supermarkets. Twenty-two dollars and fifty cents a month. Call it two hundred and seventy dollars a year. That's a full winter of heating bills right there, although it's cheaper to bundle up and just use the heat when my fingers have to be limber enough to draw. It all adds up. People always gave me funny looks when they saw me doing it, and some of them even threw coins at me to see if I'd gather them, especially on the other side of the hill, where a dollar bill lying on the sidewalk just isn't worth the effort. And of course I will, thank you for the donation, this is going to let me take one layer of sweaters off for a few minutes. (Some of them have asked me for the money back after I finished collecting it. I've had some fascinating arguments on that subject. Watching me pick up coins amuses you? Consider what you threw to be your admission fee. I've been having that discussion since I was in grade school, and none of the counters I've heard have been able to override that one. (That doesn't include the physical attempts at recovery, but those mostly stopped after junior high.)) Right now, my gathering had been curtailed just because I couldn't go outside as much: not fear, just a lot of commissions to get out, and I draw those indoors most of the time. But these days, picking up money sent another signal to anyone watching. Not just 'she's poor' or 'she's desperate' or 'she must be some kind of cheap Jew', which I heard a lot, also starting in grade school. (And all the way through twelfth grade -- bigots don't mature.) Now when they see me harvesting the scant crop of copper, some of them think 'She didn't win.' There's been a lot of laughter lately upon seeing me picking up pennies, and a lot of mistaken assumptions about my religion. I guess for some of them, it also explains the perceived misuse of the cross. Thrown coins -- but not thrown bottles. A week, and there had only been the one attack. I'd found a few nasty notes in my physical mailbox, most of them badly spelled and the remainder in something other than English, but there had been no ticking packages. The Email received on the first day had been the strongest surge -- over twenty thousand pieces in twenty-four hours -- and then things had dropped off from there. I had a hardcore locked-in following of some two thousand people who were out to either save my soul or condemn it, but the others said their piece and then dropped out of the race, with a few latecomers every day who've presumably just gotten around to unloading their TiVo. My site's traffic had stayed high -- easier to click and try for the overload than to write a new letter every day, or see if there's a second form to send -- but the new sales were still covering things, and now the banner program was there, too. I thought I could stay afloat, at least until the next crisis hit, I hadn't heard much from Officer Ramirez. Two messages on my answering machine: there had been some smudged prints on the bottle, but they hadn't matched anything in the database. The car had been recovered, but it had been empty and -- this had surprised her -- the interior had been wiped down. Revealing here, incompetent there. She wasn't sure what it meant, other than that the occupants may have had second thoughts once they sobered up a little. Also, she was working with others on the DVD I'd given her (and I was going to drop off a new one soon), and the people who'd been stupid enough to make their return addresses public were receiving some interesting letters themselves, courtesy of their local police departments. A few of them had backed off in a hurry, while still more had gone for 'What? That's not from my computer! Someone must be simulating my account! I'll go to court over this!' (One or two of them might have even been telling the truth.) Similarly, the news agencies and sensationalists couldn't report the same story every day: while a few had taken my 'I can't talk now' and turned it into the world-destroying 'no comment' of their choice, it was only good for a show or two, and then they needed either a new victim or for the old one to do something else they could use. I wasn't sure how they'd react to the second episode, although I was sure Trina was in for a few interesting letters of her own. Insults on the sidewalks, accusations in parking lots, people revving their engines, and more honks than ever as I went down the narrow trails. They haven't learned: I can't be startled by something I'm always expecting. And so far, no fights. No, I don't like charity. I've seen too much of it never reach me. But from my fellow cartoonists, I could accept and appreciate it. This program was hotwired directly into my PayPal account, and I'd know how well it was working by the end of the day. It wasn't about viewpoints or politics or religion: this was about something we all knew far too well. Keep your work alive. Someone will always be fighting to kill it. In that much, if nothing else, we could all stand together. I decided to write a thank-you letter and send it to all the participants: it was the least I could do. The program probably wouldn't be as effective as my correspondent hoped -- getting people to click is actually one of the hardest things to do -- but every bit would help, and who knew? Some more book and art orders might come from it. Being able to keep my site going still wasn't a guarantee, but when enough pennies get together, they can support a lot of weight. Every day, a few people might try to help me. Every day, people condemned me to suffer. Every day, people prayed for my soul. Every day, people wanted to end my life, rape my body, destroy my work... So much of what I'd seen on television about the show had been a lie, and the biggest one had been this: thirty-nine days. That was the maximum time anyone would deal with it, excepting a few semi-lucky players from Australia. Out early and waiting in Sequesterville, sitting it out on the jury, a final two sitting in front of them. Thirty-nine days, and done. Thirty-nine days, served up three at a time in ninety-minute exerts that tell so little of what actually happened -- thirty-nine days can echo forever... --------------------------------------------------------- Before --------------------------------------------------------- {It's Week #3, and the forces of disrespect, corruption, and one-day-illegal use of iconography are still standing!} {For another hour and a half. Your own people agree that this is her week to go out.} {First: why do you keep thinking of us as a group? We don't even think of ourselves as a group. We're a bunch of individuals with one thing in common: we need someone else to argue with. Come to think of it, if you take it that far, you're part of the group -- oops. I went too far. Second: the spoilers are scant, they've been wrong before -- in fact, so far this season, the guy with the best record is the Riddlemaster, and so far, he's one for two. Hooray for 'our side'.} {And you haven't figured out Cole is in this for the money and attention yet? Those banners must be making her a fortune!} {Average banner payout: one-twentieth of a cent per click. Before expenses. Just in case you were wondering what 'fortune' meant in this context. Oh, speaking of fortunes, has anyone visited Trina's new site?} {When did Trina put a site up?} {Two days after the last episode. No mail link, so I guess she saw that one coming. It's just a front page that shows Alex's hand -- seven up, one down -- and some fancy font that says 'Watch the cards'. Nothing else. So she thinks the editing is going to support her, and she's standing by to make something off it once it does. Probably a lot more than a twentieth of a cent per click.} {It supports what she said on the Early Show.} {Which was?} {We've got a thread for it, y'know. But just in case your poor tired site-refreshing fingers can't make it over there, she basically went with 'I knew it was a true reading when I made it, including it in the show supports me, and I'm waiting to see how events worked into the cards just like the rest of you.' And she refused to show the last card. Absolutely, point-blank refused.} {Because she knows it'll reveal her as a fraud.} {Well, if she knew that, she'd know the future, wouldn't she?} {Recrap: We have two female alliances and only one of them is working, we have a challenge, we have pain, we have what should have been an assault charge on Connie but hey, she's just working for the forces of good and light and the Crusades were a really good idea too. We've got gunfire, we don't have real bullets, we have no shadow of a chance for Turare, and it looks like Trina is going home -- but no, she's going to leave a legacy first, and that legacy is a Tarot interpretation thread in Spoilers that's currently up to eighty posts, no more than sixty of which are telling the other twenty they're going to Hell. A relatively peaceful TC, there's a storm coming in, and we rejoin our DAWs right after these opening credits, about to be in progress. Turn away from your refrigerator right after you hear the growl.} ----------------------------------------------------------------- . . . . . . . . . (And more to come after this commercial break. HEADON -- APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE FOREHEAD!)
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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
07-20-06, 04:04 PM (EST)

1. "RE: Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."

