8 D-Day

"There is evil in every human heart, which remains latent, perhaps, through the whole of life; but circumstance may rouse it to activity"

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Atlas wakes up with a splitting headache. Lights blare in his eyes while he sits upright. He finds himself content with being on this damned accommodation rig.

A few months ago he was kidnapped, and forced to play some horrid game for a wicked private military corporation; he had to kill others to survive, for there was no escape from the island he was thrown onto. Having survived the Trial, they placed him on this accommodation rig as a reward; Tilda, they called it. merely a short haven, before being forced to endure the horrors once again.

He opens his closet and puts on his army uniform. Atlas believes the Trials are preparations to join the PMC, given he had to enlist into a branch before deployment. As much as he hates the PMC, he's thankful they gave him some humanity on this rig.

The forty other teens on this rig all have the same story as him; Atlas is but another cog in the PMC's machine. Considering the newly constructed platform, the max population of Tilda is One-Twenty; once again, Tilda is but one haven of many, in the PMC's vast territorial influence.

Enough on them, he thought. The PMC isn't his life, and they can't change that. Someone knocks on his door, presumably his acquaintance Maria.

"Enter," he allows, slipping on his button-up uniform. Maria enters and meets Atlas's eyes. She seems troubled, like she just saw something she shouldn't have.

Her digital urban ACU covers her olive tee, unbuttoned at the collar and lowest button. Her similarly colored pants hug her thighs before retreating into her black boots. Maria's chocolate brown hair is in a bun, mildly glistening beneath the beating lights; her black eyes do not behind her glasses.

"What's wrong?" Atlas asks. It must be interesting if his few-day old acquaintanceship is talking to him about it.

"Something's wrong," she explains. Her voice is soft and concerned as if this were news to her.

"As if anything in our situation is right," he sighs. He slips on his boots and wiggles his toes.

"I mean things are wrong by our standards," she continues. Her insistence worries Atlas, who'd like to maintain his calm facade to keep Maria from further worry.

"Proceed," Atlas encourages. What could be wrong on the rig? Are they deploying again?

"I don't see any of the Mercs," she explains

"Yeah, that's normal; this is Tilda after all. The rig is run by teens for the most part, with little Merc interference," Atlas reminds. The universal name for legal enlistees is "Merc", given by the child soldiers they've employed.

"No I understand that, but it's been an hour since they were supposed to arrive with our supplies and stuff," Maria divulges.

"Well, maybe they're busy finishing preparations for the new platform," Atlas shrugs. They've been on time since they started construction! What the hell happened?!

"The project didn't change anything regarding schedule! You're telling me that they suddenly can't follow the schedule?" Maria demands, raising her voice.

"I mean, they resorted to child soldiers for manpower; I thoroughly doubt they have their shit together," he admits, crossing his arms and leaning left onto the wall. Before they can talk any further, the bell goes off, signaling breakfast time.

"See you at the canteen; I gotta talk to someone," he dismisses. Atlas walks past her to the hallway, but she takes hold of his shirt.

"You don't have to do anything about Nero," she says shyly. Atlas shakes himself free without turning.

"You know that you can't stop me, so why do you try?" He complains. Atlas checks his left pocket for his brass knuckles, which still remain. Maria doesn't say a word, entitling him to carry out his duty.

Before being kidnapped, Atlas had a sister, Minerva. Unfortunately, his parents recently died, leaving him and Minerva to fend for themselves. People took advantage of her brokenness; a group of seniors at high school raped her after school.

Atlas was able to get names from Minerva, and waited the next day to isolate the ringleader. While following him home, Atlas got jumped, leaving him on the dreaded island. On the island, a female comrade got captured, beaten and assaulted for weeks until she finally got rescued; by then, the damage had already been done and she couldn't walk or talk for a week.

Maria got jumped in the floor shower along with three other girls. Atlas overheard the commotion and tried to put a stop to it, but he was outnumbered seven to one. This time, he has a chance to do something; late is better than never.

Atlas takes a left down the hall, and walks through the empty door frame to the stairs. It's simultaneously wide enough to allow traffic, but crammed enough to bump into the passerby. This rig is designed to create problems for the populus; no rest for the wicked.

He walks down the empty stairs and is spat onto the second floor, which is full of guys; pubescent, belligerent, petulant guys.

"Any news from the Median?" a few corner. The flux of male and female occupancy led to the second to fourth floor of this five-floor module being co-ed floors; Atlas had the "blessing" of being a Median. The large number of nicknames are just coping mechanisms to feel humane; he can't blame them, it's only natural.

"You do realize I have infamy among the women right?" He hopes.

"Infamy as the guy who can't fight for shit," another guy butts in. He's one of the guys who raided the showers. Atlas keeps a mental note of his presence on floor two.

"Really now?" someone buys. They don't actually believe him right? Are they really stupid enough, or just afraid to defy?

"Apparently he got beat up by the girls after sneaking into their showers," the guy misinforms. Atlas's blood quietly boils inside. For a moment he has his hand clutching his brass.

"I got set up," Atlas plays along, "His boss told me that we were going to do a gangbang, but they chickened out and locked me inside. I can point them out if we run into them."

If they soil his name, he'll soil theirs. The raider visibly dislikes Atlas's wit, but also smirks at the skill. Atlas just exits to the stairs.

Voices follow him, but don't proceed past the doorway. Nobody here commits.

After trodding through the last hallway, he walks through the metal door. The salty ocean mist fills his nostrils as he heads to the mess hall. A group of girls walk by, giving him dirty looks.

"You're scum," one insults. Is that her best? Honestly, he'd prefer to think it wasn't.

"I'd rather be lynched than see you naked," he spits. The girl is astonished he spoke back. How dare someone defend themselves?

"Masochist," one murmurs loudly.

