A/N: I've had this story in my drafts for a long time now, but I could never get myself to finish it because, just like every other fanfic writer out there, apparently I'm lazy and unmotivated. But it's a Matchcil story, and today's AJ's birthday. It lined up perfectly—so you know what I gotta do.
By the way, this one is one of, uh...*those* stories. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to finish it, which means that you get all the SFW without any of the N. Enjoy?
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Warning: Mentions of suicide
"NOW!"
BANG!
Pencil covered her ears and shut her eyes tightly as she dashed around a tree, emerging onto the makeshift path, and immediately slid on the rough, coarse dirt through Match's legs. Match tightened her grip on the shotgun, trained her aim on the wolf pursuing Pencil, and firmly squeezed the trigger, causing a deafening blast to echo throughout the air as the carcass tumbled forward and crumpled into a lifeless mess in front of Match's feet.
Both of the girls were panting heavily. Pencil gulped and pushed herself up to her feet while Match kicked the dead wolf. "Well..." she muttered, "...guess that's, like, dinner."
"Oh, yeah?" Pencil spat, dusting off her ripped shorts and scoffing. "Hope you like the taste of secondhand carpenter."
Match turned and blinked at Pencil twice in disbelief. "Wait, you don't, like, mean..."
"Guess what, Match?" Pencil threw her arms up in exasperation before placing them on her hips. "Now we're the only two people left on this shitty deserted island in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere!"
Match gasped as Pencil held up their former companion's backpack; the stitched name of the carpenter near the bottom of the pack confirmed his fate. "W-wait..." Match stuttered, chuckling nervously. "No, you...you can't be, like, serious, right?"
"Uh, yeah, Match, I can be, like, serious!"
Pencil rolled her eyes and slung the pack over her back as she jerked her head back toward the way they came. Match rubbed the back of her neck before heaving the dead wolf onto her shoulder as the two walked along the path through the forest. "First, the cook gets eaten by a shark, so we have to hunt and prepare our own food," Pencil ranted out loud, her voice seething with frustration. "Then the captain eats a random-ass shroom and dies. Then the family uses four of our twelve shotgun shells to fucking off themselves and the journalist uses three to try and signal for help even though there's fucking nobody around here before she goes off and gets bitten by a deadly snake. And now the carpenter got killed by a fucking wolf. A fucking wolf!"
She let out one more yell of frustration and gripped her hair tightly. "So now we're down to, what, four shells?"
"Uh...yeah, I think so—"
"No, we're not, because I just remembered that the carpenter took one for measurements and fucking lost it right before the wolf fucking ATE HIM! DAMN IT!" Pencil stomped on the ground and angrily scuffed the dirt with her half-torn boot before yelling again and trudging forward. "NOW how the fuck are we gonna get off this damn island?!"
Match raised her finger to answer, but lowered it when she figured that it was better to let Pencil stew and cool off. Ever since the captain had died, Pencil had been the de facto second-in-command of their little survival team, which meant she had to carry most of the responsibilities along with whichever adult happened to be in charge at the time.
Pencil knew that with the carpenter dead, she would be the one Match looked up to to survive—or, if she could ever pull it off, to escape. Sure, she knew how to do pretty much everything they needed to survive, or at least the basics. The problem was actually doing the tasks. It was hard enough keeping their camp functional every day with a full team.