LAST EDITED ON 07-22-06 AT 09:33 AM (EST)
During
---------------------------------------------------------------
The walk back from Tribal Council is both slow and rushed. We want to hurry: we can feel the storm coming, the wind accelerating with every step, moisture clogging the air, and hear a distant crack of thunder -- but we can't move that fast. We're carrying lit torches. We have to be careful about where we're holding them, because a errant gust could blow the flames into our faces. If we manage to avoid that, a quick zephyr could still target someone near us -- or set the plants lining the trail ablaze. The production staff is carrying small fire extinguishers, just in case, but the danger can't be completely eliminated. We can't put out the torches because we're not the ones filming through night-vision lenses. With the partial moonlight blocked out by the heavy shadows cast from the trees, we have one means of seeing where we're going, and we're carrying it. As such, we're trying to go as fast as we can to beat the storm back, but we have to keep slowing down for wind changes, camera directions, and shouts of excitement from the camera crew whenever someone gets too close to a leaf.
With all the hesitations and problems, including a shot that will probably never make the show -- someone on the production staff gets jumpy when a branch dips down near Desmond's torch, decides to soak it down before anything catches, and does nothing except completely douse Desmond while putting his torch out -- we lose time, and keep losing it until we reach the point where the trail rejoins the challenge path -- which is the exact moment the storm breaks. Torrents of rain cascade down from the sky: huge drops, each one half the size of my thumb, driven with enough force to sting. Lightning flashes into the ocean, and there's a split-second where we can all see each other, everyone accompanying us, the waves pounding the island with increased size and force -- a momentary vision, gone before the thunder splits our eardrums a heartbeat later.
"Move!" Gary calls, and now that we know the footing of the path and have bare sand ahead that contains nothing flammable, we can. We all make a run for it, the rain slamming into us with additional force as our speed seems to join to its, the wind playing havoc with the flames of our torches, now held high over our heads to avoid streamback. The tribe sprints as best it can, Desmond bringing up the rear and stumbling in a private dark, water soaking through our clothes within seconds and starting to run across skin, flames guttering in the onslaught. Gardener's goes out, and he lets a private curse fly as he crosses into the path to our clearing.
We run, we blink our eyes against the water clouding our vision, lightning turns the oak trees into a latticework of shadow that looks far too much like a spider's web draped over our shelter -- and then I'm in the clearing itself, moving for the relative dry.
"Careful with the torches!" Gary yells. They're short enough that we can get them in the shelter towards the back for a little light and heat, but we'll have to be careful carrying them in at the lower entrance point, and keep an eye on them at all times once inside: if the wind goes wrong once, we'll be in the middle of a fire. Gary seems willing to risk it. He duck-sprints under the awning, then grounds his torch in the center of the floor, fitting the narrow point into one of the mud-filled cracks. Most of the others leave theirs, now out or close to it, outside by the fire pit, planting them in the ground for later. Mine is still going, as is Trooper's: we very carefully bring them inside, then nervously check the wind. It's pounding the shelter from the back: harder to approach, but safer for the interior. We can keep them lit as long as we're very cautious.
I sit down on my pallet and check my possessions. I'm on the back wall, in the left corner, and my things are safe and dry underneath the bunk. Everyone else is checking their items and our Reward supplies, finding them similarly safe -- with the exception of Frank, who left his scales by the fire, where they've been seeing use during our meals. One of the gusts blew them over, but they should be fine. All of our reserve clothing is water-free, at least for the moment. With the wind driving the rain in a given direction, we don't have to worry about it blowing into the shelter until the gusts change their orientation -- which they might, or the makeshift waterproofing on the shelter might just give way: we're only resistant, and that to a point. But for now, we're clear. We're just completely soaked. Trooper is giving his feet a disgusted look that says he has puddles in his sneakers, Frank's sideburns are plastered to his cheeks, and Gary's beard is birthing drops every few seconds. For my part, I'm now in the wettest blouse it's possible to have, but everyone's far too uncomfortable in their own clothes to look at mine.
Gardener takes a few hard breaths in between his teeth, looking oddly tense -- then makes his decision. "Screw it," he half-declares, half-mutters. "I can't afford to get sick..." He goes into his bag, takes out dry clothes, and starts taking off the wet ones just as Desmond enters the shelter. "Can I get a minute?" Because we're all looking at him. Especially Desmond, who must be wondering what he missed. "I'm going all the way down here. My boxers are having a pool party."
Mary-Jane laughs. "Okay -- we'll just close our eyes, and you tell us when to open them." Her blue irises twinkle. "Of course, that's not gonna stop the cameras..."
Gardener grunts. "I know, okay? Let's just pretend I don't feel like showing off for the whole planet, or at least the six other people occupying this part of it... A little privacy, please?" No visible reaction from Mary-Jane beyond a teasing curiosity. "Fine, whatever, but they're coming off no matter what you want to do..."
I close my eyes and wait. About a minute later, Gardener says "Okay, fine," and I open them again to see him in dry clothes. Two wet outfits are under his pallet: one was apparently used for drying off. "Who's next?"
Mary-Jane shrugs. "We don't have to take turns," she says lightly, and immediately goes for her top. Lights out. "Oh, come on, Alex!" She's clearly enjoying herself. "And Desmond, you're playing shy? Gary, I know you're married, so I guess I forgive you..."
I'm keeping my eyes closed, thank you very much. "Gardener?" A crack of thunder, somewhere in the distance, at almost the exact moment a yellow-white burst of light penetrates shut lids.
"What?" Sounding a little disgruntled. "If you want the play-by-play, you look." Which is sort of interesting. He's been among the most visible for checking out every female on the island -- he even surveys the few women on the production and camera crews -- and now he's passing up an apparent freebie?
"Where's your wedding ring?" No answer, so I expand on the question a little. "The other day, you told me your favorite person was your wife, but you don't wear a ring, and you haven't said anything about being married before this."
Gardener heaves a very exaggerated sigh. You could almost believe he didn't have to force it. "We're separated, okay? Two months ago. I'm still hoping we can get back together, but I don't wear the ring because if I lost it fishing or somewhere on the island, I'd lose the rest of the game to a grid search. Fair enough? Want to know why we're not living together right now?"
Not really, but I'm guessing it has something to do with all the looking. "What's her name?" I wonder if the camera people are having fun out there. They went straight to the waterproof shooting hut, and they'll be filming this through the shielded long lens, but I'd like to think the wind's giving them a little trouble.
"Audrey." Mary-Jane happily calls out the end of her clothing change. She's very quick there. "You're getting a lot more than you're giving here. Everyone keep your eyes closed -- and Mary-Jane, give Desmond a little dignity so he can go next?"
Desmond mutters something to himself. It's fairly indistinct, but it sounds sort of like "Stupid storm..." Or it could be "Cares and worn..." Whatever.
"You're ruining my fun," Mary-Jane merrily protests.
"Yeah, and I'm deliberately screwing up your timing whenever you try to get to the occupied waterfall, too," Gardener tells her. Mary-Jane's gasp of shock may be at least partially faked. "There's your first conspiracy: we're all trying to keep you from preaching the ways of the near-nudist when our defenses are down and our clothes are off. Alex, you're not answering me."
"I don't know how you mean it." Truth. I get more than I give?
Gardener snorts. "Off the top of your head: the names of Gary's wife and two daughters."
That's an easy one. "Michelle, Shari, and Tanya." Shari's twenty and attends Georgetown, Tanya's sixteen and Gary's going through the 'Oh God, she's dating' thing for the second time. There's also Eric, who was seven two weeks ago and originally came as a huge surprise.
I can almost hear Gardener nod. "Right. In fact, I bet you have the names of everyone in our families memorized. You're always sitting there during the dinner conversations, listening to everything like you're waiting for a Fallen Comrades challenge to return. Boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, wives, kids -- you've heard it all. I have not heard a damn thing about who you're dating, who raised you, who you visit over the holidays. Nothing. So either you haven't come up with a workable lie yet -- or you're setting us up to get your questions wrong. And they won't quiz us on anything someone hasn't said, so you're wasting your time."
Well, that helps. If the anger keeps rising, I can dry my clothes from the inside out. "I wouldn't lie."
"Virtually everyone lies eventually," Gardener says. "Hell, it's almost a point of honor around here to get away with one before you go."
Sure it is. The wind whistles between two rocks in the fire pit's border, creating a second of music before driving a leaf into the groove. "I don't have anything to talk about. That's all."
Desmond, sounding very uncomfortable, says "Done." There's a tattoo of heavier-pounding rain on the roof for a moment before the pace goes back to normal. I could very easily get a headache from this. Or maybe that's the anger getting another word in.
Gary: "I'll take next. Alex, I'm with Gardener here: we know what you do for a living and where you live, but that's about it."
"We all hold things back," I point out. "We're trying to avoid political votes." The term for giving too much away in a debate and offending the rest of the tribe. Are you for gay marriage? Against? Either way, someone will want you out. How do you feel about the war? What's your party affiliation, if any? In extreme cases, got any sports teams? Just about anything is offensive when viewed in the wrong light, and when the pettiness really builds up, any of those things will do as excuses and rallying points. We've all seen matters get down to accidents of geography. (Well, maybe not Desmond.) Most of the talk is about ourselves because we're the least risky category for discussion.
"True," Gardener admits. Although if he isn't a king-hell conservative, I'll eat his Pilates sphere. "But family doesn't fall into that category. You've got plenty on us -- now give a little."
He's just pissed because I caught him on the marriage thing. "I'm telling you -- there's nothing to talk about." An extra-strong wind gust pushes at the back of the shelter, and I can hear branches shaking above us.
"Sure," Gardener sarcastically replies. "You're a product of spontaneous human parthenogenesis. Second known case."
Silence from the humans. The storm has no useful commentary.
Finally, Gary helpfully says "Virgin birth, Alex."
Oh... "Not that I know of." There's a fantasy that went by the boards really early.
"So spill," Gardener insists. "Boyfriend?"
Easy start. "Can't afford it." Two cracks of thunder, one right on top of the other. It sounds like the lightning was somewhere behind us. None of it may be hitting the island -- the ocean's a tempting target, and there's got to be lightning rods on the mansion.
A sardonic little laugh. "Nice to know there's women out there who pay for things -- girlfriend?"
Huh? Oh. Right. "No."
"So you're single," Gardener says. "I guess the lack of wedding ring should have given me the hint -- Gary, you done?"
"Just about," Gary calls. "There. Frank, go ahead."
No answer.
"Frank?"
We all open our eyes. Everyone but Trooper and myself is now in clean, dry clothing -- well, Trooper, me, and Frank. Frank is still in his soaked T-shirt and shorts. He also doesn't seem to have a problem with it, because he's fast asleep: half-curled on his pallet, breathing steadily, dead to the world.
"Son of a bitch..." Gardener mutters. "Nice trick if you can do it... let's just hope he doesn't wake up with a cold." Admittedly, we could wake him up now, but that's something of a project, and there's someone else left to go first: we all close our eyes again and give Trooper the go-ahead. Gardener picks up where he left off. "That covers the dating scene -- I hope. Let's hit the next part." I would like him to shut up now. He doesn't. "Family?"
"Nothing to tell."
Exasperated, "We already knocked the virgin birth out of the box."
Fine, let's get it over with... "I don't have anything to talk about because I don't have parents. Or siblings. Aunts, uncles, grandparents -- total shutout across the scoreboard." I shrug, even though only one person can see it. "I was a ward of the state, Gardener. Ever try asking the governor to come to your parent-teacher conference?"
Silence again, and this one's as awkward as I want it to be, with even the rustling leaves sounding a little embarrassed. Good. Let's see if they ever ask again.
Finally, Trooper says "Done," almost just to have something to say.
This is followed by Mary-Jane. "Sorry, Alex..."
And Gary. "Sorry."
Gardener: "Ouch. Shows me." His voice is a little softer than usual. "When did you lose them?"
I sigh, very lightly, and open my eyes. The others still have theirs shut, and for some reason, that now includes Trooper. Another bolt of lighting spears the section of sky visible from the shelter, but the thunder takes a little longer to arrive this time. Gardener's face takes on strange shadows in the flash: it almost makes him look slightly apologetic. "I don't know." Forestalling any interruption, "I'm the classic doorstep kid. Only in my case, I was dropped off, whoever did it filled out a bunch of forms which included checking off the I Never Want To Hear Anything About This Again box, and left. I was never adopted, so I got to be raised by New Jersey." Translation: hi, Momma Paperwork! Hi, Daddy Bureaucracy! And, making myself sound just a little angry, "Now you get to decide if I'm lying about it to get sympathy." It's more than I wanted to say about the subject, and hopefully, that last punch means it's all I'll ever have to say about it.
Gardener shakes his head. "No, I believe you." A little bit wry, "I'm not going to have sympathy for you anyway, so... you done yet?"
Come again? "Done with what?" Telling my so-called sob story?
He frowns. "Changing."
Um... right. I should change. I should take off all my clothes in front of these people. Maybe I should take my chances on the cold. "Keep your eyes shut?"
That gets a laugh from Trooper. "No one's looked that I know of..."
"How would you even know?" I shoot back.
"Easy," Trooper says. "The one changing is the only one with their eyes open. Makes it easy to catch someone."
I very carefully examine Frank. He seems to be asleep.
Slowly, "Okay, give me a minute..." I take a slow breath, then get out some dry clothes and start to strip -- stop. Maybe I can do it in stages. Wet bra off from under blouse -- awkward, but then dry bra on under wet blouse -- which would get it pretty wet... oh, hell. "Or two..." It sounds like the wind is starting to change direction. That can't be good for us. Is there anything in the bag that I can shield myself with while changing? No. The inspector took my poncho. I really, really want to see her again, preferably when I'm holding something large, heavy, and spiked. Damn it... "If anyone looks, I will make it my goal in this game to see you go first."
Gardener's amused. "We should all look at once just to see what you try to do." My stare bores into his closed eyes with a force he can feel. "Okay, okay... you must be giving the camera people hell..."
No, but I'd like to. Work fast, check all faces, work faster than that, dry, make it quicker -- "Mary-Jane, that had better be a flutter leading up to a sneeze!" The tiny gap closes. Sheesh. And thank you, Gardener. I was wondering why I got so much relative privacy... oh, great, now I owe him one... "All right -- done." The wind is still changing. If it slants all the way around to the front...
Everyone opens their eyes. Desmond, who still looks just as uncomfortable as he did for most of Tribal Council (but a little under his vote moment), visibly examines the shelter, his queasiness quickly fading under a veneer of preening. "How about this, huh?" he asks us, changing the subject at speed. "We're pretty dry under here, aren't we? I wasn't sure it would hold up to this big a storm, but --"
"-- it's not," Trooper cuts him off. "Look at Frank." We all look. A slow drip has formed over his pallet, and is steadily trying to put extra water into his saturated hair. He's sleeping through it.
Gary sighs. "Well, at least that's the only one so far. No point waking up him -- if he can stay under through Chinese water torture, I'm not sure we can wake him up." A small frown crosses his face: he seems to be considering something, but whatever the thought is, it takes a back seat as his torch flares. "Got to watch those..."
Mary-Jane sighs. "I'm jealous. I don't think I can sleep through this." Another peal of thunder, and she casts a nervous eye on the ceiling. "Not when we could be in trouble any minute."
Desmond now looks huffy. "I said it was just resistant..."
Gary breaks in, apparently with the intent of keeping the peace. "Well, I know what I want in the next Reward challenge."
So do I. "Yeah. A big tarp."
Desmond can get behind that. "Enough to drape all the walls -- custom-fitted would be nice... it sounds like you people watch this show a lot: does that sort of thing turn up often?"
Several of us exchange glances. "Well -- yeah," Gardener says. "Third Reward's usually a shelter improver. There's been a couple of times when they've passed out tool boxes and supplies, told the tribes to build their strongest effort, and then given out an extra Reward to the best job. But we're pretty secure here. The only way they'd do that was if we were working on something other than the main shelter, or --" He looks thoughtful. "Or if Haraiki's sleeping -- or not sleeping, tonight -- in a complete piece of crap. It's not like we have any idea what they built over there. They may have a Jacuzzi going, or they could be using Elmore as an umbrella."
The Elmore jokes have been tiresome ever since the second Immunity challenge. "We won't know unless we get a weird Reward that sends us to them -- or we do ambassadors again."
"True," Gardener admits. "I'd like to do a little Pearl Islands robbery, personally. Even if luxury items are off limits, we could almost completely shut them down if we got their cooking pot." Desmond looks confused. Sure enough: relative rookie. "But the same would go for us, so..." He shrugs.
"Still, you have to wonder," Trooper says. "How do you think they're holding up tonight?"
Two forks off a single bolt this time, but only one blast of thunder, extra-close and loud. Mary-Jane covers her ears. Frank adjusts his position a little and sleeps on.
"I don't know," Gary says, "but I bet it's not a party. We don't know what any of them do for a living, but if there's two construction people in this pool, I'll eat my calculator. Desmond, you brought us as far as the local materials would let you: this is as good as it could get without extra supplies. Unless they've got someone special..."
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{And here's Turare, fresh back from TC and soaked to the skin. You know, just once, I'd like to get a running shot... guess the Steadicam didn't hold up this time, or there was too much water in the frame.}
{Alex wins the Survivor wet T-shirt -- okay, long-sleeve blouse -- contest of all time, and then she wins a sympathy edit. Aw, she's an orphan. I guess that means we're supposed to feel all bad for her and stuff. Some of us would probably rather be feeling the blouse.}
{I know at least one person who'll have no sympathy whatsoever, and I don't mean Gardener.}
{Don't be so certain. If she's telling the truth, I think this explains a lot. She clearly never had a chance at a proper Christian upbringing. Maybe she's more salvageable than I originally believed. Maybe she actually has a chance at salvation.}
{Oooh... is that the sound of a partial apology?}
{I'm still not forgiving her action. I'm saying that she wasn't raised properly and didn't know it was wrong. It's easiest to teach children, but we've all seen adults reach the light. The first key would be to bring her to where she can understand why she did something offensive. Her modesty does her some credit, at least. She was clearly reluctant to change clothing in public, unlike the little bikini-whore.}
{I also think she's fine as long as she can understand why you're offended. Oh, and why you're being a closed-minded, pig-headed moron for continuing to insist that it was the end-all of high crime. Yeah, this is a partial redemption edit if you want to see it that way, but I don't think anything needed redeeming. Oh, and while I'm at it -- bikini-whore?}
{Apparently right after we work on her, we have to work on you.}
{In the privacy of my own ~~cell~~ monk's cubicle, I'm sure.}
{Meanwhile, over at Haraiki, everyone remember that joke of a shelter from Day One, Day Four, and the glimpse on Day Five? Guess what? It's even funnier in the rain. They're holding a group wet T-shirt contest, only the winner might be Elmore, and try to get that image out of your head. They're exposed to the wind, they have rain coming in the front and that little half-side, they have rain pounding through the ceiling and walls, they've been sleeping on the floor, their shelter is in a little depression in their clearing, and that spells puddle... Lacking Frank's amazing talent, no one there is getting any sleep tonight, and that's not just the storm, that's listening to Connie whine about it.}
{I'm amazed by how stoic Phillip is right now. He's just sitting there, staring at the storm and waiting it out.}
{He's from tornado country, isn't he? This is probably just a light breeze for him.}
{And there goes Robin, who's from talk-up-a-storm country, and who really wants to be in her nice, air-conditioned dance studio right now, where it's dry and warm and no one ever goes without a snack unless they're starving themselves to fit into a costume...}
{Tony+Angela=body heat. Minus my turning off the television. Really, I can't take this. Not even the storm can hose them down.}
{Time-lapse shot, the clouds move, lighten shortly after sunrise, finally break up, and -- dry-out time. Haraiki emerges from Chez Kiddingme to find their shelter is still flooded, all their clothes are wet, their luxury items are wet, their rice is soaked and will probably be useless in short order -- but guess what? There's a good supply of vintage whine, and it's all-you-can-stand at the complaining bar! Elmore wants to know why the shelter wasn't in better shape. Angela is screaming at him about how he didn't exactly contribute to building it, none of them have shelter experience, and they were all too busy covering his rear for general labor to have time for improving it. Slight exaggeration, but the rest of the tribe is mostly behind her. Denadi's staying out of it, but Connie's rooting her on and making contributions, mostly because it'll help people forget about her whining -- oooh, good line from Angela! "Tell you what: we'll get you a good supply of pixels, and we'll see what you can come up with using your mouse. It's obvious there's only one place you'll ever get with your hands, and you'll have to do that by yourself for the rest of your life!" Oh, snap!}
{A brief glimpse of Turare: some of them got a little wet, but that mostly seems to have depended on where they were sleeping. Desmond promising to patch the thing. Alex getting a small fire going with the dry tinder they'd stored in the shelter, but all she's got material for is a small one. The tribe agrees to work on a storage shed next chance. Open wishing for a tarp. They don't completely get along as people, but they can definitely work together.}
{Makes you wonder what happens when Desmond's gone.}
{No worries there. I've got him as fourth on my PTTE.}
{Version 1.191.}
{Back to Haraiki and -- Connie and Denadi, now there's an odd couple -- getting their Tree Mail. Whatever this week's lousy poem is, we're not going to hear it from them. Connie just reads the scroll, laughs, and says "Well -- justice is served," then leaves Denadi wondering what the hell she meant.}
{Reversal on the cross ruling? We'd get that at Turare first.}
{No... Reward challenge. You didn't see the midweek previews, did you? I think we're about to get physical... and I think the spoilers called this one wrong. It's not the Immunity challenge! Damn -- now the Eyemail makes sense... I wonder what else everyone blew?}
{Can we please leave Angony out of this?}
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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
07-21-06, 01:51 PM (EST)

2. "He Said He Heard Something...: Part III"

