Forum Thread

Authors note: I wrote this fanfiction in 2017 when Fortnite was really popular and I was like 10 back then so I'm really sorry if this is embarrassing to read because it was even worse for me to write it. Thanks and hopefully you get to the end of it.

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Bunker Jonesy dies. Or does he? He wasn't sure. How about Steel? Who?

Cole was an ordinary man, he had figured. Or as ordinary as you get when you're some sort of 3 dimensional animated character who was prone to spells of suspensions. That was what he had figured. That he was some sort of character in a play or a show, who goes through periods of time where he could not even will his finger to do what he wanted. A gun. A brick. A pickaxe. A potion. He never wanted to do it. Cole never wanted any of it. A shot fired. A brick placed. A pickaxe swung. A potion chugged. He never wanted to do it. Cole never wanted to do any of it.

Yet here he was, locked in combat against his friends, people he knew, people he loved. Jonesy. His best friend since, too far back to remember. Remedy. The love of his life, and the one who got away. Dummy. Not much to be said about him, to be honest, he was just really dumb. Every morning, everyone everywhere stayed the same. Even Cole, to a certain extent. His eyes grew tired everyday. The violence wasn't even the scariest part. The scariest part was in the morning, when everyone everywhere stayed the same. Except Cole's eyes. They could never go back.

When the large clock on the wall of his cramped hut struck a little oddly, with an echoey "Twang." That was when the normal had stopped, and the madness began. Like marionettes, everyone everywhere would walk to the front gates of the bus stop, as if they were all part of some flash mob synchronised to the beat of their hearts. The bus, a bigger, longer one than normally dispatched, would roll up to the curb and be filled. Perhaps the craziest part of the bus was the huge hot air balloon on top of the bus. Or perhaps the craziest part was that sometimes, the balloon would dissapear and Cole's stomach would drop. But not the bus. The bus, as if challenging the very rules of gravity, stayed up in the air. Curving upwards into the air and above the clouds.

Cole was taught in school that clouds were made up of water vapour that had evaporated and condensed in the cooler air above, forming white fluffy rabbit tail-esque balls in the stratosphere. Then again, he was also taught that everyone had free will and violence was limited to war torn countries and their war lords. Hey, nobody's perfect. But back to the clouds. The clouds weren't water, Cole had deduced after looking out the bus as it flew, it was eels. White bellied eels that flew and sailed around the air, hissing and snapping at each other, creating an impression of white rolling waves against a sky blue canvas. From below, and at a distance of around a thousand metres, they gave off the impression of clouds to the naked eye.

Blue. White. Blue. White. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Ground. The umbrella he swung open to act as a parachute (like Mary Poppins?) gave way to an endless barrage of bullets from the ground. Someone in a trenchcoat. Doesn't matter who, Cole had already pooped in his pants twice. Cole latched himself to a pillar of a church and begun firing back. The gun, cold and heavy in his hands. His friend, cold and heavy on the ground in front of him. Like a red paint brush on a wet easel, the ground was bleached red. Then, gone. His friend, body and all, made way for a bunch of floating holographic weapons. Cole swore he didn't want to touch them. To defile his friend's belongings with the hands of a murderer. But it wasn't up to him. The puppet master thumbed forward and Cole, the puppet, obeyed.

It wasn't long for Cole to tire. The days short, nights long. Filled with images. Flashbacks. Nightmare sequences of the day before. Cole grew tired, but Cole couldn't sleep.

And the mornings, Cole found he could hardly do anything else but to sit on the floor back against his front door. Stomach flipping and mind wandering. Waiting fo-

Twang.

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