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"..." Four's notion was undoubtedly a stupid one by any survivalist's standards, but Z3 made no effort to stop him. No... if the truly senseless wanted to eliminate themselves this early, it would save him the trouble of dealing with bad company later. If only Twelve hadn't opened their mouth, perhaps the scenario would have played out as imagined-- but apparently, it just wasn't in the cards.

"... Nay, then," he said at last, his calm tone guarding a certain icy distaste. "Unless you plan to continue in that lesser group of three while the rest of us form our own coalitions, splitting and rejoining unnecessarily would just be a waste of time." Under most circumstances, he wouldn't have really cared if some tiny group straggled off on their own business-- but this? This had the potential to waste his time, and he would hardly tolerate that. "We can all scout effectively in our designated subgroups. Assuming a rendezvous happens later, information can be shared then."

That Four character could have limped off on his own, sure, but to take the potential medic and Eight?

... He didn't approve. There was too much potential usefulness at risk.

Eleven would have responded sooner to the activity buzzing around him, but his discovery of the gun had been immediately followed by his discovery of the cell phone hanging from his belt. And the discovery of that had led him to the discovery of the text message, which had set him off into a sort of catatonic state during which he was capable of nothing more than staring at the small electronic screen and thinking. Among the topics that raced through his head in a blind panic were how much this sucked, how soon it would take everyone to react if he just started shooting them, the frailty of the human soul in the face of dire circumstances, and how dying here may mean never again knowing the touch of a woman… if he had ever even known it in the first place.

It wasn’t anything in particular that snapped Eleven from his reverie, just the sudden realization that the white noise droning in his ear was actually the voices of his “teammates.” The word sounded absolutely meaningless in his head – hell, the text had only referred to them as his “group.” There was no real sense of allegiance to them other than the one forged through numbers. Thirteen survivors. Twelve of them. Countless others in that classroom and lurking somewhere on this… wherever the hell they were. It was a numbers game, and he suddenly realized that whoever had etched those roman numerals into their uniforms had a poor sense of humor.

But, despite Eleven’s unwillingness to go along with the whole stupid system, he realized that odds were meant to be played and twelve proved a far more intimidating force than one. He had to at least make an effort to be involved, but as he watched the group of his conscious teammates gradually begin to grow, he wondered just what the hell he was supposed to open up with. ‘Hi. I’m Eleven. My interests include I can’t remember and not dying. Pleased to meet you.’ He dropped the gun back into his bag and threw in one of the first aid kits before trying to subtly integrate himself into the group.

“I AGREE,” Eleven said entirely too loud in response to whatever it was they were talking about. He had sneaked up on the group and attempted to blend in next to Twelve, because if there was one thing he liked it was order. He attempted to pretend that he had been there the entire time, and was suddenly very grateful for the mask. He was sure nobody could see his eyes darting back and forth conspicuously, and the distortion of his voice made the anxiety in his tone only mostly obvious.

"You're acting like we'll be shot the moment we step out the tent," Z4 laughed as though their acting-leader was being silly. There's plenty of Fog for cover, I'm sure we'll be out and back in a heartbeat!" There was the edge of a tightly bottled quaver to his voice, but the optimism clung to every word like thick, clinging honey.

Hefting his sack, he beamed through his goggles at his scout-mates, "We'll be back before you all know it, I'm sure! You all ready, then?" Slipping his club out of his belt again and trustfully into his hand, he was quietly, nervously whistling as he ducked out of the tent.

[exiting the tent- Entering a scouting mission.]

And of course, the situation still turned sour despite his objection.

Z3's displeasure only multiplied as the seconds ticked by, a tight frown pulling underneath his mask as he debated options. With only seconds to battle indecision, he found himself at a painful impasse. Staying behind might grant him a position of leadership in the remaining ranks... but were said ranks even fit to be lead? Would they prove more or less worthwhile than the group leaving now? And Eight. She was undoubtedly the most competent, level mind in the group he'd identified short of himself; what would a split there bring about? And was she worth tolerating flippant clods like Four or Twelve in the first place?

If one listened very closely, they might have heard him scoff into his mask right then, promptly shifting his backpack before, without so much as another word, striding off on the little scouting party's heels.

