A/N: Howdy! I'm back with yet another Lord of the Flies fic. In all honesty, I never had the intention of posting this one. In recent days, the plotline came to mind and I wrote it down simply as a guilty pleasure. I guess I should share it...

Warnings: Noncon slashiness, torture-ish-ness, sadism, Roger and Jack at their finest.

Disclaimer: I don't own a damn thing. So you can't sue me for any damn thing.

Enjoy...

-mo

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He laughs now, as the cool, salty breeze of the ocean washes over his dark hair, ruffling it in the wind. He laughs now, as he leans on the railing to look at the waves that rage below. Oh, he laughs now, as he wears the oversized clothing of men, as he stands beside his closest comrade, and they smile like the innocent choirboys they once were, with overgrown hair and dirty faces. He laughs, but I can see beyond the soft-faced façade – the cunning eyes, the cruel grin, the bloody camouflage. Am I the only one who can see?

Roger and Jack lean against the ship's railing, their clothed backs to the sea. Behind them, the sun is setting, and the sky is pink and orange, and Jack's red hair, backlit, looks like it's on fire. They talk absently – speaking about who knows what, as there seems to be very little to discuss – grinning every so often. But presently, they have gained serious expressions; Jack talks, and Roger nods, his dark eyes focused on the metal deck of the ship. Besides their bruised and dirty faces, and their long, matted hair – neither looks dangerous, neither looks as if he's spent several months on an island. Neither looks like he has killed. Both are leaner since… since. Skinnier, but more muscular. Tanned – not at all like the pale people who walk through London's bleary streets. Jack makes a joke – but I'm too far away to hear, and the sound of the waves and the wind and the ship drown out his words. Roger grins, his head thrown back with laughter, looking like nothing more than a giddy, unkempt British schoolboy.

Only I know he's more than that, as is Jack, and every other boy on this ship. I've seen the savagery that lies only centimeters beneath every boy's innocent façade – I've seen them burn, and kill, and hunt, and rampage – I've seen… I've seen their true selves. I shudder, even though the fresh breeze coming off the ocean is still quite warm. It's just – just the truth that makes me feel so cold inside. If boys – boys as seemingly quiet and shy as Roger, as cheerful and happy-go-lucky as Jack – if mere boys can be so savage, what about – what about the rest of mankind? The people back home? The folks living in the English countryside? Our parents?

I approach the two boys, and they view me for the first time since we left the island. They are near-silhouettes against the blinding rays of the setting sun, and I must squint into the rosy light to see them. Jack smiles good-naturedly, holding out his hand to me; I don't shake it. He doesn't care and instead just shrugs, and glances to the boy standing next to him. Roger returns the shrug, and a half-grin appears on his face. Not the cruel, sadistic smile that he carried on the island – a natural, normal grin. It's as if the savage within both boys has fled.

Jack speaks first. "Join us, Ralph." It isn't a command. It's a… request. And his voice – it's still harsh, as it was on the island, but no longer venomous, no longer dangerous and biting.

I hesitate, and gnaw on my lower lip. Is this the same boy who…

Then the normally furtive Roger speaks. "It'll be just like old times."

Old times when? "I…" I languish there, four feet away from the other two boys, staring at the space between them, where the rouge ball of the sun sinks further toward the sparkling waves. No longer do I squint; as I don't care that it harms my eyes. Jack and Roger exchange glances, but I find my voice and say, "You won't throw me off?" They laugh. Not evilly – good-heartedly. I want to breathe a sigh of relief, but my conscience tells me no, no.

"Oh, come on, Ralph," Jack says with a friendly smile. 'Those days are so over. We're on a boat now, heading home. All that –" he gestures wildly, trying to find the right word, " – that stuff – that's done with, now."

I can feel a slight frown furrowing my brow. Piggy? Simon? They're stuff? An uneasy sensation pulls at my brain, but I ignore it, and join the two boys. I lean against the railing, situated a couple feet away from Roger's left, and he and Jack exchange smiles that I can't quite decipher.

