Brendan Shaw stumbles again just as he reaches the stream. Covered in cuts and bruises, his trousers torn, he crawls a little way forwards, cups his hands in the path of the cool water, lifts them trembling to his mouth. He drinks. He is cold, hungry, exhausted, but at least the storm is over. He looks out across the panorama below him - nobody is coming, nobody has come for him. Nobody else. He is alone in these barren mountains.

No.

He turns. A familiar figure is standing a little way up the slope from him.

He smiles. “Captain Maier.”

Herr Shaw.

“So,” he says as casually as he can muster, “you are now a spirit, come to haunt me.”

Perhaps. Her expression is utterly inscrutable.

“You can't frighten me,” he shrugs. “I killed you.”

And I forgive you, she tells him. And I am sorry.

At this, he narrows his eyes, gets unsteadily to his feet. “You are sorry?”

I am sorry for what happened in Passchendaele. I was not… I did not give the order… I… I am sorry. I am sorry for the deaths of your comrades. And for all that you have suffered.

He stares at her. A snarl escapes his throat. “Really?”

I… I am forgetting, now. But I am sorry, I am certain I am sorry. And I am sorry for what I did to you. For… turning you into my instrument. The ghost looks puzzled for a moment. The knife. I gave you the knife… and gained control over you, and made you kill… me.

“Why are you telling me this?” He takes a step forwards. “No, forget that. Why don't you get out of my bloody head?”

You don't have to stay here, you know. The storm is over. Your trial… is past. Nobody is coming for you. You can return to the others, if you wish to live.

“This is nothing but trickery, betrayal!” He lurches towards her, swipes wildly at her with both arms. She disperses into nothing more than a few thin wisps of mist that curl about him and then fade. Good riddance. He nods to himself determinedly - she can't hurt him, not any more.

And then, with a small frown, he turns once again to gaze over the vista below him. He sighs, a great weight descending upon him… and then, slowly, unsteadily, he begins his descent.

“Hey!”

….

“Hey, you! You in the hipster jacket, or whatever that's supposed to be!”

Ah. Can it be that you are addressing me?

“Of course I'm addressing you! And you could at least pretend to care. I am a celebrity, you know.”

I know.

“Well, naturally. Are you part of the film crew?”

I beg your pardon?

“The film crew. Marooned. Ugh, are you even listening to me? We haven't seen anyone since we arrived. I mean, obviously the cameras are really well hidden. And that shipwreck - whoa, that was so real!”

I cannot claim credit for that part, alas.

“But we'd assumed there might be a bit more… oh, you know. We thought we might at least be able to get a Coke somewhere on this place.”

This is a deserted island. I am really not sure what else to say.

“Fine, whatever. We should have realised what we were getting ourselves in for, I guess.”

Hmm. I am not sure that was ever truly an option.

“Look… I guess you've got some kind of on-screen persona to maintain here, but can we at least get a hint? Like… when do we get our first challenge?”

Your first challenge?

“You know - team challenge. Or… eating-something-gross challenge. Or whatever.”

Oh - your first challenge. Actually, I think I should be able to help with that. Why don't we step over this way, where your friends can't hear you…?