"If i enjoyed pain, I'd keep talking to you lot," he counters. While they gasp and start yelling incoherently, Atlas gives them the bird while entering the mess hall. He really needs to stop giving trouble a place to sit; perhaps ommition is the right idea.

In the mess hall, the chefs greet him while he seats himself.

"I find it very depressing that every day you have the time to get to breakfast early," a girl comments.

"I have no time for the petulant children that make up first and second floor," Atlas explains.

"That's the edgiest thing I've ever heard, and i used to be friends with a hardcore goth," she replies, "And what's this about you raiding the girl's shower? You seem like the guy to sit on his bed all day twiddling his thumbs."

"Yeah what's up with that? Being friends with a perv gives me bad rep bro," George remarks. The mature mexican is the only friend Atlas has, but brotherhood is a given. A few other chefs exchange their own perspective, but nothing of note.

"What actually happened was that seven guys raided the showers and gangbanged three unlucky souls; I was around and tried to stop it, but I'm not an adept fighter in a one on seven," Atlas explains. Thankfully, they actually seem to believe him.

"In a foreseeable twist, one of the fuckers went off bad mouthing me and painting me as the perpetrator; he even said it to my face earlier," he continues.

"What's he look like?" the girl asks.

"Average height, scrawny, freckled, Auburn, grey eyed; imagine a British nerd who has a dick the size of a nine-mil," Atlas describes.

"Is it bad that I have a very specific image in my head of a British kid raping women, and that it doesn't surprise me?" George wonders. The girl shuffles a few more inches between them, giving everyone a good laugh.

"Alright, well, the eggs are ready and I burnt the bacon so… breakfast time I guess," a male chef calls from the kitchen. Atlas checks his watch, finding it to be eight-thirty; five minutes early.

"I would let everyone know but I doubt I'd make it two feet outside before a mob beheads me," Atlas chuckles.

"How do you live, putting yourself down like that with every word?" the girl shakes her head.

"Babe, I live with an eye over my shoulder and one open in bed," Atlas answers. One chef pushes past the counter door and exits the mess hall, whistling loudly.

"How the fuck he whistle so goddamn loud?" George wonders.

"He's compensating," a girl laughs from the kitchen. People pour into the mess hall, all giving Atlas a look of sort, whether it was disgust or curiosity. To his surprise, Maria sat across from him on the six person table.

A girl was with her and hesitated to sit down in Atlas's presence.

"You know who he is right?" She whispers. Is there anyone on this rig that can speak at a low volume?

"I know who he is, Rom-," Maria confirms.

"I prefer Atlas, for strangers like yourself," Atlas cuts off. The girl lets out a huff and sits down.

"I'm only sitting down because Maria is here," she disclosed.

"I'd be concerned if you weren't," he comments. In the corner of his eye, Atlas spots the guy from earlier approaching, along with a few members of his own posse.

"Is this kid bothering you ladies?" He wonders.

"Not quite," Maria answers. He looks to her and recognizes her face, thus ignoring the answer.

"I am kind of uncomfortable with him present, but-," the girl starts.

"Are you telling them lies about what you did? Shameful," the guy accuses. His name tape reads "Ronan Hunter". Ironic for a Brit to be talking about shame when his whole country is a joke; it's hard to recover from being an entire continent to an island smaller than most states.

"Bro I'm just here for breakfast," Atlas shrugs. He stands up to get in the shortened line, but Ronan and his three cronies stand in his way. Preparing for the worst, Atlas slips on his brass knuckle in his pocket.

"Is there a point in fighting in a mess hall?" Atlas asks; by now, a decent number of people have their eyes on them. He already knows the answer: to make a statement, and obtain renown among the people.

"Is that what you want?" Ronan snorts. His nose starts to get red.

"Not at all," Atlas answers. He tries again to gently push past the cronies, but they body block him and push him back. He tries again with the same result.

Ronan laughs at his failure. At this point, everyone can tell that a fight is brewing. Atlas sighs that he couldn't fight Ronan in a quieter place.

He turns to Ronan expectantly, who gets face-to-face with him.

"You ready for this?" He growls. Atlas mentally prepares himself for a swing. The crowd starts to murmur about, restless and eager to see how this pans out.

Ronan chuckles and turns around, starting to walk away. In the most predictable move, he suddenly swings around and tries to right hook Atlas. Promptly, Atlas dodges right and whips out his brass.

While Ronan recovers from the foreseeable miss, Atlas pushes him away with his foot, forcing Ronan off balance and falling to the floor. He slaps onto the tiled floor and quickly gets back to his feet. His nose runs red with a tint of blood.

Ronan yells out in a fit of rage, charging at Atlas. Atlas mispredicts his move and expects Ronan to tackle him; he lowers himself with his right hand ready to block Ronan's left. Unfortunately, Ronan goes for another right hook, leaving Atlas little time to dodge to the right.

Ronan quickly recovers and turns, but his momentum sends his back onto the table; the table and trays clank at his weight. With his hands on the table, Atlas is able to get a clean left jab straight into Ronan's jaw. He recoils left and flops heavily onto the floor.

With Atlas' focus on Ronan, one of his cronies launches forward, hitting Atlas in his stomach. Atlas gasps for more air, only to get knocked on his ass. Ronan's cronies start kicking at him while he's on the floor.

Suddenly, someone starts ripping them off and fighting those who resist. In his fogged vision, Atlas spots George going toe-to-toe with all three of them. While he may be losing and tanking hits, George does not falter in shielding Atlas.

As Atlas catches his breath, Maria helps him up. Seeing George get ganged up on, not to mention for Atlas, lights a fire in his soul. He takes a step forward, but Maria holds him back.

He shakes himself free but she instantly grapples his shirt once more.

"You can't save everyone."