LAST EDITED ON 07-23-06 AT 05:20 PM (EST)
Before
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CBS Eyemail, Episode #3.
4. A challenge gives the Survivors a chance to work out their growing aggression towards each other. But will this ease the hostility between the tribes, or increase it?
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During
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This time, Mary-Jane and Frank go to get Tree Mail. Desmond tries, and gets a surprise when the production staff blocks him and waves someone else through. We're all waiting to hear the poem -- and I'm keeping an eye on Frank. He seems to be moving and breathing well, plus his energy level is up again. He crashed after Council, sleeping through the drips, sleeping later than anyone, and as always, taking the most effort to wake. But he went off to find breakfast, and now all is well in Frank-World, especially since a blonde is draped over his arm as he goes down the narrow path. Of course, this puts him halfway into the side with more stickers.
I got some sleep in, but not much. The storm didn't let up until after sunrise, and most of us found our rest in ten-minute fits and starts -- if we found any at all. Mary-Jane assured us she's fine for the challenge if it comes early -- "I'm used to all-nighters", and we have an open invitation to read that any way we like -- and Gary, yawning hugely all the while, just managed to tell us that his job requires a few late hours, too. Gardener, however, is firmly in the 'early to bed, early to rise' category, and Desmond's really having trouble: he's trying to work on the shelter, reinforcing and replacing what we lost last night, but he's almost asleep on his feet. Realistically, I was one of the lucky ones. Desmond was right under a drip, and it took a while before he decided to try the floor. It's only been an hour or so since the rain stopped -- I think -- and we were all hoping for an afternoon challenge to let us get some nap time in. Naturally, production decided to go the other way. We had just enough time to eat, get and boil a little water after finishing off the rainwater that collected in the cooking pot -- and then the signal was given.
Mary-Jane comes out first. She doesn't look as energized as Frank, but no one could without the benefit of two pots of coffee and four hours of sleep. Or no coffee and eight hours of sleep. She does look like she's ready to tackle whatever the poem's threatening, but understanding it may take a while longer. "Does anyone get this? 'Soaked you've been, and soaked you'll be, so send them all into the sea.' Pardon my French, but -- huh?" Physically active, yes. Mentally may take some actual rest.
Everyone thinks it over. "Rain gear or a tarp," Gardener considers. "Maybe both..."
"Not rain gear," I say. "I had an interesting encounter with my luggage inspector. I don't think it's going to be on the list."
Gary sighs. "Probably not." He was the first one onto the floor. "Or this could have nothing to do with water at all, at least for the Reward... It's a water challenge, though. Let's get moving." He grabs his swimsuit, starts for the beach, and the rest of us follow until he reaches the black sand -- and stops. "Oh, great..." He uses the word as if it's a substitute for something else, and we can all see why: there's a boat just offshore, filled with camera operators and production staff. They're pointing at the raft. We are padding to the next challenge. Most of us have had practically no sleep, we're low on energy to begin with because breakfast hasn't really kicked in yet, and now we're looking at a nice, long workout before we can even think about the challenge. At least the morning is relatively cool and there's a good amount of white fluff starting to appear in the sky -- but that also means our rock-spread and vine-hung wet clothes won't get all that dried out. A great morning all around.
Gardener groans. It also sounds like a substitute for something else, only this is more partial. "Yeah, yeah... come on: everyone take your shoes off, put them on the raft, and then we'll get in the water. Might as well keep something dry for a while... Hell, Alex, go back to camp and grab the hooks and lines? We can try to get some deeper-sea fishing in on the way back." Just because it came from Gardener doesn't make it a bad idea, so I go back, retrieve the gear, and return just in time to get onto the raft, where we knot the box into place with Trooper's saved ties, just in case.
It's a long, monotonous trip, and the only comfort we have is that Haraiki is making it, too. We're inching along compared to the camera boat, which keeps getting ahead of us in a supposed effort to show the path. Their faked courtesy is ruined by the near-constant 'you okay back there?' glances, and if the others weren't longing for their cars before this, they're practically making ignition-key movements now, at least for those that can be executed with a single finger: Trooper, who really isn't used to letting others have their run of the available road, finally gets completely fed up and expresses himself in a short sharp gesture.
We're led out a fair distance from the shoreline before we're allowed to turn and follow the island's coast, so we don't get a good look at much along the way. I spot the Cliffs, but we're too far out for details. A while later, we pass Challenge Beach, and one bit of frustration is removed: Desmond had thought the producers might have indulged in a little sadism by having us paddle to a water challenge that was being held right in front of the beach. (At least he's picking something up quickly.) Further on, around the curve -- and then a surprising sight. Mary-Jane is the first one to spot it. "Guys, over there -- orange!"
We all look. There is a small spot of orange on that beach, which is white sand. "That's got to be their tribe flag," I say, which really demonstrates a mastery of the obvious. "Figures -- they had a shorter distance to go."
Gardener snorts. "Probably not. Their camera boat will probably lead them in a greater curve to make sure we're all equally tired when we get there -- I hope. It's a little early for open favor." He looks decidedly aggravated about the possibility. Jeff's last ruling may still be on his mind. "Damn. I wish we could stop... I can't see down their path from here. Who's got the best eyes? Can anyone make anything out?" We all look. I think I might have the best eyesight -- I usually top the people around me in that category -- but all I can see are little splashes of color on some of the beach rocks closest to the treeline, which I report. "Probably laundry." Gardener thinks about that for a few seconds. "They could have been caught outside their shelter when the storm hit, but they had more of a chance to see it coming in and get under cover... It doesn't necessarily mean anything. This could just be their laundry day. But..." He trails off, smiling. It's more than a little predatory, and I almost expect the teeth he's showing to end in points.
We paddle on. More of the shoreline reveals itself: lots of greenery on this side, fewer trails. Several large birds circling half-submerged rocks, surveying nest sites or looking for fish to snag. And then -- seven large floating platforms, with three boats arrayed around them. Two of the platforms (and all of the boats) hold camera operators. Two more are painted orange and purple, each of which connect to a third, larger platform, where I can just make out a light blue shirt and hat, their wearer patiently waiting. And a final two about thirty feet from each other, with one link trail from a tribe waiting area to a side, then a ladder, maybe fifteen feet of elevation, and a relatively wide beam linking the ladders together over the water...
Gary laughs. "Hey, Alex?" I look over, and his expression is light. "Cue revenge."
I look at the setup again. Yes, it's very clear what we'll be doing here. I just don't know if I'm going to have a chance at what I want. I'm also sort of curious as to how they expect to link it into a hunting theme, but it's not exactly mandatory for every challenge.
Frank suddenly laughs and points. We all follow his gesture and find the orange raft -- which is slowly padding around in a large circle, going nowhere at all in nothing of a hurry, moving about as fast as we are. No great curve: just extra work to keep them occupied while they wait for us. Gardener finds this very amusing. "Fair enough..." he considers. "Okay, stop paddling -- they're guiding them in." As the winners of the last challenge, Haraiki gets the right of first arrival: we have to hold up while they work their way in, attach their raft, and carefully make their way onto Jeff's platform. It looks like Denadi stumbles a little getting on.
Finally, we get to join them -- they're arranged single-file along one side of the platform, with our host standing along an imaginary middle line towards the sea edge, right next to the near-mandatory covered table -- and Jeff gives us the introduction we didn't want to hear. "Haraiki getting their first look at the new Turare," he announces. "Trina voted off at the last Tribal Council." But we can just about live with that, because we're getting our first close-up look at the post-storm Haraiki -- and I like what I'm seeing. Their clothes are visibly damp and very wrinkled across their bodies. Hair is tangled, splayed, and your basic total mess across the board. Everyone's eyes are more than a little red, and Tony tries to -- and fails at -- suppressing a huge yawn as I get onto the platform. Desmond's eyes are alive with delight, and the rest of us aren't far behind him. We now know something vital about Haraiki. We know their shelter sucks. Thanks to fairly solid walls and some luck with the wind direction, we stayed mostly dry during the night, and some of us even got a tiny amount of sleep. They all look like they've been placed in a sensory deprivation tank, shaken for ten hours, and then released back into the world, complete with near-hallucinations attendant. Angela's bare feet even have wrinkled toes with little white spots on the skin, and I wonder just how long she was sitting or standing in the puddle. Possibly the whole night. The thought sends me to Connie and yes, she looks like absolute hell, plus -- and this is very petty, but it's a booster -- her hair coloring is starting to go. The underlying hue is a chemically-broken lesser version of what she had enhanced to, very fragile-looking. Just getting a glimpse of it banishes the last lingering aches from my side.
We're all lined up, and Haraiki looks collectively pissed. It doesn't take much to figure out why. We clearly got an average of ten winks each, even if Frank's forty had to really drag the average up. Our clothes are dry. Whatever shelter we must have, it very obviously does not suck, and this is ruining what was left to wreck of their morning. They're angry, but they're also dejected. Advantage: us. Thanks, Desmond. That's one we owe him. 'We' probably meaning everyone except Mary-Jane and myself, since he so clearly wants us gone...
Jeff surveys both tribes, looking vaguely amused by Haraiki's unhappy state. "Well," he says, now audibly amused. "I think this is one of those times when I show you what you're playing for first and explain the challenge second, because one tribe very clearly needs this more than the other." This could not be any more clear if he had a flashing sign over the table. "Want to see what you're playing for?"
A fourteen-contestant chorus of "Yes, Jeff!" almost produces its own waves.
Jeff grins. "Thought so," he tells us, and whips the cover off the table. "These are just samples of what you'll be getting, but it's enough to give you the idea. The winning tribe will receive several camping ground pads to make their sleeping more comfortable. A few inflatable pillows. Blankets," and Trina went out one challenge too early. Somehow, I don't feel very bad about it. "One hammock. And enough tarpaulins to waterproof your current shelter." Desmond is about two heartbeats away from openly drooling. Haraiki is going to need another three before they drop to their knees and start worshiping the wonderment. "A little extra comfort to make your camp feel like home -- and a lot of extra protection to keep it that way." He gives Haraiki a quick look when he says this, and I suddenly wonder what's happened to their little bag of rice. If they couldn't keep themselves dry -- no, if there was a single safe spot in their entire camp, they would have given it to the food -- right? "Worth playing for?" We're still not disturbing the water, but some of the shoreline birds just took flight. "Thought so. On to today's challenge." Voice change. "Believe it or not, we had this planned out before the storm last night." Jeff tosses off a light shrug, clearly not caring much whether we believe him or not -- and Angela seems to have some doubts, although she has no complaints about the possible Reward results. "You'll see that in a minute, because..." And for the audience: "This challenge is simple. We're doing one-on-one competitions again. One person from each tribe will climb the ladder and move out onto the beam. They will then try to make their opponent go into the water."
I take a closer look at the beam. It's about two feet wide. Balance shouldn't be the problem. The producers clearly want physical contact here. My hands are practically itching for a good round of physical contact, but...
Jeff takes a shot at ruining what remains of my morning. "You may use wrestling techniques to put your opponent in the sea. You may grapple, twist, pull, push, shove, grasp, and lift. You may not do any of the following: punch, kick, gouge, grips on genital areas, grips on secondary sexual characteristics, pull hair..." The list goes on for quite a while, and I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn't this long in prior seasons. Whatever isn't forbidden is allowed -- and with some contestant pools, that puts extra pressure on Jeff to make sure he forbids things before we get underway. Especially since I'm paying close attention, looking for things he leaves out. "...or scream in each other's ears." Damn. "If both people fall off the beam, the one who hits the water first loses. We'll play to best of seven: first tribe to win four gets the Reward." He pauses, just long enough for people to start figuring out the problem -- which he then goes into for the slow-of-counting. "Now, normally, we'd match contestants up as males vs. females and leave it at that. But as you may have noticed, we have a gender gap." Eight males, six females remaining: Turare at five and two, Haraiki at three and four. "This means we can't create an even number of matchups with the tribes currently arranged as they are."
He stops at the exact same moment our collective breathing does. No! Not a tribe switch, not on Day Seven! It's easy enough to do: send one of our males over to them, bring one of their women over here, but if they get Gary, there goes my only semi-possible ally, they could grab Desmond to improve their shelter, we could lose Frank, but this will create a male majority on each tribe and that can't be good for the game -- what if we get Connie! If his next words are 'Drop your buffs' or 'Haraiki, pick one', everything is going to be so screwed up...
"So," Jeff finally continues after the shock finishes settling in for a long stay, "We're going to try something new: inter-gender matchups." A big grin. "Because let's face it: the whole men vs. women thing has been done to death." And a wink that will never make the show. "Thought we were switching it up for a few seconds there, didn't you?" I manage a nod, and see Robin doing the same. "That's the paranoia we like to see... Here's how it's going to work. We have three men on Haraiki: they will get to call out their opponent from Turare, and they must choose a male. The two Turare women must call out a Haraiki female."
This is where Connie's expression collapses, because she's looking directly at mine, and I don't have one. I'm just looking back at her, calm and patient and waiting for my moment, which is now guaranteed to come. With random matchups, she could have avoided me. Letting me pick my opponent brings me straight to her, she knew it, she almost seemed to be looking forward to it -- and then she saw my face. She wants me to be afraid, worried about getting hurt again. I'm not. I'm just waiting out the rest of Jeff's speech. Bullying isn't as much fun when you realize your target isn't terrified at the mere thought of you. My lack of fear just shook her up, and she doesn't know how to deal with it. It's only visible for a few heartbeats -- she rallies quickly, and the sneer returns to her lips -- but it was there. Score one potentially temporary point for me.
"After those battles conclude, if we don't have a winner, we'll pair off the remaining men and women, and they'll wrestle to the finish." Well, that's going to sound a little funny on the air. I bet they'll replace it later. "Obviously, your choice of opponent is going to be crucial here, and you want to leave the worst possible matchups for the other tribe at the end. I'll give you a few minutes to talk it over, and then we'll start." He gestures to the painted platforms. "Move over there -- you'll have more privacy to discuss it." Robin looks angry: she was clearly anticipating an eavesdropping season. "You'll need to be in your swimsuits for this one, so after you make your decisions, one boat will pull up to each tribe, and you can get changed there." It beats the alternative. "Start strategizing."
We transfer platforms, nearly losing Frank to a small wave, and assume the now very natural huddle.
Just as naturally, Gardener's not happy about this. "He could have at least kissed me."
Desmond looks nauseated. Mary-Jane is just confused. "Why would you want Jeff to kiss you?"
"I always like to be kissed when I'm getting screwed," he grouses. "They get three picks to our two. They'll get our strongest against their strongest and try to eliminate the automatic wins at the end..."
"It's better than a switch," Mary-Jane says. "I thought we were doomed to lose you for a few seconds there." Ouch. Yeah, that would give them the three strongest males. "And then we'd probably get stuck with the bitch."
"At least we could have voted her out right away," I say, and suddenly, pulling a Burton is starting to have a certain theoretical appeal.
"Probably why they didn't do it," Gary points out. "One person is too vulnerable... not that it's stopped them from doing it before." A small grin. "Poor Lex. Okay -- Mary-Jane, Alex, this is all about you. Which two are you calling out?"
"We need wins," Desmond says. "Mary-Jane should take Denadi."
I shake my head. "Mary-Jane should take Angela." The others stare at me. "Think about it. She's the strongest female there. I'm guessing Phillip will take Gardener, just to keep him from taking on someone weaker -- you two are probably just about even physically." Gardener nods, and it may be just a little rueful. "Let's say Tony gets Trooper, because he'll think he has an advantage there --"
"-- and he'll be up against police fighting techniques." Trooper grins. "Good thing they don't know what we do yet."
We don't know what they do, either. But having two cops is as unlikely as having two builders. "-- and then Elmore probably takes Desmond and tries to use his weight against him." Nods all around. They're nearly all paying serious attention to me, with the expected exception of Desmond. "That leaves Frank and Gary for Angela, and no offense, guys, but she's tall, she was a really strong swimmer..."
Gary groans. "...and she probably could take me. Frank, you too."
Frank doesn't look very happy. Part of it is the negative assessment of his athletic rating, and the other is the general announcement that the rest of the tribe thinks he can be beaten by a girl. "Maybe, I guess..." He shivers a little in the non-existent wind. "So if we put Mary-Jane on Angela, it leaves Denadi for me or Gary, is that it? I guess I can do that, dude, but..." He stares across the gap, and we follow his gaze: he's looking at Angela. "Keeps me from having one hell of an experience..."
Mary-Jane softly groans. "The experience of having your back broken. What makes you think I can take her?"
"You're about the same height," I point out. "Close to the same build."
Mary-Jane looks this time. "I think she's stronger than me."
"But you've got a chance," Gardener says. "I see where Alex is going with this. I don't think Tony will take Gary or Frank: he strikes me as a competitor, and he'll want a challenge. We're trying to neutralize their strongest wild card. If you go for speed..." He frowns. He's either deep in thought or he doesn't like agreeing with me. I'm firmly on Option #2. "Wish we knew if it was men or women going first. Alex, you're on Robin?"
Yes, that would be the sensible matchup. We're the closest in height after you take Denadi out of the mix, pretty close in age, reach is as close as we're going to get, short-term speed in running won't be a consideration, we know I've got more upper-body strength. "No. Connie."
Gardener stares at me. He has plenty of company. "Okay, that makes no sense. I know you want her after the puzzle, hell, I can't even blame you, but game-wise, that's just stupid. She's got half a foot on you. Longer reach, better leverage, more weight... she could put you down before you even get a chance at a move."
"She's not that strong," I protest. "Look at her. She stays in shape, but it's not strength-training, it's body-sculpting. She had the option of three months with a trainer or two minutes with a vacuum cleaner. Take a wild guess which one she went with."
Trooper's lips twitch. "I'm not arguing that point, but leverage means more than you think. Robin's a better match."
"I'm taking Connie." Firm, unyielding. "I can get her into the water."
Gary is trying to be the voice of reason. "Even though Robin makes more sense?" I would like the voice of reason to start talking exclusively to itself, because I don't feel like listening.
I glare at him. "I call out my own opponent. I'm calling out Connie because I can beat her. You can't stop me."
"Fine," Gardener neutrally says. "If you're wrong, can we get rid of you?"
We all stop and look at him.
"This is how you know you're confident," Gardener says, and he again sounds like he's quoting something. "If I say 'Can I kill you if you're wrong?' and you say no, you're not." He shakes his head. There's little patches of dead skin starting to peel from the borders of his brush cut. "Can't kill you, so -- if you're wrong, are you the next one out from the tribe?"
It's a good question. Am I willing to bet a slightly larger paycheck against my chances of going into the water? There's just one problem with the query: it assumes I don't know I'm the next one out regardless. Gary may be an ally, but he doesn't have enough weight within the male alliance as I know it. At the next Immunity loss, Mary-Jane and I will be on the chopping block. All other things being equal, they'll boot me and keep Mary-Jane. Therefore... "Do I stay if I win?"
That one amuses Gardener. "Oh, no. I'm not falling for that one again. I'm not confident enough in your losing to make that bet."
Fine. "I'm still calling her out."
Gary looks just a little bit weary. Gardener's amusement is not fading. "And I wish you luck, because I want that pillow. My neck's been cricking something fierce. I agree with what you said on who they'll call -- let's see who's going first." He turns away from the huddle. "Jeff? We're ready to get changed." This gets us a glare from half of Haraiki: they're still working things out. (Of course, they have one extra pick to settle on.) Back to us -- and me. "You'd better be right, Alex..."
