Deathmatch Island: Out of Sync

a Deathmatch Island actual play

Buzzing, a headache? No, an off-board motor... and a headache. The splash of seawater on your face jolts you conscious.

Where are you?

On an inflatable safety-orange raft in the ocean somewhere. Waves and fog. A bobbing orange light in the distance, then another.

Who are these other people?

In a goldenrod jumpsuit with #001 on the back, Clem the fighter pilot.

In a plum jumpsuit with #221 on the back, Rory the army tanker.

In a seafoam jumpsuit with #314 on the back, Violet the physicist.

Who are you?

You are REDACTED.

Welcome to Deathmatch Island.

Play to win.

The blinking buoys guide our competitors through the fog. Day breaks over Island 1.

"Where should we make for land, gentlemen?" Violet puts the question to the group, rudder in hand.

Clem and Rory debate which entry point is more tactically advantageous. Somewhere in the distance, the crack of a gunshot. Seabirds taking off from the trees.

"Ma'am we reckon that there industrial port'll have the kit we need to make it out of this scrape." Clem posits.

"What he said." Rory's gaze drawn to the island, the beach, the jungle, the morning sun glimmering in the glass and steel of the industrial port.

The hulk of a massive rusted cargo ship looms over our competitors as they enter the bay. Violet steers the raft into an empty berth.

The three strangers seem small in this large space. Tall concrete walls, steel racks with tools and equipment. An orange pick-up truck with a pair of walkie-talkies on the dash, a shotgun in the passenger seat. A skull and globe emblazoned on the door.

"Keys are in the ignition." Violet hops in.

Rory and Clem climb into the truck bed. "Pull us 'round those crates outside, ma'am. We need munitions."

Out in the street, between the rows of office blocks and repair berths, wooden crates evenly spaced down the length of the road.

The physicist pulls the truck up alongside one of the suspicious boxes.

The top of the crate has already been pried open. A few survival kits inside, weapons, a pack of smokes.

"Easy pickins" Clem says. Rory's gaze, the light rain on the rooftops, a shimmer of light reflected on a speck of glass. "Sniper!"

The gunshots blast the crate to splinters as our competitors clamber into the truck and speed away. Bullets ricochet off the cab as Violet peels around a corner. The industrial port behind them, a dirt road leading into the jungle ahead.

"The House is next. Maybe we can catch our breath." Rory's hope tugs a smile from the corner of Violet's lips, for a moment. "Naive..."

The truck rumbles down the dirt road as they pass the house. Lights on inside. Silhouettes, shouting, breaking glass.

"Looks like we're holding our breath instead, fella." The fighter pilot points at the black bar on the map. "The Compound, now that's what I wanna piece of."

Barbed wire fences peek through the trees as our competitors crest the hillside road.

Buzzing. An orange personnel carrier, doors ajar. Competitors in goldenrod jumpsuits writhe on the ground, clutching their heads and bleeding noses.

From a weather beaten loudspeaker on the perimeter, a crackly posh voice. "This area is REDACTED. Turn back at once. This area is REDACTED. Turn back at once."

Rory and Clem cover their ears and squeeze through a gap in the chain link. Violet hangs back at the truck, wrapping a bandage around her ribs. The sniper hit their mark after all.

Inside the Compound, lab equipment, conveyor belts, a lurching old machine fills small vials with a phosphorescent orange liquid. The label wrapped around each vial says "Positive Thinking."

"The hell does that mean, Rory?"

"Motivational... I guess."

A board room caked in dust. A strange map of the island stabbed to the desk with a blood stained knife.

"This don’t match that other map. VIP Landing Area? We ain't no VIPs it seems."

"Let's get out of here, this place gives me the creeps."

Clem and Rory get back to the pick-up and find Violet smoking a cigarette, her fingertips red with blood.

"Are you alright?" concerned Rory, brow furrowed, a drop of blood trickling from his nose.

"Are you?" Violet tosses him an oily rag from the dash.

"Listen, folks. We oughtta nab that other transport and make for the next node before any more sorry suckers show up here." Clem heads for the carrier and climbs in the driver seat.

"You're really alright? Driving alone and everything?"

"I can handle myself." Violet flashes the revolver tucked into her jumpsuit then starts the engine of the pick-up. "Take this." She puts one of the walkie-talkies in the army tanker's hand.

Rory jumps in the personnel carrier and our caravan of competitors kick up mud as they drive down another jungle road.

The truck's stereos crackle. 70's rock replaced by a mechanical, posh voice.

"Time, sixteen-hundred hours. Temperature, twenty-one degrees celsius. Slight wind, Easterly. Forecast, heavy rain. Phase two begins in eight hours. This is Deathmatch Island. Play to win."