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Twenty-four hours had come and gone and Taym had no pink lighter.

Really, considering how little he was smoking, the MRE matches were entirely sufficient, and probably he could have asked around for a replacement lighter. But it was the principle of the thing. Principles are dangerous. Taym had very few, and the ones he had he felt appropriately strongly about.

It had not taken much in the way of reconnaissance to find out which room was Maebe's. It had not taken much in the way of dark-corner lurking and careful apathy to figure out when she went (as he thought, incorrectly as it turned out) to sleep. Taym had been put into Death division and he was, he felt, doing them proud.

Sort of.

A nervous expedition into the abandoned, dark kitchens had procured cling wrap. Tape and thumbtacks he'd scrounged out of the supply house.

In the pitch black hallway in the dead of night, moving as silently as he possibly could (which was pretty damn silently), Taym constructed a forcefield over Maebe's closed door, stretching the film as taut as he could. And then he taped up a note next to the doorknob.

It said simply: "One."

Then he gathered up his supplies and ghosted back to his own room, a little bit sad that he wouldn't be able to witness the glorious fulfillment of his vengeance.

It wasn't payment that was slid under the door. He waited until she'd vacated, although he'd taken a swing by earlier to observe the attraction poster with a flat, unimpressed stare, standing in the hallway and absently chewing something the MREs referred to generously as "bread."

She couldn't stay in there forever, with work to be done.

Knock and wait. No one there. Good.

He knelt on the floor, and from the backpack on his shoulder a sizable handful of flour and powdered creamer tucked into a plastic bag. Another bit of loot scored from the cafeteria kitchens, where flour had no purpose, not with the power out. Baby powder would have been better, but one did what one could. Pour it out carefully into a thin layer on a sheet of paper, slide the paper mostly under the door.

He opened a drinking straw and maneuvered it into position under the threshold. And then he blew. Hard. Speaking of cockles being warmed, he envisioned the resultant cloud drifting and settling over a room he imagined as being very fluffy and very pink. No power meant no vacuum cleaners. Enjoy that, Maebe.

He straightened back up and pinned another note by the door, in the same place. The door looked safe from the outside, but the note said: "Two."

He glanced around to make sure he was still alone, and then, with a sudden grin, bent back in to scribble a really bad but unmistakable rendition of a lit match under the warning.

Before he left for his own roster of tasks, Taym rolled up a towel and maneuvered it into place on the inside of his own door before he locked it. No sense giving anyone any ideas.

Oh god. He hadn't been expecting that. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting but it wasn't that. He silently hated the power for being out, because that was the sort of thing he'd liked to have lingered over, Island oaths or no ******** Island oaths, but with rigorous discipline he turned off his phone almost as soon as it loaded.

Almost.

Fiona laughed. It was the first time he'd heard her do that.

Number three required timing: Taym had the suspicion that things were dull enough and the atmosphere dog-eat-dog enough that no one would snitch and interrupt if they found it out early, but there was no sense in tempting fate. Possibly he overestimated everyone else's willingness to indulge petty grudges.

He waited until he was sure Maebe was in her room and the hallways were empty. Another trip to the cafeteria procured the biggest prop. It wasn't being used. No guilt.

Fully dressed, Taym stood in one of the dark, echoing shower stalls patiently filling empty jugs scrounged out of the garbage. One lone late-night occupant gave him a strange, silent look, and Taym grinned, lifting his fingers to his forehead in silent salute.

He had taken all precautions. The wheels had been greased. It took a long time to schlep and empty about fifteen gallons of water into an institutional-sized trash bin, but Taym was a patient person when the goal was right, and in this case he felt it was. He silently navigated the dark hallway and, holding his breath, tipped the bin up against the door. There was only one place for it to go: inside, when the door opened. He stepped back cautiously and observed the effect, lamenting silently that filling the damned thing up the rest of the way probably would have gotten him into more trouble than he was willing to endure.