---------------------------------------------------------------
{The Society Islands: Season Of Pain.}
{That is kind of far to fall, isn't it? Can we add another fifteen feet?}
{What about these inter-gender matchups? Haraiki has to hope they win before it gets to Denadi...}
{Assuming Alex or Mary-Jane doesn't take her for the easy win.}
{Okay, I know that list of no-nos was edited, and it still took up half the show.}
{We're not seeing any part of the discussions -- just Turare finishing first. The matchups will be revealed when we get back from the break. I cannot get used to having a commercial break inside a challenge. The pacing on this episode is really weird really early.}
{We're probably looking at an extra-long TC.}
{No comments on how Alex can't fall from grace because she's already underground and burrowing? I'm so let down...}
{Everyone has to go to the bathroom sometime.}
{You have bodily functions?}
----------------------------------------------------------------
It's strange, being on the boat. They've set the little tent up on the deck, so it's not as if I get to go into the cabin and enjoy a few seconds of climate control and electricity with a tiny shot at stealing some pre-purified water -- but on Day Seven, the feel of technology under my feet is already becoming just a little bit odd, mostly because I keep telling myself I can do without it. And then the Rewards come, we get the offer of a small portion of its many products for ourselves, and we're all ready to toss each other off into space for that touch of comfort...
I wonder what the producers would ask us to do for an hour with a newspaper and a television set. Swords at three paces, probably.
I'm the first to get changed this time, and wait on the others while looking at anything except Haraiki. There's a more interesting view available. When I peer at the shoreline, focus in and squint a little, I think I can see a bit of white and red through the leaves. The colors are too regular for natural shades, and the bits of shape I can make out are too even. It could be a bit of wall and part of a roof. Not the mansion, surely, but maybe a little building nearby. We may be close to the billionaire's personal camp. I really wish I could get a better look at it.
Eventually, everyone's ready, and Jeff gives us the announcement. "Because Haraiki won the last challenge, they get to start this one off. Haraiki, who's up first?"
Phillip steps forward. "Me." Very casual, relaxed. Just another day on the job for Phillip. "Gardener, let's see what you've got." And a big grin.
Gardener nods, mostly to himself, then heads for the ladder. The rungs seem to give a little under his weight, and I can almost hear a creaking from the other side: these are both big men. The lead stallions of each tribe are about to go to war for control of the herd. Or maybe -- a cartoon flashes in my mind for a second, both men with freshly-grown antlers lowered, ready to charge at each other -- the winner gets access to the females of the herd...
The cartoon is immediately, mercifully banished.
They ease out onto the beam. Gardener's moving in a partial crouch, keeping his weight low. I try to size them up. Phillip's a little thicker in the limbs, probably stronger, but Gardener's the one who's done something similar quasi-professionally -- as far as we know. I don't think anyone was lying about that, but it's easy to look at Phillip and see the semi-contours of college football looking back, if not necessarily of college. Gardener would be a little bit taller if he was standing up straight. There's a lot of caution in his slow advance: he's trying to use the time to examine his opposition more closely.
Phillip is having a good time with it. "We should talk," he calls out. "How's your side doing?" Another huge grin. "Got any shelter hints?" Gardener doesn't answer: he just keeps advancing. "Aw, come on -- the merge is weeks off. Two guys like us should chat every chance we get. Who's your team?" That gets a small, slightly grim smile from Gardener, but no comment. Phillip's closing the distance. "Where do you guys swim? We've got this pretty little river --"
-- Phillip lunges, Gardener was ready for it and braced to catch the impact, he pushes off from the beam and tries to get his weight under Phillip, but the Haraiki male is resisting and going for a grip of his own, there's a sound almost like a loud hand clap as their bodies come together, I can see some of the holds they're trying to work their way into, both men have wrestling experience, each is desperate to take the other down --
-- and there's no anger in it. It's almost casual. They're both deadly serious about winning, they both want the Reward, but they don't hate each other. They're just taking each other's measure, almost like two big kids meeting for the first time and conducting a mutual handshake grip test, except that kids normally feel free to hurt each other a lot more because they don't really understand that pain can last, or care...
It's just a few seconds, moments where you can feel the air warming from all the calories being burned into it. They push, shove, grunt, reach, pull --
-- I can just barely see it: the tiniest of openings, a big hand thrusting at it, following up with a forearm shove, a hiss of effort as all available strength is channeled into a single heave --
-- Phillip hits the water.
He doesn't hit badly: he's got quick enough reflexes to turn it into at least a semblance of a really lousy dive before he reaches the surface, and his hands get to go in before the rest of him. Between that and his natural resilience, his first expression when he comes back up is pure delight. The loss may sting later, but right now, it's all about what he just went through, and as far as that goes... "Yeah!" Phillip laughs. "Hey, Jeff, I want to do that one again! Not for points or nothing, just to see if he gets that lucky twice!" No malice, no real suggestion that he truly thinks Gardener won through pure chance. "Come on -- we finish out the rounds and then try a few just for kicks?"
That gets a laugh out of Gardener, and he calls down from the beam. "Make the merge, big guy. I want to butt heads a few more times, too."
Great. Gardener has a new friend. Haraiki is giving Phillip some distinctly unhappy looks as he swims back to their platform: doesn't he know you're not supposed to fraternize with the enemy? Trooper doesn't look all that thrilled about the new relationship either, and Desmond is downright despondent. Gardener climbs back down the ladder -- it's still cool, so getting wet here won't do anything except invite viruses and camera shots -- and rejoins us. Softly, half under his breath, "Man's built like a bull and nearly as bright." He turns, flashes another small potentially-edged smile at Haraiki, then returns his attentions to us. "Got to admit, though -- that was fun."
Way to reassure us, Gardener. What kind of greeting card do you present for a bouncing baby future alliance?
"Turare one, Haraiki zero," Jeff reminds us. He didn't have time to say anything during the match -- plus, like the rest of us, he was more or less caught staring. Cue voiceover editing in a few months. "Haraiki, time to play catch-up. Who's next?"
This turns out to be Elmore, who does just what I'd predicted. "Come on, Desmond." He doesn't sound happy about it, and his own tribe is giving him dubious looks as he struggles his way up the ladder. I catch a glimpse of his face through the rungs as he sweats his way to the top, and his expression is miserable. At this point in the game, just being here is a small torture for Elmore. He got his own tribe at the first Council, but it's been costing him ever since -- and while they want to win, they don't expect he can bring them anything except a quick defeat. Desmond's easily twice as fast just in climbing to the top, and once they get on the beam...
But speed isn't everything here, and we all tried to warn Desmond about that. As soon as I figured out Elmore was most likely to pick him, I also knew what the strategy was likely to be. I tried to tell Desmond. I'm completely sure he didn't listen to any of it. "Careful, Desmond!" I call out. "Watch his weight!"
Desmond still isn't listening. "Ah, what's he got?" he calls back. What Desmond's got is a very wiry body, practically no spare weight, stringy muscles that still work fine. I originally thought of him as animated beef jerky and now with the white beard coming in, it's beef jerky left out in the sun for about a week. He still has some strength, and he's not making the water saltier with every moment he's up there. Desmond thinks he has a mortal lock on a 2-0 lead. Desmond has not heard a word I've said. "Be down in a minute!"
I don't even want to look.
Gardener makes a last-second attempt, probably thinking Desmond will pay attention to another man. "His weight, Desmond!" he yells. "You have to be careful about --" and then it's too late.
What does Elmore have? Two hundred and forty pounds, which he uses in the simplest move of all: he falls over onto Desmond at a very slight angle, pushing his mass a bit to one side instead of straight back onto the beam. Desmond has just enough time for his eyes to widen as his legs struggle to hold up the weight -- but he can't support Elmore. Only Gardener would have had a chance, and it wasn't his choice to make. Desmond's knees buckle, Elmore continues to press down on him -- and they both go over. Desmond's underneath, Desmond hits the water first, and that's all it takes. Tied, one-one.
Elmore slowly swims over to rejoin the others, and they're clapping and cheering, Phillip putting a lot of sincerity into it -- but it's easy to read 'for now' in Angela's half-hooded eyes, and Elmore can feel it without even looking. One challenge where his size was a benefit. There probably won't be any more. For Desmond's part, he makes his way back to our platform, and has the lack of grace to make direct eye contact with Gardener and say "Damn -- never saw it coming." After I tried to warn him. Twice.
Gardener briefly looks disgusted, as do the others, but we don't have any time to tell Desmond to get a working audio center, memory, or just take the self-editor out of his brain: Tony's up. "Who's it going to be, Tony?"
"I dunno," Tony says, and I'm in exactly the right position to see Angela's eyes go ablaze. Tony is very clearly supposed to know what to do. Tony was probably told what to do. Tony has either forgotten or lost sight of the goal in a fog of testosterone fumes, because "I kind of wanted Gardener to myself, and it wouldn't be any fun beating Gary..." And now I'm looking at an oil rig fire, and I realize what was supposed to happen: Tony was supposed to take Gary. I thought he'd go for Trooper as his closest match and because it was so clear to me that he enjoys the battles too, but he was told to take Gary -- which has to mean Angela -- "I want to work for it a little. Trooper, come on up!"
Surface of the sun, flare reaching out towards Mercury.
Angela thought we'd go after Denadi. Angela wanted to take on Trooper. Badly. Why?
Trooper shrugs. "Whatever you say...", making it sound like he's bored just by the thought. He easily climbs up the ladder, while Tony clambers to the top and waits for him, making little finger-curling 'come here' gestures. "It's your call, Tony. I just want to make sure you're certain about it. You really want me up here?"
Tony's laugh is more than a little bit cocky. "Wouldn't have asked for you if I didn't think I could take you! I'd still rather show Gardener up again, but you'll do for now. Come on, man -- you look like the water would help cool that burn off."
Trooper is Amerind. Nobody's asked what tribe, although I think it's probably one of the ones native to New Mexico. Either Tony hasn't figured that out from his features -- which seems like a strong possibility -- or he's a big enough bigot to try and make the joke. Trooper is visibly placing his bet on the low-probability option, and he wants to see the payout in someone else's pain. Mary-Jane winces, Frank rolls his eyes, and Gary softly says "Oh, that one's going to cost him..."
Payment requires less than four seconds to extract.
I wish I was home watching the show. I wish I had a slow-motion replay going right now, because I couldn't make out half of that. Trooper closed in, let Tony make the first move, and then -- things happened. Forearms were definitely involved. I know a right calf got into it somewhere. I'm almost entirely certain there was a feinted headbutt towards the very end. Whatever Trooper lacks in shooting skill, he makes up for in personal combat ability. Tony isn't thrown off the beam: Tony almost seems to throw himself off, with just the tiniest hint on how to do it for maximum embarrassment from his opponent, and Trooper watches him fall all the way down to a completely undignified half-flop into the water that's going to leave his left side smarting for the rest of the day.
Trooper doesn't smile. He doesn't celebrate, even though most of us are cheering like crazy. He just looks down at Tony's sputtering face and says "Stay in the water. It'll help cool that off," then goes back down the ladder. "Idiot," is his only word once he rejoins us, and his eyes stay fixed on Tony for his opposition's entire swim to the Haraiki platform -- and beyond.
Gary whistles. "You need a new job," he says. Trooper breaks the stare just long enough to give Gary the requisite weird look. "Tell you later," Gary promises, and now I'm starting to wonder about the secret agent thing again.
Haraiki is dead-silent -- the holes Angela's burning into Tony don't make any noise on their way through -- and even Jeff seems to be a little bit stunned. "Umm... Turare two, Haraiki one. It's time for the women. Turare, who's up first?"
This should be me, to put a three-one dagger into their hearts. Mary-Jane vs. Angela is a question mark. I don't think me vs. Connie is even a brief hesitation in the middle of the sentence. I glance up at Mary-Jane. She nods.
"I'll take it," I tell Jeff, with 'it' having a double meaning. I don't even bother looking directly at the target: peripheral vision is good enough here. "Connie." Her teeth clench as her lips pull back into a grimace, but she immediately starts for the ladder. I hang back long enough to get a look at the rest of Haraiki. Both Angela and Robin seem confused. Connie was expecting me to take her, but Angela probably thought I'd go with Robin, and Robin had clearly agreed with her. Rivalries are one thing, victories another. The rest of Turare surely would have talked me out of confronting Connie. Sure they would have. It would have made sense. Having Elmore do the wading on Day Two would have made sense, too. Ignoring the towers in favor of the ground game was the smart thing to do...
I get a good look at Jeff on my way up: he's clearly wondering whether he has to review what we're not allowed to do again. This and my deliberately slow climbing pace lets Connie get up well ahead of me. The first things I see are her bare feet, which also have small white patches on the toes. (Most of Haraiki is barefoot for this one: shoes that squish out water on every step are no good for traction.) The next thing I see is her dark green one-piece swimsuit: it's very tight, and there's a large cleavage window -- large enough to let me see matching scars, faint but distinct. I've seen the shape before: Ms. Bracia has a pair. Up further, and there's her equally-worked face, filled with a near-snarling anger that's free to come out once it's disguised as competitive spirit. "Trying to be late to your own funeral?" she snidely leads off. "No sense rushing to your doom... but then, I guess someone like you would want to avoid the plummet as long as possible..."
Gardener's silent road is calling me, but it's nowhere near loud enough to bother paying attention to. "Talk, talk, talk... let's see if you can back it up when I can see you coming." I half expect Jeff to break in right there, but he's letting it continue. Trash talk is a time-honored part of the game, or at least a time-honored way to spike the ratings. "I don't think you've got enough for a direct confrontation: that's why you have to strike in the dark." I start closing in.
"That from someone who cheats in her own personal nightlight." I can just barely see Elmore's face from this angle: for some reason, that got a reaction from him. I wonder why. "Look at yourself, little girl. You're shorter than I am, you've got less reach, you're perpetually off-balance..." She's moving towards the center too.
It does not surprise me that we've come here. I fully expected to be here and I intend to make it a short stay. "I didn't go off the beam twice," I remind her. "Still adjusting post-op?"
Amazing: she can fit more hate in there. "Awww... reaching for whatever we can lie about?" I wish she could see the expressions on her own tribemates right now: she's fooling nobody. "I have a perfect figure, freak. You have a parody..."
Robin speaks up, and if anything is perfect here, it's her voice: the quintessential New York deadpan. "Careful, Connie. Careful." No infliction, no tone. Connie is not beloved by her own tribe. They want to see her win, but there's something between Robin and Connie --
-- and Connie's not picking up on it. "I've got this," she breezily replies. "Tricks can't save her here." Very close now. "Small, weak, useless --"
-- I look away, just for a second, head dipping as if embarrassed --
-- she starts her charge, a single fast step coming in, trying to take me by surprise, then two, three --
-- I drop. Down to my knees, legs pressed close and firmly braced on the beam, open palms thrust straight out to meet her stomach and right thigh, she comes right into me, I lower my head and let her momentum bring my arms up, adding speed to strength, let her do most of the work but my shoulders still don't like this, I was never trained for it, but I have some idea what it looks like, I'm stronger than she wants me to be, and for the second time in four days, she's sailing over my body, I can't see her face but I can imagine it from the outraged scream, put a shove into the left arm to channel things to one side, let it carry, release --
-- the sound of the splash is very, very satisfying.
I stand up. My shoulders are reporting moderate unhappiness with the previous activity, but it's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure. That's a lot less than what it'll take to make Connie feel better about things, especially since her first move upon surfacing is to cough up a small tidal pool's worth of salt water.
"-- low center of gravity," I finish for her, and head back to my ladder.
Turare is cheering to the point of lung collapse, and Gardener, much to my deep shock, is laughing hard enough to make having his buttocks fall onto the platform into a credible threat. "Get another trick!" he calls out. "That one didn't even work the first time!" He turns to Jeff. "That was a charge on one of my people with clear intent to make us piss ourselves laughing!" And that doubles Mary-Jane over with helpless howls of mirth.
Haraiki's reactions are mixed. They realize this just put them on the cusp of losing, we've got a three-one stranglehold on their throats, the Reward is virtually ours and the rest is almost a postscript, they can't be happy about it -- but still, Phillip seems to be suppressing a smile, and Robin audibly says "Told you," to Connie as she helps her back onto the platform: Connie shakes her off as soon as she's on the plastic. The rest of the group just looks miserable. They think they know what we're doing next.
So does Mary-Jane. She forces herself to stop laughing just long enough to ask "Do I still have to take on Angela?" before collapsing into a fit of giggles.
"Nah," Gary says. "Just be gentle."
Mary-Jane half-straightens up. "Okay -- Denadi, can we get this over with?" And another burst of laughter. She giggles her way up the ladder, which can't be endearing her to Haraiki, but there's nothing they can do about it now, not even when Mary-Jane looks across the beam at Denadi and says "We can do this the easy way -- or the hard way," with a tone that makes it absolutely clear she's completely joking and dead serious at the same time.
Denadi looks Mary-Jane up and down, then says "The easy way," and jumps into the ocean.
Jeff shakes his head in disbelief, but I can see Denadi's reasoning. Unless she was about to pull a black belt out from under her swimsuit, that one wasn't going to go well. Any loss in the last three would have given the challenge to us, and their odds were just about zero there. Still -- Angela against Gary or Frank would be a possible victory for them, even probable, and then say Frank vs. Robin, that's a fighting chance -- if she'd hung on and hoped for a lucky shot...
I can see her reasoning. I don't agree with it. When all else fails, stall and wait for a miracle. It'll never come, but at least you'll have used every option.
"Well, that was anticlimactic," Jeff observes, sounding a little disappointed. "Looks like men vs. women in hand to hand will have to wait for another day. Turare, your Reward items will be waiting for you when you arrive back at your camp: we're not going to take the chance on losing anything in the water. Haraiki, I've got nothing for you today --" and there's the pause, the stall we're all learning to dread, the one which says something that definitely isn't a miracle is coming in on a fast horse "-- unless Turare gives it to you."
Everyone freezes. Some of us were actually starting back towards the rafts, hoping to get away in time.
Jeff looks at us. "Turare, you have a decision to make. You can let Haraiki have a duplicate of one of your reward items. They get to choose which one they receive. If you don't give it to them, they'll probably just have to live without, and that might give you an advantage in the long run. If you do, that act of diplomacy might help you later -- plus you'll receive a small advantage at the next Immunity challenge." No smile: face set in the classic dead-serious position and not due to move any time soon. "Talk it over."
It starts as a talk. It turns into an argument.
"Screw them," and I'm not budging off that position. "You saw them. They'll take the tarps. A few more rainstorms and they'll be begging each other for the right to be voted out first. Let them be waterlogged rats and drown in the ocean." Connie first.
Gary frowns. "We've got a merge coming up, remember? We could probably use some goodwill over there -- and that Immunity edge could work out for us."
Frank lightly adds "Plus gratitude takes a lot of forms." He glances across the gap at a very pensive Robin, and Mary-Jane looks like she wants to punch him in the arm, or somewhere lower. Flirting, fine, but she's given him the catch of his life and this idiot won't take his line out of the water.
Gardener's frown is deep enough to crease his entire forehead. "Hell -- this is a hard one. I'm half with Alex: a little more bad weather with no good shelter could wreck them. But you should never pass up a chance for a lead in Immunity if you can get it: ask Danielle." Some nods at that mention of first place having been bought for two hundred dollars of what had really been someone else's money. "But they'll take the tarp -- they're fools if they don't -- and long-term..."
But: the newest word on the Highly Annoying list. I'm still fighting for this. "We get a short-term advantage or we ruin them long-term. They might get a shelter together -- they should be motivated enough now -- but..."
Desmond: "But they don't have the skills. They may just build a tent out of the tarps."

