((Bill Davis continued from ))
Following having been forced out of the first decent conversation he'd had on the island by a (very annoying and inconvenient) danger zone announcement by Danya, Bill's wanderings took him...over the hills, through the woods, and just about everywhere else except his grandmother's house. Or, for that matter, anywhere else he actually wanted to be.
Though it was a mediocre-at-best substitute, the beach was going to have to do. Having been unable to keep up with his temporary companions when they scattered, Bill found himself alone on the northern beach of the island, sitting and watching the waves roll in for a while. Every-so-often he checked his surroundings, to try and make sure he wasn't going to die from being snuck up on. His shotgun was beside him as he sat there, trying to sort out his life...and trying to figure out if he wanted to monologue into a camera for a few hours. For the moment, though, Bill is just looking out at the ocean, stuck in a sort of reflective reverie and smoking a cigarette.
Oh, and below him, on the beach, is the most impractical of things: A sand city of sorts he built in a particularly sandy patch above the water, surrounded by a sand wall. It's not too good as Bill has been lacking any tools to build a proper sand castle, but it gave him something to do other than talk himself into insanity while waiting far from the nearest trees and other hiding places. It's not like he's running around, building traps for other people or trying to play hunt-down-and-kill-my-classmates, so...why not? It's the only trip to a "real" beach he's ever going to get, after all...and his gun has been at the ready the whole time, fully loaded just-in-case.
After a surprisingly relaxing afternoon on the beach (which is to say, an afternoon where nobody decided to bother him with threats of death and the like), Bill found himself increasingly bored...and, somewhat unsurprisingly, hankering for a cigarette.
This habit will kill me. Shame I probably won't live long enough to find out about all that...
Stepping away from his sand city, Bill noticed a camera none-too-subtly placed on a rather large piece of driftwood, set up to view a part of the beach that easily hidden cameras just couldn't quite cover. Stepping into clear view of the camera, Bill lit up a cigarette, and with his gun's barrel in one hand (and the stock resting on the ground), he began talking. Perhaps a bit incoherently, but it's talking all the same.
"I know what you're all thinking. This is crazy, a bunch of teenagers on an island somewhere, all shooting and stabbing and killing each other. And you'd be right, but...well, none of us asked for this. We didn't ask to be brought here, and you'd better believe that...but we're here, and most of us are doing the best we can with it.
"Look, I don't know of any Rizzolos in our class..." Puff. "...but I'd like to think we're at least decent kids, just trying to survive in a hell we've all been put in. That's not to say that we're all going to be saints...I've been lucky so far, not being in a kill-or-be-killed situation the same way a bunch of people I know, kids I grew up with, have. I know it, and I know that's coming. Am I ready? Hell if I know..."
And so on and so forth for as long as he's got something to talk about. By the time he was done, C-SPAN was probably getting a run for its money in terms of exciting programming, and as long as he wasn't sleeping or trying to arrange food, Bill Davis was going to be delivering a rambling monologue on national TV on whatever he could think of to ramble about.
Hey, it's not like I've got anything better to do for now...