This was one painful strategic gamble, and he just hoped his choice would prove the right one-- or at least, vaguely beneficial.

He just told himself over and over that he would survive this dread venture, no matter what the cost.

((I shall exit here to follow the mission too~))

Oh, what the hell, guys? Eleven says all of two words and everyone makes a break for the exit. He grit his teeth, knowing full well he didn’t need the approval of a bunch of people he hadn’t even properly met, but feeling somehow slighted nonetheless.

What were they scouting for, anyway? To go make friends with whatever lunatics were roaming around outside looking to kill them? What else were they going to find? Hadn’t they seen the map? The locations marked on it had names like “The Cornfields” and “The Abandoned Town” and “The Dark Cove.” They all might as well have been named “A Dimly Lit Room Where You Are Going to Die Cold and Alone and Maybe a Virgin.” No. He had definitely known the touch of a woman. He had to have.

Eleven’s gaze alternated between the tent’s exit flap and the remaining bodies sleeping in the cots. His mind played out his options, all of them dire. The tent certainly felt safe, but whatever cruel force was orchestrating this whole thing probably had measures in place to make sure everyone didn’t just cower under their beds waiting for the whole thing to blow over. Bring a bunch of unsuspecting people on to an island to kill each other and you’re going to want to get your money’s worth. Then again, even if the tent was a safe haven, he wasn’t exactly better off with the part of his group who didn’t even have the wherewithal to wake up and start trying not to die.

Eleven sighed, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and finding comfort in the weight of the gun. Bullets were facts. Hard, physical objects whose properties he could fully wrap his mind around. As he moved to follow the scouting party, he desperately wished that people could be the same way.

[Exiting to go a'scouting. I GUESS.]

(Zeta Ten Enter Home Base)

The low hum of voices grew until she could not keep her eyes shut anymore. Opening them and sitting up, she stretched, then blinked. How had she gotten here and who were these people around talking? She let them talk while taking in the scene. They were in a tent, and while she looked around, a few people left for something. She couldn't remember anything, how she'd gotten here, who these people were, but she guessed they were a part of something together.

A buzzing in her pocket brought her attention down, and she pulled out a cell phone. Reading the message and putting the phone back away, she considered if she had ever carried a cell phone before. Then she realized it didn't matter. A first aid kit sat nearby on a table and guessing by her uniform, she could probably use it, so she grabbed it for future use.

Then she noticed a bag on a different table and seeing as how everyone else had bags, she grabbed it, guessing it was hers. Reaching out her arm she saw a symbol on her arm. Zeta 10. The clothing of the others had shared that symbol, so perhaps they were a team. Well, its something to go off of. I don't know what else is going on, she thought to herself and opened the bag. She pulled out a gun, and smiled a bit. “This could come in handy.”

[ Zeta 1 Entrance at Home Base ]

She'd been dreaming. Or at least, she thought she'd been dreaming. What she was dreaming about, she couldn't remember. Though, it wasn't like this kind of thing fazed her. After all, rarely did she wake up remember her dreams.

Or did she?

One opened her eyes and sat up slowly. Where... was she? She did a bit of a once over, making sure she was really a she. Well, good. She'd gotten her gender correct. That was always a good thing to do.

That said... who was she? And who were these people around her? She couldn't recall ever seeing them before (though they did all look the same so it would have been hard to spot individuals out to begin with). More to the point, she couldn't recall much of anything. Even if she was called something.

Something buzzed near her hip and she frowned beneath the mask on her face. She looked down and pulled the phone out. "One text message..." she muttered in a quiet voice. She read it to herself softly, eyebrow raising at the content. Well, at least that gave her some reason to, well, live, she guessed.

And information as to where she was. An island. Where, she had no idea. She shrugged and tucked her phone away, standing. One looked around some more before stretching her arms. She noticed, in doing so, a small symbol like letter sequence on her arm.

"Zeta... One" she said aloud. Zeta One... She liked it. It had a nice ring to it. Well aparently she was Zeta One, so Zeta One she would stay.

One picked up a bag, and left the tent to go see what she'd acquired in said bag.