"Hold it." This from Trooper. "Think back. Jeff said they'd get enough tarps to waterproof their current shelter. Their current shelter doesn't work: we all know that. It may not work even if they hang plastic all over it. They probably have to rebuild -- and there's no promise that they'll be able to make the tarps work for the new one."
Gardener likes that idea. "Yeah -- they may even rip the hell out of the things while they're moving stuff around..."
Mary-Jane breaks in there. "I say they can't compete very well when they're coughing up rainwater. I'm casting the Screw Them vote. If we hit the merge with the majority, we won't need goodwill."
Gary's insistence on logic is getting annoying. "The best way to hit the merge with the majority is to win Immunity. If we get a leg up on the next one, we're that much closer to our goal. Seven-three isn't impossible."
Trooper sighs. "Look -- let's just vote. Who wants the Immunity edge?" His hand goes up. So does Gary's. There's a pause, and then Frank's joins theirs in the air --
-- followed by Gardener.
I stare at him.
He stares right back. "We need numbers. And there's too good a chance that if we say no, Jeff might twist things around on us and give them something anyway: I heard a 'probably' in there. We might not even get another storm between now and the merge. Any advantage for Immunity is too good to pass on." And, unspoken, "You know you're next out. Why would you take a chance on rushing your own exit?"
I shake my head. "Fine... give it to them. But if they win the next one..." I let the trail-off finish that for me, and Gardener actually nods. Yes, he'll be hellapissed if this doesn't work, and he'd like to see them suffer too, maybe even especially Connie. He just wants the spear more, and it wouldn't be him going out anyway.
Mary-Jane's exasperated. "Not like my vote counts here." Desmond looks like he doesn't even want to bother with that much. "You tell them, then."
Gardener turns to face Jeff: the rest of us, our faces a careful study in faked indifference or semi-honest charity, follow. "We've decided to give Haraiki a free pick." No mention of the Immunity edge. How very diplomatic.
Jeff turns to Haraiki, which just broke from their own conference. Probably deciding on what to do if we actually went generous on them, or planning out catcalls if we didn't. "You heard them, Haraiki: Turare's decided to be nice to you. You saw the Reward items -- which one do you want?"
He barely gets to finish the sentence. "The tarpaulins," and that's a chorus from Robin, Angela, and Phillip.
Jeff nods. "They'll be waiting at your camp when you return." Back to us. "Turare, you'll find out what your Immunity advantage is before the next challenge starts. Short-term gains or long-term edge -- you'll find out which was better in the end." One eyebrow goes very briefly up. "Back to your rafts -- I'll see you tomorrow."
We get onto the rafts, Trooper starts deploying the fishing line as we paddle away from the platforms, and I glance back, fully expecting to see Haraiki following us to their closer camp -- only to find them starting to row in their slow, pointless circle again, waiting for us to get far enough away to let them depart with an equal distance to go.
Short-term gains. Long-term edge.
I need the next Immunity win to be ours, need it more than anyone else in the tribe. But if we could have won it on our own...
Plan for the entire game if you can, but work in three-day increments, and have your hopes dashed in one.
They have tarps. We have an undefined advantage. All I can hope for is that it's enough to let me see Day Ten.
I can imagine beyond that. I just can't see it.
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Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser"
01-05-09, 05:09 PM (EST)