--

Evening falls, and in the black sky above the ship, millions of stars are sprinkled as far as the eye can see. It's a sight reminiscent of the nightly views on the island, so I don't look, and I stay inside. It's gotten boring, anyhow. In the small mess hall, a meal has been prepared for us. Set up on several folding tables are stacks of plates and piles of silverware, accompanied by platters of steaming food – vegetables, meat, loaves of bread. A mass of boys – I never bothered to count, even in the first days on the island – flocks to the food, and I reluctantly follow. The meat, I am dismayed to find, is pork, and the smell of it nearly makes me gag. Instead, I load my plate with string beans and corn and a couple slices of bread, and I retreat to a far corner, opting to sit on the floor. Jack and Roger join me soon after – both carrying pork on their plates, and little else. I fidget, but say nothing.

"Tastes better than the undercooked stuff we ate on the island," Roger says.

Jack nods in agreement, and lifts a forkful of pork to his mouth. "Certainly does. That stuff was disgusting." He pauses, then glances at my plate. "No pig – I mean – pork, Ralph?"

I shake my head nervously. "I can't eat it anymore."

"Pity," Roger says.

The former chief frowns. "Is something bothering you, Ralph?"

I feel like I'm about ready to explode. "Yes," I hiss. "You – you and Roger – you act like nothing – nothing – happened. You act all proper – British – but I know. I know what you're both like on the inside. I know what everyone here is like on the inside. You're murderers. Savages. And – and you go on like there was no island, like there was no Simon or Piggy!"

"You're shouting," Jack grumbles. "Shall we take this outside?"

"Sure," Roger says. Then they both look my way and the dark-haired boy asks, "Want to talk about it out on the deck?"

His words, his grammar – impeccable, though lacking the British accent. They climb to their feet and leave the mess hall, and I sit there, staring intensely at where they once had been, bewildered and confused. No longer hungry, I slowly stand and stretch, fatigue claiming much of my sore body. I try to ignore the pain and instead I exit through the same door that Roger and Jack had left.

I find myself immersed in the cool darkness of the night. The cold, steel deck of the ship reflects what little light leaks from inside, and the only sound – besides the clamor from within – is the serene lapping of the waves against the hull. I walk toward the rear of the ship, where I had met up with the two boys earlier in the day. Before long, I find them, both leaning on the railing, this time facing the sea, the stronger wind blowing their long, tangled hair about.

With hunters' instincts, they hear me before I say a thing, and as one, they turn around to face me. Roger's face is pale in the moonlight, as is Jack's, and immediately I see that their demeanor has changed entirely. "Savages," Roger says simply, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His innocent choirboy look has washed away completely, and in the dark, I can see a murderer once more. A torturer. "And what about you, Ralph? Are you any different?"

I nod my head with a violent fervor. "Yes."

Roger and Jack exchange sinister glances. "You don't want to admit that you, too, are a savage," Jack grumbles as he and his companion step away from the railing. "Follow."

I hang back, not sure I should accompany them – wherever they might be headed. "Why?"

Roger rolls his dark eyes, glances to Jack, and turns back to me, approaching slowly. "When your chief gives you a command, you – will – obey!" He has taken me by the wrist, and he suddenly twists my arm behind my back, in a most painful way. I scream noiselessly, and in an instant, Roger has me pinned down on the deck, my eyes facing the black sky above, lit only by the cold light of the moon. He lets up, then stands, murmurs something to Jack, and crouches down beside me once more. "Savages," he says.

Suddenly, I'm being dragged. Not by Roger, but by Jack. The former chief has grabbed me by the ankles, and I'm sweeping over the cold, hard deck, a pang of pain searing through my shoulders every time I hit a loose rivet or an uneven panel of steel. Jack halts, and he drops my feet to the floor. "You'll see just how damn savage we are!" he grumbles, then says to Roger, "Ready?"