Maybe this would net photos too. One could only hope.

On the wall across from Maebe's door he taped a piece of paper on which was written, in giant, firm letters: "Three."

Beneath, slightly smaller: "International waters, sweetheart. Minor?"

He actually grinned harder over that pair of texts, when he got them, than he had over the photo.

Phase four. He'd actually been stunned that she'd closed herself in her room again, fully convinced that he'd have to catch her somewhere else, but she'd done it. Maybe she'd thought third time was the charm. Maybe she was just stupid. The point was that he silently tried the handle, as quiet and as slinking as a fox, and found it locked.

Which suited his plans just fine. He moved quickly, in case she was planning to leave soon.

He'd acquired a handful of change from Gale, who obligingly asked no questions, and duct tape was in ready supply. He'd done this to his sister once and caught hell from his mom, but he'd heard her laughing later that night, when she thought he couldn't hear.

Wrapping the pennies in duct tape was the extent of necessary preparation. Now it was simply a matter of exerting the slightest inward pressure on the door and gently, silently, shoving the stacks into the gap between door and frame, spacing them carefully, until he couldn't wedge any more in.

Then he pushed a note under the door, an entire sheet of notebook paper in the hopes that she couldn't miss it. It said: "Four." Beneath, in smaller letters again that quavered and shook: "I've got an active imagination. I'll live."

He left his door open, waiting to hear the fruits of his labor.

The sweet sweet sounds of success.

Silently laughing his a** off, Taym went to go scrape out minis cages, feeling decidedly at peace with the world.

... He locked his door first. And put the towel back, just in case. Those who live by the sword die by it.

"Day fourteen. Still no one has come to save me. I think I have become accustomed to the silence. Soon, I will have to eat my own arm to survive. I've prepared a tourniquet and-"

You do not have a tourniquet. You do not even have a recorder. You are speaking into the air. Furthermore, it has not been fourteen days, it has been seven hours and four minutes. You are grossly exaggerating for the benefit of no one.

"No s**t, Sherlock." Maebe grumbled, reaching over and punching her fully summoned weapon - the runes made for dim lighting, and it was better than nothing.

Maebe sounded like she was going crazy. And she was, from boredom. But when Shiloh finally arrived, she could hear him shuffling in front of her door. She tossed herself off of the bed and flung herself at the door, flattening her ear against it to listen. Then he banged on the door, and she screamed, flailing away and holding her ear.

"OW." She whined, pushing herself up to her feet. A nail file? That was a rather brilliant idea. She should have tried to jimmy herself out hours ago! And of course she had one, in her makeup bag. She fished it out, and without so much as saying hello to her friend, she stuck it into the side of the door and tried to jimmy open a lock that wasn't actually closed.

"It's not workiinggggg."

"Hold on, I almost - got - why does it keep just sliding - God.." She groaned quietly, pulling the nail file back and bending down onto her hands and knees. "Fine, smart a**, you're so much better at this than me." She moved to slide the nail file under the door, but it pinged when it hit the block. She shoved, and shoved, until finally, whatever was jamming that little spot came sliding out onto Shiloh's side.

"Hey. Shiloh." Maebe whispered through the door conspiratorially. "I think there's something jamming the bottom of the door."

Genius.

She started poking at it over and over, trying to unstick them, but at some point she lost her balance and the nail file slid all the way under the door and out of her reach.

...

"Okay your turn." Flawless.

"I don't know." She growled under the door. "I don't know. I don't. Know. That a*****e Obadiah's been pranking me for days now. For no reason. Not even a little reason. I think he's in love with me and is angry I'm not giving in." Despite the continuous lies she spouted, she sounded completely serious throughout. "Just get me out of here so I can-" She jiggled the door, even as the coins flew out. Suddenly, the door opened - which she didn't expect, so that she pulled it too hard and it slammed into her face.

The door creaked open, and Maebe was unconscious on her wet, flour dough covered floor.