15. "RE: He Said He Heard Something...: Part III"

I hope Tony was just being dumb and not being bigoted when he claimed Trooper had a sunburn. Of course, Trooper still got him -- and I'm still laughing from it!
I'm also laughing from Alex's getting Connie! Good one, there!
Belle Book

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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
07-21-06, 09:00 PM (EST)

3. "He Said He Heard Something...: Part IV"

LAST EDITED ON 07-30-06 AT 09:21 AM (EST)
{I don't know if anyone's really asked this on the editing threads yet, but what's with all the scenery? For no apparent reason, let's watch Turare travel! Here's a distance shot of the Turare beach, the Cliffs, the challenge beach, the Haraiki beach -- wait. Was that a baby redwood?}
{We're so scant on animals, maybe MB is trying to link people to plants...}
{By the way, Gardener had some interesting -- and accurate -- thoughts on the Haraiki situation after Alex played spotter for him. For two people who so visibly don't get along, they work pretty well together... uh-oh.}
{Hidden alliance? Those two?}
{It's possible... we haven't seen anything, that's a big clue right there...}
{Did you actually look at that sentence before you posted it?}
{And we're back! Haraiki's calling first, and we're having a two-for-one sale on beef in the Society Islands, because here come the big boys. Cue slow motion, and...}
{Okay, they were having entirely too much fun with that.}
{I can't read Phillip. Is he actually enjoying himself this much, or is the country a mask for something else?}
{And now, Elmore will swallow his weekly dose of challenge stupidity.}
{...I'm getting kind of sick of correcting myself about this guy.}
{Does anyone else think Gardener and Alex were trying to warn him? -- oh, and listen to this when he gets back onto the platform! Yeah, we were meant to see that. I bet when Desmond goes out, it'll be because his selective deafness brought him down.}
{Next matchup -- and guess what? There's a benefit to have a lantern jaw. Tony's mouth is officially big enough for his foot. Can you believe that actually got from his brain to his tongue?}
{Nope. I don't think a brain was involved at any point.}
{That -- hurt.}
{Slow-motion... and yes, that really hurt.}
{Did you notice something? There were a lot of 'almosts' in there. Trooper didn't break any of the rules, but he was showing Tony what he could have done. Maybe that'll take some of the cocky out of him.}
{Time for the women -- and it's time to die from not-surprise: guess who Alex is going after? This is a bad physical matchup... I know Alex looks fairly strong, but reach means a lot here. Connie is going to clobber her.}
{A lot of trash talk. Connie just loves playing the body card, doesn't she? But Alex spotted her there... #$%%, I can spot her with that suit.}
{And -- Save Until I Delete. Which Will Be Never.}
{HA!}
{Oh, I could look at Connie's expression as she went over for hours. In fact, I think I will. Rewind... play. Rewind... play. I love modern technology. Rewind...}
{And she takes a lungful going in! That's what you get for screaming on the way down!}
{Anyone want to talk about Connie's being victimized there? Anyone...? Gee, it's quiet in here. Must be a long line at the bathroom.}
{And now, our feature presentation.}
{And now, our female Osten.}
{What are you doing? You don't quit! You never quit! To the bottom of my Love List with you! You're actually making me hope Elmore stays!}
{That was funny, but -- geez. Denadi, if you don't want to play, go home. Or at least make it look like Mary-Jane threw you off with one light fingernail poke.}
{'Would you like to be nice, or would you like to be smart?'}
{I don't think it's that simple. Not with an Immunity edge at stake. Besides, how much do you want to bet that if they deny the Reward, Haraiki gets that edge?}
{Good point. Jeff's phrasing was pointing at something there...}
{Turare plays nice, Haraiki takes the tarps, and now we have to pay for all this stuff.}
{Aw, come on. Someone say it for me. 'Cole will pay.' Geez, man, if you're having that much trouble, call an ambulance.}
------------------------------------------------------
After
------------------------------------------------------
No one was willing to pay to crack my phone number, but it's a lot easier to get my address, and given enough time, the non-local physical mail had started to show up. So far, nothing looked like a mail bomb, and none of the envelopes carried the grease stains of a badly-loaded virus powder. In fact, very little of the material letters contained any hate at all. It was a lot easier -- and quicker -- to let anger fly electronically: actually writing it down required a special level of commitment. Take out the people who send frame-ready pictures of themselves because there are days when an attachment just doesn't say it all, plus the occasional really devoted future murderer who's dumb enough to put their return address on the envelope, and most of the out-of-town mail had been business related -- for a really lousy value of 'business'.
Do I want an agent? Well -- no, especially since most of them were offering to take me on as a client and get me all sorts of good roles on sitcoms, dramas, and maybe even VH1 if I just paid them a sign-up fee of six to ten thousand dollars first. The majority of the remainder were talking about monthly retainer checks. There were a few that looked legitimate, but -- no. Not now.
Would I like to pose nude? Tentative inquiry from Playboy which basically said 'We may be interested: it depends on how far you go,' and I could really read that however I liked. More serious attempts came from Hustler and Penthouse. There was also a very sincere, warmly-written, and with a best-wishes-attached from Score. No, no, no, and thank you for being so polite about it, but no.
We've checked the paperwork and verified you hold the patent on that cross. We think it has a little potential as a camping item and we're willing to take the risk of the boycott. Want to work together? Carefully worded reply that says yes, maybe we can work together, two other people asked, but work out a proposal, translate it from Legal to English, and hopefully it'll work out. Cross fingers, knock wood, and wait for any replies.
Nothing from any publisher. Nothing from any syndicate. There was only so much knocking wood could be expected to not work for. But now, I had a new category to add to the mix, and it wasn't so much business as unsolicited advice, potentially self-delivered. Or dealt.
I sat down on the stairs, shook the small package, tapped it, took a cautious sniff, rammed it against the banister twice, and ran the most powerful magnet I'd been able to find for three dollars over it. All of this resulted in --
-- another Tarot deck. I sighed. It was the sixth one in this delivery, the ninth for the week. I was approaching the point of 'collection'. (So far, none of them were the deck Trina had used.) I'd also received four books on interpreting the cards, a couple of hundred Emails with people's best guesses as to how things were going to turn out, more than a thousand congratulating me on not falling for the scam, about eight hundred screaming at me about my setting witchcraft back fifty years by so openly denying it on national television... (Basically, I now had the radical Christians and the radical Wiccans mad at me, and was probably the first thing they'd agreed on in centuries.) Every deck, on the other hand, came with the exact same instructions: use it. Anyone can use it. Try it a few times, you'll see how well it works, and then you'll be a believer. No, no, no, no, and too late. Next letter.
Mr. Scalia came in, walked right past where I was sitting on the stairs without so much as a glance at me. Fine. It was nice to have someone around who didn't care. It beat some of the alternatives. This one was -- shake, slam -- Deck #10. 'Sacred Rose.' Hooray. If nothing else, I was really starting to appreciate some of the artwork. I'd even given some thought to making a deck using my own characters and settings, but then sanity had set back in. I was not going to make a Tarot deck. I might deal the cards by accident while arranging them, get a reading, and have no idea what I'd set myself up for.
I had read a book when I'd gotten home. I had two general routes for this, and I'd gone with the second: walk to the nearest big bookstore, settle into a quiet section, and check out the contents without creasing the spine. (There's only so much sneaking into the college library I can do, and I hadn't thought their New Age section was going to be all that strong.) I'd seen just enough to let me know that in most quarters, what Trina had told me was considered to be a fair interpretation, and left it at that. There was nothing I could do about it any more. Seven cards were in the past, and the eighth was still somewhere ahead. At least, I thought it hadn't happened yet. It was hard to tell when I had no idea what it was.
I wondered what I was supposed to do with all the useless decks.
Sell them, probably. Or start a collection. How many kinds of decks could there be, anyway? It was all the same seventy-eight cards, just different artistic spins on them...
...which was kind of like saying 'How many Superman comics can there be? It's the same character, just different stories and art...' All the elements were familiar, but what you read those elements as -- what you saw in them could be new every time.
Just like the show. They cast for familiar types, and we knew it. They wanted certain roles filled, and we were there to make sure all the lines were read. The elements were more than familiar: Reward, Immunity, Tribal Council. The endless cycle, repetitive to view from the outside, but with the chance to be fresh with each new variation.
Sometimes I wondered if I'd been cast as a type. Sometimes I wondered if I'd been cast as a punishment.
I didn't know what they'd thought my 'type' was. I was sure it wasn't what they'd gotten.
-------------------------------------------------------------
During
-------------------------------------------------------------
Of course, Jeff never said anything about how many of every item we'd be getting, aside from implying our total square footage in tarps. What we wind up with is seven foam sleeping pads, four blankets, four pillows, the single promised hammock, and a large pile of -- and I have no idea where they found the color -- purple tarps. We all look at the grouping with varying levels of disappointment. Mary-Jane sighs. "I wish we had a coin. We could flip for things..."
Gary shakes his head. "This is designed to create jealousy. We can alternate so that people have a blanket and pillow together every other night, or three people get blankets, three get pillows, one has both and we keep rotating around -- there's options."
Gardener isn't particularly happy either. "I thought we'd at least get to the damn 'where do you stand' challenge before they started this crap -- yeah, let's work something out."
And Desmond just looks confused. "What are you talking about?" We all turn to him. He's never seen an order-sorting challenge? Apparently not, or at least he doesn't know it by Gardener's words, because his next ones are "It's like you're speaking another language half the time."
Frank puts his right arm around Desmond's shoulders, which Desmond visibly doesn't like, and starts to lead him off, which Desmond likes even less. "It's like this..." Their voices fade as they head towards the beach path.
I look at the others and shrug. "I'm okay with the every-other-night thing."
And of course Trooper disagrees. "I like the split, and we can save the combo for whoever's feeling sick, or as a reward if someone does really well in a challenge..."
Actually, I've been fine wadding up extra clothes and putting them under my head. And I'd probably even think that even if I wasn't sick of arguing for the day. "You work it out: I'll go get some water." We're all going to have to refresh ourselves after the two long paddling sessions. "Are we having those fish for a late lunch or dinner?" Trooper snagged two on the way back. Traveling with them flopping in the middle of the raft was an experience. (Having them hang off the side had been out of the question: free lunches for local predators were not being served.)
"Late lunch, I think," Trooper said. "We should all eat, and I'm not sure anyone's still going to be awake by sunset. I'll start preparing them in a few minutes: they should be ready by the time you get back." I nod and leave.
"I'll help you carry it," Mary-Jane offers, and before I can tell her there's no point to doing it for a single container, she's already poured the remaining water into our cooking pot and started for the wide path, carrying the empty vessel.
"Going to talk to your alliance partner?" This is from Trooper. Mostly flavorless. Could be a light tease.
"Don't worry about it." And that's Gary, and that is a cover-up -- I hope. "That's not an alliance, that's an apocalypse waiting club."
Trooper lets out one of his relatively rare laughs. "Arguably."
Enough. I follow Mary-Jane, catching up quickly -- she's paused just out of sight from camp, waiting for me. Sure enough, as soon as we're also out of hearing range, she says "Sorry."
"About what?" There's just so much to choose from.
"Trina's vote." She sighs. "I tried, damn it. I tried to talk to Frank until my lips went blue. But he wouldn't listen. He wants to have me in his camera shots and he wants to have the men standing behind him. I'm still working him because I don't have anything approaching another inroad right now, but -- he won't follow my lead on the votes. I couldn't force a tie..." She shakes her head. "When I knew there was no chance, I just gave up and voted with the others. I never got a chance to tell you, either."
Oh. That. Well, for my part, I'd been trying to talk Desmond into a Trina ouster, and found him very receptive. Gary confirmed it later, I voted that way, and so she went. There was nothing I could do to save her, I didn't particularly want to save her, better her than me, I know we're doomed next because Gary's not enough to swing things either, and did I mention we have a secret alliance that's basically pointless? "We were outnumbered." I shrug. Somewhere in the brush, one of the still-unseen Alicias goes off. "When you don't have the numbers and you don't have the hidden idol..."
Mary-Jane groans. "I never thought to look by the shells. It made so much sense in retrospect, but..." She stops talking, looks at some bright pink flowers for a few breaths. "You know we're next." Plain statement of fact.
"Baring a switch where we'd still be doomed, or a complete reshuffle that probably isn't going to happen? Yeah." Is there any chance that if I sling a rock into the greenery, I'll scare an Alicia into shutting up? No, I'll probably just hit one and get thrown out of the game, sans check. "We just have to fight alongside the men to get this tribe Immunity, and hope we find the hidden idol if we don't." I pause. "If it's any consolation, I'm definitely going first."
"How do you figure?" She sounds honestly curious enough, which means it has to be a put-on.
I stop and stare at her. "You're kidding, right? Frank wants to play with the big boys, but he also wants to hang onto you as long as possible. Add that to the fact that Gardener wants to see me as a disposable part, and I'm out."
"Half-right," Mary-Jane decides. "Frank wants to keep me, yes." A small sound of disgust. "Not that I'll keep him much longer if this doesn't start paying off any small dividends. But Gardener may think you're stronger in the challenges than me." She puts out a hand, cutting off the protest. "You lost your heat in the obstacle course. That's been it."
"You're more athletic," I point out. Or can at least pass for it with good camera angles.
Vague amusement. "I spend a lot of time on a treadmill because girls with two extra pounds don't get work. Girls with one extra pound get dismissed after the first good look. And that could kill me here if I last long enough, because I've got so little to spare..." This is true. We're all starting to lose weight. Not much so far -- between fruit, fish, and rice, there's enough calories available to keep us going -- but people are eating less than they're used to. Much to my very great surprise, this includes me, and I always thought I kept my diet pretty minimal just to cut expenses. I think I've only dropped a few ounces so far -- it's a total guess, and Frank's scales won't handle anything over three pounds -- but I imagine I can feel a tiny difference. It's most noticeable on Frank, who's starting to lose the belly, and Gardener, whose muscles are picking up a little more definition. That doesn't feel like an encouraging sign for the individual stage, but I don't exactly think I'll see that for myself. Not without a tribal Immunity run.
"I wouldn't know -- your profession is a closed book to me." Although I did have the option to watch Tyra and passed it up. We keep walking. "Your employers don't even realize I exist." And I wouldn't be able to afford the results if they did.
A small smile. "I'm not taking the blame for the industry I work in." Another sigh. "This stinks. I thought we had a chance to at least make the merge and link up with the other women, but now..."
I don't see the appeal, and say so with two sentences. "Which would mean working with Connie. Maybe going out means being spared from the sentence."
She laughs. "Yeah. Well, we've still got time -- you never know. The game can change. And if one of us finds that hidden idol..."
And still she thinks there's an 'us'. But who else is there? Gary says he's my ally, but he has no real power. Mary-Jane won't even say that out loud, and she's got less pull than he does. "I'd rather not have to look." Which puts an effective end to the conversation.
Still -- find the idol... bounce the vote...
...which would mean losing Immunity, and going out hours after the hunt came up empty...
-----------------------------------------------------------------
{Haraiki gets home to find their tarps waiting for them, and they're the same ugly orange as their flag, which makes this into one of those rare Rewards we may be better off without. Phillip says they should consider taking their shelter apart and starting over, although not in those words. Denadi points out that they only have enough tarps to cover their current arrangement. Elmore says they can at least get it to higher ground, which everyone agrees with, so they're going to try and move their shelter. How?}
{It looks like they're just going to lift it --}
{-- well, they had the Suckiest Shelter Ever. Now they have raw materials and a lot of sore feet from where the wood came down. Did anyone not see that coming?}
{Robin just got back in time. Denadi wasn't so lucky: long cut on her leg, but it's pretty shallow. They wash it out, wrap it with a clean buff, and decide not to call for Medical.}
{After our latest Golden Haraiki Comedy Moment, we move to Turare, where the women are doomed and the men are letting them know it. Just a little bit snide from Trooper and Gary.}
{Cole's hours are numbered now. At least she recognizes that much.}
{And he's back! Did everything come out all right in the end?}
{After the water delivery, Turare rainproofs their shelter -- it doesn't take very long -- and has a meal before mutually agreeing to take a nap. No one got much sleep -- except for Frank -- and they need to catch up. They split up the blankets and pillows, give Trooper the combo pack for his sterling demonstration of how to butt-kick an egomaniac, and lie down. Frank goes off to explore, and we're back with Haraiki.}
{Haraiki is dead on their feet. They're also dead in their heads, but they can't rest, because they have nowhere to do it. They're forcing themselves to start over from scratch on their shelter. They actually have a plan this time: first they're seeing how much they have to work with in tarps, and then they're arranging branches over them to see how they can make it all fit together. But they're really tired... it'll be easy to make a mistake.}
{Time-lapse, the camera treats us to night visions of Haraiki continuing to work by firelight, long into the night on no sleep -- and welcome to Day Eight.}
----------------------------------------------------------------
My turn. The camera people signal me, and I head off to get our Tree Mail. No one else comes down the path with me, by production order. I guess that's the shot they want: the woman alone... or at least, one woman, one camera operator, and you'll never get a glimpse of the second.
I head down the path. It's sort of fitting that I get this one, I guess: this determines whether I stay in the game or not. And since I might be going home tomorrow, they're treating me to a moment of bad poetry recital. I reach the quiver, pull out the scroll, carefully take off the tie -- have to save that for Trooper -- and, on the camera operator's signal, read the poem aloud. I need three takes, mostly because it's hard to get through verse this bad without choking on it. "Trails to follow, paths to find, wonders to behold. Find them all, and find them fast -- or one of you goes home." How did they ever convince themselves that 'behold' and 'home' rhyme? And then I have to read it again for the others, with the repetition providing something less than help.
"So it's a searcher," Trooper concludes. "Any idea what our advantage might be?"
I have a few ideas. "We start one-up on whatever we have to find. We get a head start. We get to sit one of their people out and search seven against six."
"All possible," Gary concedes. We're sitting around our new table, which means we're sitting on the ground. Since material suitable for chairs just hasn't come along -- no one's found seven rocks of the right size, and fashioning them from wood would take tools we don't have -- Desmond decided to do something in a classic Asian style, or at least at the appropriate height. The sleeping pads double as cushions -- barely. We had just enough time during the morning to finish it (including what we used after we nearly all got up early -- most of the naps went on a little longer than originally planned): this is the first time we're really giving the table a test. It seems to be working so far. At least, nothing's fallen off yet. "This one means a lot."
Gardener doesn't find any humor in that. "Every Immunity means a lot."
Gary grins. "Yeah, but if I don't say it, the cameras don't use it."
Gardener concedes the point, and then tries to get in on it. "I'm sure we all understand how important this is." I sure do. It's the difference between twelfth and thirteenth place. "I really want to see what our largess brought us... let's go." He starts to stand up. One of the production people shakes his head. He sits back down. "Fine. Let's patiently sit around without working on anything else because the second we're at a point where we can't casually leave off, we'll be told to head for the challenge. Go ahead: put that in the episode. I dare you." Frustrated, "Hurry up and wait..."
Frank flashes green-stained teeth: he's been chewing on a blade of grass for most of the morning and trying to whistle down it during the rest. "Easy -- they'll let us know when they're ready. At least we haven't done a night challenge yet."
"We probably never will," Mary-Jane considers. "They never use anything but the night-vision lenses, they don't bring in artificial lighting -- it just wouldn't look right for a whole challenge." I have to agree. A night challenge would be interesting, but we'll won't see one, and neither will anyone who comes after us.
"So we wait," Desmond says. He glances back at the shelter, then up at the sky. He's almost begging for a storm to come along and test his reinforcements. There's no chance right now: a clear sky, warmer than yesterday, less humid. "Nothing wrong with that. We're fed, we're watered, we all got some decent sleep..." The pillows -- or blankets -- or in one case, both -- had actually helped, and the pads evened out some of the smaller bumps. Everyone's curious to take a try at sleeping in the hammock, but we're handicapped there: the trees which would make the best anchor points for it are currently being used as the braces for our shelter. We are not moving the shelter, and we can't move the trees. It may wind up overlooking the beach or get put near the waterfall -- assuming Desmond doesn't just take it apart for the rope. "Waiting's easy."
"Says you," Gardener grumpily declares. "I want to get this over with. I want to know if we're stable or not."
Me too. I want to know if I'm still going to be here two days from now or not.
We wait, and after a while, Gardener tries an experiment: he grabs fins, mask, and spear, then starts off for the beach. He gets about six feet down the path before the camera crew signals us: time to leave. The equipment gets put down even faster than it was picked up. "Told you," he shoots at a member of the production staff. "Double-dare you to put that in..." And we're off.
Win or lose, find the hidden idol or not -- I'm exploring tomorrow. The thought is sudden, but absolute. I may never be here again, and I keep getting caught up in work around camp, sketching the more local surroundings when I find a spare hour. I want to see if I can get far enough to spot the mansion. I want to see some more of the plants he brought to this island. I want memories...
Settled. If we lose, I'll hunt for the hidden idol until the give-up point, and then I'll go off on my near-own. If we win, I'm taking the day off because I'm still going out next unless there's a major twist in the works, and I am not going to hasten my departure because I took a day off. I'm going to get a better look at this place. Why be tied down to camp, afraid to leave because I'll miss an alliance conversation that I know the results of anyway? Tomorrow is Alex's Grand Day Out, and anyone who doesn't like it was going to vote for me anyway. It's a plan, and it makes me feel better all the way down the beach and up the Cliffs.
Tomorrow is for me.
Maybe I can even find a way to lose my camera operator.
-------------------------------------------------------------

