Alternate Battle for Dream Island

ABFDIA 16c: Nightmare 4

Pen had been stuck in that miserable little room for... who knows how long, really.

Most of that time was spent listlessly staring at the ceiling, at the dim lights illuminating his stuffy surroundings, waiting for... *something* to happen. Maybe it was just him breathing, or the lights flickering, or some bizarre, otherworldly noise that'd remind him that there was a whole life out there to enjoy beyond... *this*. This solitary, stressed existence. A sign that the world kept on spinning without him, *just* as he was finally able to forget it. It was a little, stinging pain each and every time it popped up, an itch he just couldn't quite scratch. A constant, looming threat that repeated every single one of his 2,763 mistakes, give or take a couple thousand. A couple hundred thousand. A couple more, perhaps.

Sometimes, he'd try to break out again. After long interludes of pure melancholy and misery, he'd remember just how tight of a grip that restraint around his leg is, that there were things he still had to get to, that there were people he had to meet up with, to try and forgive. He'd angrily do one swift kick, half-expecting the chain to just *immediately* be ripped from the wall, finally allowing him to go free. But it wouldn't, of course; the wall stood firm, the chain remained stuck, and there'd be a sudden jolt of pain as any attempts to move it beyond that limited range were swiftly and completely rejected. He'd try again, perhaps a few more times. Sometimes he'd hit the chain with all that he (still) had, out of pure desperation, hoping that the link between the chains would *somehow* give way and give him rest, even though it failed all those other times. In exceptional circumstances, he'd consider just cutting off the leg entirely, reasoning that he was gonna be able to get it back once he got recovered. But that just raises even more questions: *Would* he get it back upon recovery? Was there even a recovery center nearby? Would he be able to get to it in time, considering the severe hit in mobility? And, perhaps most important, could he even do it? Was there something, *anything* that could even come close to doing the job?

The answer is no. It's always been no.

And eventually, Pen would exhaust all his energy and strength, and he'd wind up collapsing onto the bed again. A little bit worse for wear, a little bit more dejected and depressed. The actions would vary slightly with each attempt, but the result is always the same: complete and utter failure. The writing utensil would once again find himself blankly staring upward, unable to do much of anything besides... *existing*. He'd continue to wait: wait for his energy to return, wait for someone to come get him, wait for *anything* to happen, anything that'll give him the motivation to keep on living.

Hours would pass, perhaps days, perhaps *weeks*, and then the cycle would start all over again.

Until then, however, all he'd be left with was himself, himself and his thoughts.

Interaction and isolation are rather curious little concepts. In theory, living beings would not need to concern themselves with either case. After all, the natural goal for each and every one of them is to maximize their enjoyment of life, as well as the length of that life, and thus their enjoyment of it. Everything else is secondary, and ideally should be supportive of that one primary goal.

Dealing with others... *definitely* didn't seem to fit that case. Even just a cursory glance at the Battle for Dream Island showed that friendships, alliances, teams, and whatnot often proved to be more trouble than they were worth. Now, not only did you have to think about yourself, but you also had to think about *others* too. Others that have goals and ambitions of their own. Ambitions that could be hidden, ambiguous, or outright contradictory to your own. And then, when one *inevitably* acts in a way they dislike, they'll somehow find a way to pin the blame on them. Eventually, *eventually*, so-called 'friends' will start turning on each other, go their own separate ways, and they'd all end up returning to square one, perhaps even weaker than they were before.