A silent nod is the hangman's answer. All at once, I'm slowly pushed forward – and I realize, with horror, that my feet are extending out under the railing, dangling over the dark waves! I'm still moving – past my shins, then, past my knees – and I start to panic. "What – what in the hell are you doing! Stop! Stop!"

Roger smirks and ignores my pleas for mercy. I'm sticking off the side of the boat well past mid-thigh. I know that as soon as my waist is over the edge, I'm as good as dead. Roger, who is holding both my shoulders quite tightly, speaks. "Better take hold of that railing above you, Ralphie. I'll be letting go soon – and you wouldn't want to fall off." I gasp and take his advice, the metal bar cold and damp and slippery. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears as I'm inched further and further off the side of the ship.

Why am I not fighting back! It's too late in the game, I realize, my arms burning, and Roger still gripping me. I have no idea when he'll let go. I can't let go. All of a sudden, his hands are off of me, and I grunt, struggling to hold on to the chilly railing. My hands and biceps feel like they're on fire, and I swear loudly. The hangman's form is suddenly looming over me, his grinning face inches away from mine. Horror grips my body as he leans in closer – our noses touch – and his mouth crashes into mine, biting, forcing his tongue between my lips. Kissing me horribly, upside-down. I can't do a goddamn thing about it. I feel as if I'll slip off any second – there's no way in hell I can push him off of me. Roger bites my lower lip so hard that blood starts to seep out and into my mouth. I cough and sputter – I'm choking on my own blood! Not far away, I hear Jack laughing.

Roger moves to my side; I can barely see him in the dark. He starts to kiss me, again, then runs his tongue down my neck, stopping at my collarbone, where he bites me, hard. I'm going crazy – I'm convulsing, shaking, kicking my feet out in midair, kicking into the black of the night, with waves crashing violently forty feet below. Roger chuckles and begins to unbutton my shirt. His hands run across my chest, and I try to ignore him, I try, I try – but my hands – and my arms – they're searing with pain – my muscles are about ready to give. I howl with suffering. Roger's licking me – then Jack hands him something – it's a pocket knife. My eyes bulge. Should I let go and fall and drown, never to see my family or home again – or should I let Roger have his way with me, still with no guarantee of survival?

I take my chances, and though my arms burn with pure pain, still I grip the cold, slippery railing. Roger unfolds the knife, looking at it lazily, then his eyes meet mine – they're full of hatred and fanaticism and insanity. I scream as he draws the blade across my chest – the pain is worse than the pain that courses through my arms. I feel the blood – I know it's not a very deep cut, but I feel the warm blood on my cold skin – I feel light-headed – but I must keep holding on to the railing!

While Roger busies himself with cutting various designs into my stomach, Jack steps, rather, crawls forward. He takes my head in his hands and clamps his mouth over mine, kissing me violently and savagely and enticingly all at once. I squirm, my arms aflame, and I feel myself go hard. Thank God that part of me is over the side of the ship – thank God that Jack and Roger can't see –

But they do. And for that reason, they end my ordeal. Roger throws the stained knife aside, and with his strong hands, pulls me back onto the deck. My arms feel like they've dissolved. I lie there, on the cold, steel floor, bloody and aroused and burning, panting like a dog, my cut chest facing the cool night sky. Jack and Roger stand over me, smug grins on their faces, their arms crossed. Roger gestures toward me and speaks. "Obviously, you're just as savage as us."

"No," I manage to choke out, my mouth tasting of blood.

"Yes," Jack says, as he and his hangman crouch down next to me, slowly removing my bloodied, oversized shirt, "yes, you are."

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A/N: Yeah. The end. Done. Finis. If you liked it, drop me a line (rather, a review). No flames, 'cause I'll just use 'em to toast my bagel with tomorrow morning. Danke!

-mo