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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
07-22-06, 05:03 PM (EST)

4. "Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

LAST EDITED ON 07-23-06 AT 07:39 PM (EST)
{Okay, so the one we thought was Immunity was Reward, and we messed up the call there. That means the one we thought was Reward is going to be Immunity, and damn Burnett and his stupid out-of-order preview footage. What's Turare's advantage going to be, anyway?}
{I don't think they even need one. You know why we're getting treated to Alex's meter stylings and a look at Turare's new piece of furniture? Because EPMB is saving the first glimpse of Haraiki for the challenge. Remember our last shot of them? Brace yourself...}
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We wait at the entrance to the beach. And we keep on waiting, and we wait some more, and Gardener very visibly wants to blow through the barricade of production crew bodies just to have something to do, and if he's willing to make the hole, I'm willing to use it, because we've been out here for what has to be at least an hour. Something is holding things up and no one will tell us what it is. It's not as if we aren't trying to find out. "Is the challenge still being set up?" Because I really want to know why I'm stuck here. No response.
Mary-Jane takes a turn. "Did Haraiki fall into the ocean on their way here?" Nothing.
Frank thinks he's got it. "I know! The real challenge is to see how long we can wait here before we give up and head back to camp!" He's very probably wrong. I don't want to think about the tiny chance of his being right. Talk about hitting the bottom of the challenge barrel...
Finally, Jeff, sounding excruciatingly bored, calls out "Come on in, guys," and can't even find the usual exclamation point for the end of it. We shake off our legarthy and file in, assuming our places on the mat with practiced ease. Jeff's on his own mat, the spear in the sand to his right, and he looks just as bored as he sounded. "You might as well wait here," he tells us. "This could be a while. I just got the news: Haraiki is on the way, but... Well, you'll see." And that's weird. What's going on that Jeff isn't willing to cover up for the benefit of the shock shots once they arrive? It can't be a game-removing injury, or he would have told us on the spot, and we wouldn't even be having the challenge. "It's not as if you'll get an extra advantage from being out here right now," and that's true: there's nothing on the beach but us, the spear, and the mats. "It's ready, in case you're wondering. You won't have to wait any extra time for the setup once they get here." Gardener's incipient snarl goes back to a more falsely placid state. "Anything you want to talk about while we're waiting?" Just a tiny flash of a smile.
Gary laughs. "You don't want to save it for tomorrow? -- or Day Twelve, Fifteen, Eighteen..."
Jeff's slightly tickled by that one. "I could just go back to the production camp, but they'll show up before I get a quarter of the way." Gardener has no sympathy whatsoever. "I've got time for a couple of questions."
Frank immediately fires one off. "When do we get our torches snuffed?" Everyone stares at him. "You know. The fake-out shots." Oh, right -- now we get it, except for Desmond. Everyone getting their torches put out by Jeff, so that there's existing footage of every contestant losing in case anyone gets into the vault. It's a fair question. I was half-expecting it for our first Council, but forgot about it. Too much else to think about that night.
"You already did," Jeff replies. "Digital compositing again. Some of the poses and expressions we put you in for your publicity shots just need a little tweaking to make them work -- and we can't take them at the first Council any more, because the people who would be most interested in those shots would also spend too much time looking at clean clothes." And fully-fleshed bodies. There's probably more alteration work going on than he's admitting to, which will make us look like we went out at different stages of the game. "I did the announcements three days before we came out here." He glances at Mary-Jane. "You were very moved."
She smiles. "Hopefully it's the only time. Okay, I've got one." A long, almost mischevious pause. "Who writes the challenge poems, and is there any way to stop it?"
Jeff rolls his eyes. "I can't tell you, and no." Burnett. He glances back towards Haraiki's entrance, and his next words make it clear that he's heard something off in the distance. "Just one more."
And I hit him with the one I've been waiting to ask ever since I first saw the show. "Were any of us cast to lose?"
I can hear Frank swallowing, very hard. Mary-Jane lets out a little gasp, Gary blinks with enough force to hurt at the impact point, and the rest of Turare holds its collective breath. For his part, Jeff looks like he's just been the victim of the world's biggest brain freeze. I have clearly just ventured into forbidden territory. Those were words no one has ever said to him, a question he thought would never be asked because it's so clearly out of bounds -- and I'm about to make it worse. "When the producers put us together, do they really think we all have an equal chance of winning, or are some of us just here to fill out the episode count?"
It's very quiet on this beach...
Jeff's shoulders twitch, and then his arms move slightly: it's as if he wants to adjust his hat to shadow more of his face, but he catches himself before it gets too far along. Steadily, more to himself than anything else, "I have been waiting for that one to come from someone other than Stacey for years, and it finally shows up in front of a camera..." And now he's looking directly at me. "You know this will never make the air." I nod. Obviously. "All right. You asked, and you're getting an answer. When we put together the final group, we do think that anyone in it could win. We've seen too many paths to the Final Two to think that there's only one trail, one strategy, one type of person who can pull it off. We are looking for people who either believe they've got a chance -- or who can find it in themselves to seize one when it comes along." Our eyes are locked. "We do not think everyone has an equal chance to win. That's not as-in 'You have a thousandth of a percent, he has the rest, but you still have a chance, right -- so sue us.' That's more towards our knowing what the challenges are and how the game tends to play out. There's a lot of paths -- but some are easier to follow. Based on what players have done before and what your own physical capabilities are, some people will always have better odds than others. The mental and social elements are what we can't predict. That's what makes the game closer to equal for everyone, even if it never gets down to a truly even division."
His focus is complete: he has begun this statement, and no matter what happens, no matter how many looks of horror he invokes in the production staff, he's going to finish it. "We don't know how smart you are: we only know how much intelligence you wanted us to believe in. We don't know how you work with others: that never makes it into the application tapes, and it can be impossible to find in a test. You could be a physical loss, but your brains will beat the game. You can't work the physical or mental aspects, but your social skills will find you allies who'll carry you to the end. You power your way through by beating every challenge. You mix and match here and there until you find the formula that pays off. Some of you have better chances than others: that's life, and it doesn't play by a rulebook. But when we brought you here -- we honestly thought every last one of you, including Michelle and Trina, had a chance. No one is here just to give us an extra torch to snuff. Every last one of you is here to play. Anyone here can find their key, use what they have and reach beyond what they are -- and win this game." He has not blinked in the last six sentences. "There's your answer, Alex, and you'll probably never get to repeat it. Satisfied?"
Do I believe him? No. Do I think he personally believes every word of what he just said? Yes. I nod.
Jeff looks more tired than I've ever seen him. "I always knew I'd have to say that one day," and once again, it's as if he's talking only to himself. "I just thought it would be in front of a jury... Come on in, Haraiki!"
And before we can wonder how much of that, if anything, they heard -- Haraiki comes in. Or stumbles, blunders, staggers, falls...
Yesterday, they were tired, washed-out, and frustrated. Today, they are wiped. There are bags under every pair of eyes, red shot through each orb, slumped shoulders and uneven gaits. Tony has gone through a sea change that has taken away his failure to repress yawns and switched in a failure to keep his eyes open all the way to the mat: he keeps closing them, taking two steps forward, opening them again, looking around to see if he's still on the same island he left a minute ago, repeat... A worn-out Philip is half-carrying Robin and Denadi: one on each arm. Angela can just about keep her head up, but that's right at the outside limit of what she's still capable of. Connie is actually too weary to get angry at the sight of me. And Elmore -- Elmore is actually in the best shape of anyone: he at least has some idea where he's going and why he's here, but he may not be able to communicate it to anyone else.
Jeff was clearly briefed on the general situation. He was just as clearly not given the full picture, because I've never seen his face flushed with this much raw disbelief. He had to have been told they were moving slowly because they were tired. He was not told the production staff was warding them off with religious symbols because they had turned into zombies. "Haraiki," he begins carefully, enunciating each syllable in the faint hopes that one out of three will get through, "you did know we were having a challenge today?"
Angela yawns. "We were -- up for most of -- the night..." These are probably words she should not be saying in front of us, and she's too tired to realize it. For all she knows, Jeff is the only one here. "Our shelter -- fell apart." Desmond starts to snicker. "We had to -- make a new one. Too many clouds -- couldn't stop in case it -- poured..." Of course, the clouds had been very light in color, and there was probably a slave-driving hand somewhere in there that needs the blame for this instead, but since the clouds were around, any excuse in a lack of storm...
Gardener looks like he just had all his birthday presents from his entire life all over again, along with most of the cake. Trooper is trying very hard to keep a straight face and still isn't doing that well. Jeff just looks tired again, at a scale of about one-quarter Denadi. "Is there even a point to having a challenge today?" It's a legitimate question. Unless we're about to battle to the near-death in competitive napping, we were just issued an open invitation to use their motionless bodies for sand raking. "Yes, shelter is important, it's crucial, but..." He holds the rest of that back because it's more suited for Council, but we can finish it on our own: "If you'd built it right the first time, or had the common sense to stop and sleep under the tarps, you wouldn't be in this mess." With just the tiniest hint of frustration, "Do any of you want to call this off and go get some sleep before I see you tomorrow night?"
Denadi starts to raise her hand, which may be all she has strength left for -- but Phillip speaks before she can get it above waist level. "We're here to play, Jeff."
Jeff sighs. "It's an interesting season..." he observes, then switches gears. "Today's challenge is for Immunity. You're in a place that was partially built around the worship of hunting -- and now you're going on one of your own." He gestures to the treeline, and we all glance over. (At least, everyone on Turare does. Haraiki isn't completely with us at the moment.) "Each tribe will start down their own trail: they'll have a list of animals they have to find, but no map. When you find an animal, you'll have to collect it -- untying it first. One tribe member will have to carry it, and the same person will haul it all the way to the finish line: no switching. If you go off the trail, you'll have to find your own way back. Once you've found all your animals, the first tribe with all of their members and hunt trophies back on the mat wins Immunity -- safe from the vote for another three days." His focus shifts to our mat. "Turare: your charity brought you a challenge advantage, and here it is: you do not have to bring one animal along with you. You have to untie them all, but you can leave one behind where you find it. That means you'll have less weight to carry, and you'll be able to move that much faster as a group." A glance at Haraiki, and he's clearly wondering if that even matters now: we've had an advantage since the moment their bodies showed up and failed to bring much of anything with them. Unused luxury item: brains. Braaaainssss...
Our host is forcing himself to continue. "You can even switch animals if you think one would be easier to carry than another, but remember: the same person has to carry -- or not carry -- a given find, and going back to exchange will cost you time -- okay, Frank: enough." Because Frank just couldn't hold it back any more: he's openly laughing now, and it's either ruining the shot or adding extra flavor to it. Jeff turns to the closest member of the production staff. "Do you want me to do that part over?" Just the last few words: otherwise, she's fine with it. "Going back to exchange will cost you time. And for the record, Turare: if you had denied Haraiki access to a Reward item, this would have been their advantage."
Group shock -- but it's not as strong as it could have been. Score one for Gardener, yes: he spotted something in Jeff's speech and realized what it might mean. But this challenge is a fiasco waiting to go off, and as such, I note that he did pick up on it, wish I had, and wait it out. It doesn't feel all that important right now, because I can see the sun rising through the canopy on Day Ten, and what we're about to go through is nothing more than a formality...
"Does everyone understand the challenge?" Jeff asks, and waits.
Right on cue: Tony. "Jeff -- um... could you repeat that?"
"Which part?" Jeff asks with unnatural patience.
"Um... all of it?"
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{Prepare yourselves for five minutes of pure pitiful.}
{I'm not even sure we're going to get five whole minutes.}
{Well, there's lot of episode left -- maybe it's just an exceptionally long Council. For Haraiki. Really, is there any way Turare can lose this challenge?}
{Well, God could strike Alex down with that long-overdue lightning bolt, but I'm pretty sure the rest of them could finish without her.}
{Please tell me Denadi didn't just fall asleep leaning against Phillip during Jeff's repeat...}
{Can't.}
{At least they're not forfeiting.}
{Just 'as good as'. Sheesh. When I saw the preview footage for what we thought was the Reward challenge, and it showed Gardener rushing and Phillip stumbling, I thought Turare had a lock. Now I know they have a lock, and the only question is which Haraiki member is going to be handcuffed to the concrete block and pushed into the ocean. Probably Elmore, but he might be able to float the weight.}
{And they're off! -- for a given value of 'they' which reads as 'Turare'.}
{Do we even need a live recap? Here's the list of animals: elephant, rhino, hippo, cougar, deer, duck, and giraffe: teak carvings, island style, different sizes, but the elephant is the largest and heaviest: hi, Gretchen! Turare finds them all, naturally leaves the elephant behind, and heads back to their mat. They could have gone hands-and-knees all the way with the animals balanced on their backs and finished before Haraiki got their seventh animal freed. When you're that tired, there's a lot of things you can't do, and one of them is untie knots. Another is follow a trail. And a third is 'Not be seven hunks of useless flesh.' They can't get their animals free, they can't stay on the path -- Turare finishes while they're still trying to get their fourth animal free, and why a duck? Only Groucho and Jeff know. Possibly not Jeff.}
{Desmond takes the spear. Haraiki takes a stare from Jeff and keeps on taking it all the way out -- commercials.}
{We're back, Haraiki is back at camp, and the clue is waiting for them: 'In water, logged.' Huh?}
{Everyone's too tired to work on the clue, so they decide to try the 'fall over and die' search method -- welcome to Day Nine.}
{At least the shelter's halfway workable this time. Still no great prize, but now they have a chance against a light breeze.}
{Haraiki paying a lot of attention to the river... most of the tribe is thinking about something floating along...}
{Elmore cannot get away from Angela. She's staying on his heels everywhere he goes: if he finds the idol, she wants to know it -- or snatch it before he can get his hands on it.}
{Or maybe she's just distracting him. He can't seem to concentrate with her behind him all the time, and it doesn't look like he got this one on first glance.}
{No one else seems to be having any luck, and they arguably don't need much. Only Elmore follows the river very far away from camp -- 'can't leave: people might vote against me' -- and when Angela stays right with him, he just throws up his hands, which is the most movement he's shown in nine days, and the screaming fight starts right here. We have bleeps, we have blurs, and Gordon, wherever you are tonight, you must be feeling like a bit of a piker.}
{Tribal Council with a lot of time on the clock, but Jeff's not stretching this out. He does ream Denadi for her quitting on the final heat during Reward: if she's going to give up at any stage of anything, maybe she's not suited for this game. The rest of Haraiki is giving her dirty looks, but they don't realize lightning wasn't likely to strike Mary-Jane on that beam unless God missed really badly. Still -- yeah. You don't quit. Ever.}
{Questions about the shelter disaster. Angela isn't sure of the time, but she thinks they finished the rebuild around four in the morning. She admits she was part of the force behind not letting them slack off, but says Connie didn't want to stop until they had something worth sleeping in. How much work did Connie do on that? Not much. She just supervised most of the time, tried to tell them where to go next, and once in a while she'd carry things. How did they get finished? By ignoring Connie. They're trying to create some suspense with this boot, and it's not working. It's also not eating enough clock. Is someone going to have a full-fledged breakdown after the vote is read? Because we've got too many minutes, and they're just starting the vote.}
{Elmore votes Angela... he can't forgive the following trick. Angela votes Elmore. Interesting -- Robin votes Connie, and says 'I just want you to think about it for a few days.' She's throwing a vote away to send a message. No one else shown.}
{Wait a minute -- that's three women probably voting for Elmore, three men for Angela, and now we've got a tie?}
{Jeff tallies the votes. Elmore -- Angela -- no shock from either of them -- Connie, and she's not happy about it -- Angela again -- Elmore -- Elmore -- Elmore! And that's Tony's stupid handwriting: this time, he went with what his leash-holder told him to do! That's why Robin could toss a vote -- she knew it wouldn't make a difference, and they'd think the men were divided...}
{No idol this time, and Elmore doesn't even try to fake it: he just goes up, gets his torch snuffed, leaves with no temper tantrum, Haraiki files out, the camera shows us where the hidden idol was -- under the waterlogged scrapbook Michelle left behind and asked them to fill for her, which no one's apparently touched since -- wait. No final words yet and we've still got nine minutes? What's going on here? Is CSI starting early?}
{Commercials -- no, we're back. And we're -- with Turare? Earlier on Day Nine? What is this?}
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After
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Just for the novelty of it, I picked the phone up while it was still ringing.
"Alex?"
No, someone else lives here, Officer. Is that relevant to the investigation? "Yes, Officer Ramirez." Is something happening with the Emails or bottle?
"I just wanted to give you an update on your cases." Pause. Cough. Hack. Slight wheeze. Resume. "There's been an arrest in Wisconsin, but it's more coincidence than anything else -- he fought them so hard on giving them access to his hard drive that they went and got a warrant, and found some -- pictures -- in a sub-directory. You can guess the rest." Well. Chalk up a purely accidental one for the good guys. Why, it'll be at least twelve hours before he's out on bail! "Past that, it's just a lot of warnings to your latest batch, and most of them are denying it, too. The Wisconsin guy was probably just a 'last excuse' chance for the judge."
"I understand." And if she wants to hear echoes in that, let her. It's not as if it doesn't still apply.
From the sound of her voice, she picked up on it, but she'll never have a response for it. "No progress on the car. Your threat ratio is still dropping?"
"Yes. Less Emails on it every day. The ones that do come in are getting worse --" and those were the untraceables, ratcheting up their level of hatred behind the cloak of secrecy, free to commit limitless perversions on an imaginary electronic self with no one to stop them "-- but a lot of them have left the race." I haven't done anything fresh to get the attention of the more casual correspondent back.
Yet.
"There's something else." Another pause, but this one is just to let the awkwardness settle in. She has something difficult to say, and she's not sure how to get it out without creating more trouble for her to be unable to deal with. "There's been people asking for your records. Your full records. All of the requests have been electronic, and they're all pretty easy to spot. Fakes, all of them, not a legitimate access in the bunch. Some of them counterfeit it better than others, but..." More coughing. The sound of a lighter snapping open. "I had a friend flag your file so that every time a request comes in, it goes to me. I'm denying them all and trying to track them back to the source. No luck there so far, but at least nothing's gotten out on my watch."
"Thanks." The AFA -- and similar parties -- looking for extra material? Anything could be used against me when viewed with the right lack of context, but they'd have to work for it a little and hope I didn't respond --
-- which I couldn't, because it would be turned into something game-related. Typical. But as she'd said, nothing had gotten out yet. So why was she so worried?
"There's something else."
And Jeff: "Wow. And I thought I could work a pause."
"What?" Wait for it... she'll say it when she's ready, and it just gives me that much more time to imagine the worst...
"A few months ago -- someone did get your file." She provided the date. "That request came through channels, but the upper level is clouded. It was just passed down until someone fulfilled it. I've tried to track it back, and it's legitimate until you get up about four places -- and then it just fades out. They pulled everything, Alex. I didn't know until I started checking your full request logs to see if I'd missed one..."
"Relax." It's not a word I've ever used with her before. It's the vocal equivalent to holding up a stop sign in the middle of a NASCAR race and having ten cars pile into each other on pure reflex. "I know what that was. The show had to run a background check. It's mandatory. Before they cast me, they had to make sure there was nothing lurking in my past that they'd really regret later." I gave her a moment to think about it, then added "I don't know if you watch Big Brother, but one year, they had someone who was holding a knife... Nothing happened, but ever since then, all the producers have been a little nervous. Justifiably."
"Oh... And they covered their tracks because they were trying to keep your possible contestant status secret." Pause. Inhale death. Exhale. Fail to get rid of death. Resume. "They have a big fan of the show somewhere high up the line, and they asked him for a little favor, is that it?"
"You've got it," I told her. "Just a little safety procedure for CBS. The method's a little shady, but there's nothing really wrong with it. Just let that one be. I knew about it."
"Okay." She has just taken custody of a piece of Secret Insider Knowledge. She's happy. "I'll call you back if anything else happens, then. Are you going to drop off another DVD?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, maybe -- give them a chance to react to tonight's episode." Might as well use up some more of the disc.
"I'll see you then." Wheeze. "I have to know -- do you watch it?"
"Yeah." No harm done there. "There's things I want to see." Or there. "You know -- it's not as if I knew what the other tribe was doing."
"Got it." Cough. Inhale. Longer inhale. Slow release, still waiting on a final one. "One last thing -- is it weird, watching yourself on television?"
"Very." And since I had to make dinner, I decided to cut it off there. "Good night." I hung up.
Very, very weird. Because the person who's watching isn't entirely the one who was there. I can look at her, I remember her, I know what she was going through -- but I can never talk to her. And there's so many things I wish I could tell her...
Hindsight is perfect. That's why it's not real.
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During
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"If I'm not back by the Reward challenge, feel free to give me the courtesy vote-out."
It's somewhere around noon on Day Nine, and as far as I'm concerned, my duties to the tribe are currently fulfilled. I've started the morning fire, boiled some water, found vines for the storage-shack-in-progress, and no one's letting me have a turn on the fishing line. I'm out of here.
Trooper, who's allowed to work on the complicated part of the shack -- i.e. anything Desmond doesn't think Mary-Jane and I can handle -- i.e. nearly everything -- wants a little more detail. "So where do we look for the body?"
"No idea." I duck into the shelter, grab my sketchbook and some pencils. "I'm just going exploring. Wherever I wind up -- at least until I get near the boundaries -- is probably where I meant to go. Don't worry: I can keep track."
Gardener glances at my bring-alongs. "Going to get some art?" He pounds a piece of wood with another piece of wood. Progress is presumably being made.
"Basically."
"Frank's already out there," he points out. "I know where Gary is: he's getting more wood. I know where Mary-Jane is: she's working on her tan by the diving rock, and she let me know before she left because 'I don't want to offend your delicate morals.'" One of his now-patented snorts expresses his opinion on that. "I don't know where Frank is and now I won't know where you are. Missing two out of seven does not make my heart feel better."
I strive to look offended. It's easy: I am offended. He's picked a hell of a time to pull a Desmond. "I have a camera operator with me, he'll have a radio --" a male today, and now I have to speak up over the noise of colliding wood "-- so if I die, someone will pick up the body. Eventually, after it's posed for a really good mood shot." The card -- no. "Jeff encouraged us to explore. So far, Frank's the only one who's really gone out into the jungle. I want to get a good look and I want to draw most of it. That's all."
"Or you could stay and work on the shack," Gardener points out. "Like a good tribemate would."
The eye roll takes a little more effort. Just a bit more softly, enough to get over the sounds of labor, but not enough to carry, "Desmond isn't letting me work on the shack." Louder, "Gardener, let's make this easy. Where's my position on the totem pole of this tribe?"
That gets a blink out of him, and his head jerks up as if rockets had just gone off under his chin. "You pick the weirdest times and places to do this stuff, you know that?" 'Stuff' as another substitute word. "You want it in the open? Fine. You're at the bottom and I think you knew it before you asked me."
"In fact, I'm going next." Would you like a snuffed torch with that plain statement?
His eyes narrow, even as Trooper goes for partially dumbstruck. This is getting a little past the level of 'open' that even Gardener's comfortable with, and it's probably a good thing Desmond's paying no attention to this conversation. But even so -- "Yeah. You're next."
"So it doesn't make a difference if I hang around looking for work I won't be allowed to do -- or to spy on vote-out discussions when I know what the result is -- does it?"
Gardener makes a show of thinking it over -- then does something I'm not expecting. He smiles -- at least, he half-smiles: only the left side goes up. It doesn't look like he's doing it as a prelude to going for my throat. It isn't the least bit warm, but it is sincere, and there's even a little honest mirth lurking in it. "You know, now that I think about it -- it doesn't." He shrugs. "Go draw. We'll drag the rivers in the morning. But I reserve the right to sell the works of a tragically-dead artist."
"Thanks. And no: let the museums fight it out." Pencils are sharp enough, I've got the stolen pen -- time to go crystallize some visions --
-- and that's when Frank comes crashing out of the bushes, running at full speed, eyes too wide to see anything. He stumbles as he crosses into the clearing, not ready for the terrain change under his feet, starts to go forward, almost catches himself --
-- almost. He goes over, but he was leaning far enough out to let his hands hit seconds before his chin. He yelps in pain, and the work stops as we all scramble over. "Damn!" He's shivering on the ground, vibrating up a small cloud of tiny leaf particles. "Damn it, damn it, damn it..."
Trooper reaches Frank first. (An accident of camp geography puts me right behind Trooper.) "Frank? Are you okay?" Stupid question: Frank shakily pushes himself up, and there's red in the ground his hands slid across. The cuts probably aren't from the impact: we've cleared out the sharp edges, and there's scratches all over his legs. He must have been running through thickets of stickers.
"Yeah... yeah..." He focuses on Trooper, if just barely: his eyes are still wide, and the pupils seem darker with fear. "Something's out there, dude. Something's out there." Gardener's with us now. "I heard something, and it wasn't human..."
Desmond joins the pack. "What's going on?"
"He said he heard something..." I tell Desmond -- there's a slight chance it actually got through -- and return my attention to Frank. I don't like the sweat pouring off him. "Can someone get him some water?" Gardener doesn't question it, just complies.
Trooper takes over from there. "Frank, what did you hear? An animal?" He hesitates, but the pause isn't enough to let him inject enough humor into the next question to make it register as such to Frank's frightened mind. "A ghost?"
"I don't know, man, I don't know..." More shivering, green-stained teeth chattering. "It was a voice. Words, English, but it wasn't a human saying them, I know. The voice was too weird... nothing human in it... nothing human and alive..." Either he's the greatest actor of all time, or his slowly fading terror is real. "It kept saying 'Over here, over here,' like it was calling me, and I thought I heard something breaking through the brush, and it just kept calling..."
Or he could have been hiding in the bushes, already scratched up and sweaty from his walk in the jungle, heard me talking about taking a walk, and decided to do something that would get him some serious camera time...
...but he looks so scared...
Gardener gets back with the water. "Where's your cameraman?"
"Somewhere back there," Frank says. "I lost him when I ran --" but not for long, because he's just emerging from the Tree Mail path, apparently having decided to finish the trip on something relatively clear. I immediately focus on his face. Also sweaty, and -- yes, I can see the signs. He's been frightened recently, maybe almost as badly as Frank, although he's made more of a recovery. "'Over here, over here...' It wanted me." His gaze comes up, tries to use Trooper as the anchor to hold him in a world of sanity. "This place is haunted, people did die here..."
"Yeah, right." And that's me, and my words are harsh and tinged with anger. I'm tired of this. I am sick of people trying to throw the supernatural into my life -- our lives, now -- for their own amusement. I'm going to put an end to this right now.
They're all looking at me, and I have to explain myself. It doesn't take long. "Frank, I believe you. I know you heard a voice out there." I point at the camera operator. "He heard something: you can see it on his face." He quickly turns away. "But it wasn't a ghost. It was just some idiot on the production staff who decided he'd play a joke on us by faking a ghost." Sarcastic pitch, aimed low: "Break some branches, speak through the electronic gizmo of his choice, and suddenly, the show has some choice comedy in case they need to fill a few minutes."
Trooper slowly looks me over -- then turns his eyes to Frank's camera operator, who's looking at us -- and he's pissed. Not at me. Certainly not at Frank. It's a general non-encompassing pissed that hasn't settled on a target yet, mostly because he's still narrowing down his range of potential victims. What his expression is saying would be 'Damn it! She's right! When I find (insert name here), I'm gonna kill (presumably) him!' And now we're all looking at that clear message as it's broadcast towards the mansion, where angry footfalls will soon be heard in the halls, and we all recognize it for what it is...
Frank slams the ground with a bleeding palm and curses -- then repeats it when he realizes what he just did, not to mention how much it hurt. "And I fell for it!" More cursing. "I hope they find the dude who did this. I hope they kick him off the island."
I nod. I hope so too. I hope they fire him right in front of us. "Wash off your hands -- and your legs: you're pretty scraped up." He shouldn't need Medical, but the cuts definitely have to be cleaned. "And now that the fun and games are over..." I'm not going to be any good during the treatment: Trooper probably knows more basic first aid than all of us. I head for the path Frank's so conveniently rammed through the brush.
"Alex." Gardener again. I stop and look back. "Look -- I'll agree with you when you're right. I think you've figured that out. And I agree with you here: this was a really stupid prank." This has to be going somewhere. "But --" and we're back to the insincere points "-- what if it is a ghost?"
"Then we're going to draw the highest rating in television history." I look directly at my camera operator. "Don't call this in? Leave the guy out there -- maybe just tell people I'm going for a walk and you're with me. I'll go where Frank went -- maybe we can catch the guy." He nods, as do the others. A glance at Frank's company: no, this wasn't called in yet. We have a chance -- wait. Better idea. "Maybe you can even say we've had an incident and I'm checking out the scene..." Another nod. At least for the moment, contestants and crew are on the same side. Then again, this is what I think of as the good crew, which means the people who took an instant dislike to me over the cross aren't on shift right now. "Let's go."
"Bring 'em back alive!" Gardener sardonically calls after me. "Or dead..."
And we're off. So much for losing my camera operator. In fact, I've picked up an extra, because Frank's is with us. Naturally: he knows the trail. He can't go in front of me -- it's too hard to edit out of the shot -- but this is one of the rare times outside confessionals where a member of the crew will talk to me: he's guiding me down Frank's trail of terror with softly whispered directions. Those will be a lot easier to remove from the tape.
We walk, and the ongoing instructions seem to fade to an almost subliminal level. There are signs of Frank's passage here, and not just in broken branches and trampled grass. He's been out in the jungle more than any of us, and he's left signatures behind. Footprints in small patches of dried mud. Fruit picked here and there, and -- yes, that's starfruit, I saw it in one of the good supermarkets, he's been having starfruit and didn't tell anyone... A bare spot in a patch of the grass he likes to chew and whistle along. Frank's been here enough for one person on the production staff to realize he'd keep coming out this way and work further along. Perfect chance for a lousy joke. I feel sorry for Frank: I've seen more than my share of pranks. Not that it's going to keep me from trying some of the starfruit later, but I've been where he is, and I know how it feels. I'm coming out here for some partially misdirected revenge.
Picking our way along. Here's the stickers, and I see where Frank originally went around them, take the faint trail. The jungle is thicker here, the plants unrecognizable. A distant memory whispers Amazon in my mind, and I don't know if it means series, region, or both. Maybe some of the things here were transplanted from there, but I don't think there could ever be enough rain to support them. Or maybe it's not as much of a factor if the soil is right. Huge leaves, the darkest greens I've ever seen without having them verge into black, dark red flowers with deep brown centers, dried blood with clotted pools...
...broken branches on the ground, old ones dropped off and cracked from the pressure of a sudden passage. Lots of them -- and stop. The subliminals fade out. This is where it happened.
There's very little light here. The canopy is thick overheard, and I think about Darkest Africa and places where the jungle was so dense that light was just a distant rumor, little mammals with huge eyes to maximize any tiny patches they could find. And the other meaning of 'darkest': fear of being in places without light, fear of not seeing --
-- fear of the unknown.
A perfect place to spring an ambush. Nothing more.
I don't believe in ghosts. I don't --
"Over Here! Over Here!"
It's not a human voice. It's as if something had listened to speech all its life without ever understanding it, finally tried it, got it wrong. The pitch is off, the sound somehow scratched before it ever reached the air, parody as near-assault.
I don't jump: I've been waiting for this. I close my eyes for a moment and take a slow breath. Fine. This jerk is still playing the part. Let's see how long he can keep it up. And if I play along...
Now there's a thought. "Where are you?" I call out. And better still: a little shudder into this one. "Who are you?"
"Over Here! Over Here!"
Forward, a little to the left, through a very thick wall of wide-stemmed plants. I fake a shiver. "What --" A stutter might be good, too. "W-w-where are you?"
And again, "Over Here! Over Here!" Very close. How can he expect to get away in time? Unless -- and this hits me at just the wrong moment -- he has a speaker set up along with a remote camera, and he's broadcasting from somewhere else...
I push through the plants, which seem to be getting thicker by the second. This blouse is going to be stained solid green in about two more steps. "Over Here! Over Here!" Insistent, almost excited. It must be a speaker. He's making it too easy to find him. The distortions become no closer to human with proximity. The rustle of the leaves I'm pushing through add their own note to the words as they absorb more of the scant light, release their fragrance at the lightest touch --
-- Iron. Rust.
Blood.
Something has died here. Something's dead...
...the card, the first card...
...NO! I don't believe! I push -- and a hundred flies angrily buzz up from where my right foot lands, directly in the center of it.
I am standing at the edge of a very small clearing: there's just enough room in the canopy for a single shaft of sunlight to illuminate most of the center and part of the edge. The flies expressing their fury were driven up from a pool of still-liquid blood, gradually soaking into the ground. It's not a very large puddle, and there's bits of light brown fur in it, some of it still attached to skin. One of the local mammals died here at the hands of an equally local predator, just a few minutes ago, with the body dragged away -- there's a trail of red quickly fading to the left, going into a natural gap in the green. It left enough behind to stain the bottom of my sneaker and a little ways up the edge. It's not soaking into my sock and foot. It can't be. I'm just imagining it. I have to keep telling myself that because I'm standing in the middle of a fresh death, and I will not scream, I see worse as roadkill nearly every day, but the sound of it, the sickening squelch and the buzzing of the flies...
...and the voice, triumphant. "Over Here!"
Look, damn it, look, across the clearing, it's got to be visible, it's too loud and too close and too --
-- blue.
A brilliant blue, lots of brilliant blues, all variations on a single shade, about four feet off the ground on a low branch, moving from one clawed foot to another in a dance of what has to be a very real joy, looking out at me through bullseyes, alternating rings of white-black-white...
"A parrot!" I softly exclaim. I don't want to frighten it. Not that it looks like it would be frightened. It's clearly incredibly happy to see me. "What's a parrot doing out here...?" The better question: what's a talking parrot doing out here? That parrots would live in this area -- or might have been brought here by the previous owner -- that I can believe. But parrots have to be taught how to talk. Is this someone's pet, escaped from the production crew?
I glance back at the two camera operators, asking the question with my eyes. They can read it: they shake their heads. No, they've never seen this bird. Back to facing the clearing. "You must have belonged to the billionaire or his staff..." Slowly, carefully, I step into the sunlight. My right shoe makes a horrible liquid sound as some of the excess blood comes off on the grass. The parrot stops its dance, watches me approach through beady eyes. It's a beautiful blue. I wish I had that shade with me. It'll probably be impossible to find when I get home. I thought parrots were mostly red and green: the exception is absolutely gorgeous. "What's your name?" Talking for the sake of reassurance: if it did live here when the island was still active, it's been a long time since it's heard human words, and they might be a comfort.
Apparently I've said the right thing: the parrot goes back into its dance, hoping around on the branch in rapture. "Azure! Azure! Azure Is A Pretty Girl!" And a flap down to ground level, where it stares up at me. "Pretty Girl!"
"Azure is a pretty girl," I tell her. Now that I'm not scared anymore it's just blood, things die all the time, we just don't see it and I know this wasn't someone's idea of a prank, this is starting to approach the remote corners of vaguely enjoyable. I've never had a conversation with a bird before. "How long has Azure been here?" No response. Naturally. She wasn't trained for that one. How long do parrots live? I never read anything about how long the mansion had been abandoned, and -- well, how do you tell age on a bird? Azure doesn't look old. She certainly has a child's energy: she's jumping around again.
The sun's angle is just about in my eyes: I put out an arm to shield them. "Is Azure having fun with her scare --"
-- and Azure takes off, soaring up until her four-foot wingspan shades my vision -- then comes down. Strong claws grip my left forearm without breaking the skin. I drop my arm in shock: the extra weight doesn't help either -- but just in elevation, not back to my side. Azure sits there and looks at me, not disturbed by the sudden change in altitude. "Hello!"
"He -- hello," and that stutter was sincere. "Are you coming with me?" Right, sure, show the bird some attention because it hasn't seen humans in years -- and the instant it sees a human that doesn't run away from it, presto: new sucker. Azure keeps gazing at me, apparently perfectly content with her perch. She is not light. I wonder if there's any way I can get her to move to my shoulder. "So you are coming?" No response. I sigh. "I suppose you're going to beg --"
I don't get the rest of the sentence out. There were three words to go: '-- for food next.' Thinking about what she'd been trained to say and when. That was all. Nothing more.
Azure flaps her wings without taking off, shifts her grip in her excitement, comes close to breaking fabric and skin, screams.
"Don't Shoot! In The Name Of God, Please Don't Shoot!"
-------------------------------------------------------------
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(End of Episode #3.)

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vince3 15726 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
07-22-06, 06:01 PM (EST)

5. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

*shudders*
Well, there's the Death card, I think.
Ironically enough as I got to the end, the ad below was for a Tarot reading, LOL.

Tribe's Super Sig!

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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
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07-23-06, 12:23 PM (EST)

9. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

Well, there's the Death card, I think.
*resists urge to make evil-EPMB-style comment -- barely*
And yeah, the post scan program is weird that way. I have no idea how it picks key words to line up ads for. Dart-throwing?

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cahaya 14104 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
07-23-06, 12:34 PM (EST)

10. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

Ironically enough as I got to the end, the ad below was for a Tarot reading, LOL.
Synchronicity? Coincidence? Unseen forces at work? SOmething about this story...
Woooooo ^ooo-_ooo!

Tribephyl's Foo dogs.

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xwraith27 1136 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Politically Incorrect Guest"
07-22-06, 07:46 PM (EST)

6. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

4 8 15 16 23 42
If only the real Survivor were this interesting...

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TheFabulousLurker 165 desperate attention whore postings
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07-24-06, 08:36 AM (EST)

12. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

This is a GREAT story, and I don't even watch Survivor. LOL
BTW, what is EPMB?

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vince3 15726 desperate attention whore postings
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07-24-06, 08:40 AM (EST)

13. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

Executive
Producer
Mark
Burnett

A gift from Cygnus!

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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
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07-24-06, 09:02 AM (EST)

14. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

Or, occasionally:
Evil
P(rhymes with trick)
Mark
Burnett.

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Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser"
01-05-09, 08:09 PM (EST)

16. "RE: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something...: Conclusion"

LAST EDITED ON 01-06-09 AT 06:30 PM (EST)
Whoa! That was quite an ending to the episode! Pure hilarity at the mishaps of Hariki, and then a scary moment with Turare.
Okay, here's my Love List for this episode:
1. Alex -- you took Connie down and humiliated her in the process! And you found Azure! I like you!
2. Phillip -- you really are a nice guy. Sadly, you may be too nice for the game.
3. Trooper -- well, at least you let Tony know he should never mistake your Native American features for a sunburn ever again!
4. Gardner -- good job against Phillip! And you were smart enough to realize that you needed every advantage for Immunity you could get! Too bad it wasn't necessary.
5. Gary -- didn't see too much of you this round, but I still like you.
6. Mary-Jane -- can't blame you for laughing your head off at Gardner's comment.
7. Robin -- you don't like Connie. Neither do I. So I like you -- especially since you gave her a message vote.
8. Frank -- that was pretty scary. At least it was just a parrot trying to get attention that scared you.
9. Angela -- you really should've just used the tarps to sleep in and called it a night after the shelter collapsed. Instead, you had to get a new shelter built -- and you wiped your team out in the process.
10. Tony -- I sure hope you just didn't realize Trooper was a Native American and not that you were a bigot! In any case, you paid for your stupidity.
11. Denadi -- sure, you were probably going to lose to Mary-Jane. But you at least should've tried your hardest. Instead, you just quit.
12. Desmond -- you really need to listen more to Alex! She was trying to help you beat Elmore, and you blew her off! And you paid the price. Idiot.
13. Connie -- you know what happens when you underestimate Alex? You pay the price -- in this case, you get thrown in the water. And I enjoyed it!
Out: Elmore. You should've gone the first time your tribe lost Immunity. But better late than never.
And finally:
Azure: This is going to be quite a season, what with a talking parrot! I'm looking forward to future episodes with her in it.
Belle Book

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ohmyheck 1919 desperate attention whore postings
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07-22-06, 08:21 PM (EST)

7. "RE: Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."

Estee, I have to say, this setup with the billionaire is highly reminiscent of the short story by Richard Connell, The Most Dangerous Game.
The plot is basically about a man who shipwrecks off the coast of an island. The resident of the island happens to be a billionaire who now spends his days hunting on the island. Hunting animals who are out of place there. He imports animals onto the island so he can hunt them. Anyone who washes up on the island becomes the huntee. Anyone to last three days without being killed gets to leave the island, unharmed. If they get caught, they get fed to the hunting dogs. In the end, the young man kills the billionaire and gets the best nights sleep of his life.
Did you happen to read this story prior to writing the Prologue?

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Estee 44384 desperate attention whore postings
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07-22-06, 08:33 PM (EST)

8. "RE: Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."

LAST EDITED ON 07-22-06 AT 08:37 PM (EST)
It might be more accurate to say the billionaire's lived the story -- at least the animals part. Yes, I've read it -- but in junior high, where it's pretty much mandatory. If you want to see Yanini as that island several years after it was abandoned, it's your call: in that sense, the readers bring as much to the story as the writers. There's a saying from William-Messner Loebs -- since all writers tap the same river, they will occasionally wind up with a near-identical bucketful. (Or, in David Gerrold's form: 'Ever noticed that everything reminds you of something else?') The idea of hunters and hunted predates this story, predates Connell's, goes all the way back to when we first picked up rocks. So if something stuck in my subconscious and surfaced here -- guilty to that degree. But there's more going on than just that. Without giving anything away -- assuming I know where this is going -- you might noticed that no one's said anything about how the previous owner died. You can probably assume that if it was an unnatural death, such as by table turning, it definitely would have been brought up -- probably by Jeff during the briefing.
Or maybe no one knows.
ETA: And if you think about it, the show itself -- nah.

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cahaya 14104 desperate attention whore postings
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07-23-06, 12:37 PM (EST)

11. "RE: Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."

LAST EDITED ON 07-29-06 AT 11:09 AM (EST)
Still -- yeah. You don't quit. Ever.
That's you, Estee. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Tribephyl's Foo dogs.
More speculation later as this episode sinks in, like blood in the ground.
eta: And no, that's not the Death card. Not yet...

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Belle Book 1925 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Herbal Healing Drugs Endorser"
02-02-10, 09:34 PM (EST)

17. "RE: Survivor: The Society Islands: Episode #3: He Said He Heard Something..."

Agreed. Unless there's a very good reason for you to quit -- like fearing that your mother might be dying, as Jenna Moresca did when she decided to leave the game and return to her mother -- you don't quit, either in challenges or in the game itself.
Belle Book

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