Survival Of The Fittest

Alexander had been irritated from the moment he'd woken up, sore and barely rested. Said irritation was tempered by the knowledge that he should be grateful that discomfort was the worst pain he'd felt; but small blessings weren't nearly enough to fill his heart with sprightly morning cheer. For the sake of the others' sanity, he refrained from complaining, but he still let out an undignified yawn as he fumbled for his sunglasses.

He genuinely wasn't sure if he'd ever slept on a floor before. He'd never been camping, never drunkenly collapsed after a long night of partying, or whatever it was the 'cool kids' did. There'd been occasional nights where the band had stayed overnight at one of their houses, but even then there'd always been a couch of variable softness, and even then he'd been unhappy with a sore neck in the morning.

Well, he'd have to get used to it. Nia had wanted to move away from the village, which was tactically sound, but Alexander would still miss roofs. And walls. And even footing.

The morning was already feeling even warmer than the previous, so he had finally given up and taken off his button-down shirt, folding it the best he could and storing it inside his bag. He kept his tie on, because a man had to have standards. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to adjust it to cover up his collar.

While Jeremiah helpfully tore down their barricades, Alexander decided to have a morning chat with Nia; something to clear away the groggy cobwebs in his brain. Talking about the future was admittedly inherently morbid when they were all on death's row; but knowing a person's ambitions was a key step in understanding them. Nia struck him as someone who was ambitious indeed, but

she didn't get to finish her answer, fingers freezing on his palm as the PA system sounded. Alexander did not let go of her hand. Perhaps he was too distracted to bother. Perhaps he needed the human touch to bear the inhumane revelations that the announcement brought.

Funny. He'd been drilling it into his head over and over - how astronomically unlikely it was that he'd reunite with a single one of his friends; let alone the entire band. He thought he'd understood that clinging to such sentiment would only distract him from the reality of his situation.

Still, he must have been hoping for a miracle, because why else would hearing Beryl's name hurt so much? Beryl, killed by the boy he'd tried to oh-so-diplomatically mug, by the knife he'd oh-so-desperately wanted.

"Beryl, I thought you'd outlive all of us," he muttered numbly, uselessly, as if his expectations could change history now that he'd voiced them, as if he'd been expecting to be mourning Roxanne or Marceline instead, as if that would tear him apart any less.

He prayed, even though he didn't know who or what he was praying to. Prayed that she was with her family, now, that there was a place that her family could still exist, where she and her beautiful, enigmatic mind still existed, because even after years of being her friend he still wasn't sure how well he understood her, and now he would never get the chance, at least not on Earth.

He squeezed Nia's hand and tried to fight the tears that were already pooling at the corners of his eyes.

Lotta names. Honest t' god, most of 'em didn't mean much. Couldn't put names t' faces. Never made the effort. Regina rode him about it. Mm. Part of why he was here. New places. New people. 'nother shot at reachin' out 'fore he went off t' wherever was next.

Hadn't worked out. Shame. Prolly blamed herself some. Not sure how t' feel there. Sorta was her fault, didn't want her t' lose sleep over it though. Girlfriend would take care of her, better than if he'd stayed.

Beryl's name.

Why'd he say Beryl's name?

Made more sense after Nick's. Lot more. Sure she'd signed nice things. Cared about him. Never told him nothin' all that bad far as she knew. Didn't much matter after things were over. All Jeremiah could think when he heard their names together was how much he'd hurt her, and now he never gave a shit about anything but what it meant for him. Done so much. Fucked up her whole world. Never enough though. Wasn't satisfied until he dragged her down here with the rest and made sure she never got up again.

Door flew open hard. Only sound made. Eyes burned. Wet.

Angry.

Find.

Hurt.

((Jeremiah Anderson Concluded in At the End of Days, at the End of Time))

Nia had told herself, not so long ago, that she was permitted to cry.

She did not.

Alexander's hand was tight around hers. Her other hand was writing, quick notes, only names and short details, messy and left with space between to add further information when she had a moment to think more logically about the repercussions of each act of violence. Nine acts, listed in quick succession with no room left to react or feel or do much of anything but accept the information as true. Eight of their classmates were murderers, nine of them were dead. Perhaps their captor lied, perhaps the details were not entirely accurate, but she did not doubt that the names were correct. She did not doubt that eight among their number had succumbed so quickly to their basest instincts. Frankly some part of her was surprised that number was limited to eight. There were certainly more than eight impulsive idiots in their graduating class, though she supposed not everyone was so lucky with their weapon draw. She recalled her assigned "weapon" for a moment and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Did she waver, a bit, as she wrote the name of the fourth victim? BERYL MAHELONA, the letters more stable than the rest, a sign of concentrated effort. Graphology was a pseudoscience at best. Her trembling told the story well enough.

Alexander's voice, barely audible, told his own. Nia thought to form some sort of response, but it wound up coming in the form of her hand violently ripping from his as she scrambled to her feet, because Jeremiah was always too fast, even when he wasn't trying to be, and when he was there was no chance she'd catch him, and he was out the door already, and she ran after him on legs that ached still from the exertion of the day before, signing WAIT at his unseeing back, she tripped on a discarded piece of cookware, tumbled into a kitchen island, the corner driving into her stomach and driving the wind from her lungs.

Jeremiah was long gone.

She followed his footsteps anyway on dragging feet. Already working rapidly to patch over her own rising panic. Jeremiah was not stupid. He had left his belongings behind. He was angry, he was acting irrationally, he would return. She would not catch up to him if he did not want her to, and it was quite evident he did not. The commissary had proven to be a safe location, it would be foolish to leave it before doing so was necessary. She and Alexander could hardly handle their own belongings, let alone Jeremiah's, and leaving them here without them was tantamount to allowing them to be stolen. He would be back. He would wear out his emotional outburst and then he would be back.

She still made it out the front door onto the empty path in front of the building before stopping herself. He was nowhere in sight. She would have run, if she could see him, she knew, and she hated knowing. Moreso when she turned around and spotted Alexander standing nonplussed in the doorway. She permitted herself a deep breath to center herself before walking toward him, steps slow and deliberate as ever. He would come back. Her sudden spike of anxiety was not worth ruining every plan she'd made. It was not worth backtracking on the only moral position she'd taken thus far, either.

"J-E-R-E-M-I-A-H-G-O."

Nia wrote, slowly. She ought to pull him inside; the doorway was vulnerable. It took her far too long to do so.

"H-E-C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K."

She was certain.

"W-E-W-A-I-T."

She would broker no argument.

>> However long it took.

The sound of the last remnants of their barricade being violently thrown aside gave Alexander a temporary reprieve from his grief, which was replaced by shock as Nia tore her hand away and presumably gave chase after Jeremiah. Couldn't the world give him one godforsaken moment to mourn? He didn't even know if they were in danger, or if the boy had just taken off on some silent, inscrutable impulse.

There was a commotion from the kitchen - maybe a struggle, maybe just someone tripping over any of the horrid pieces of debris that were scattered across the entire building. Frantic footfalls as someone sprinted out of the room. He sighed, then ran his fingers along the wall until he found the spot where he had left his cane the previous night, then ventured out of the storeroom, careful prodding for any new obstacles. No sense in rushing - if the others were gone, they were gone.

Alexander felt a vague sinking sensation as he walked towards the front door of the Commissary, hurrying as much as he could, despite himself. Was this it? Had he been abandoned so unceremoniously? He hesitated, standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. He could not follow them any further. He'd wanted time to mourn before everything went to hell, not to be left alone to wallow in it.

Before the fear could really sink in, before he was forced to imagine how he'd re-barricade himself inside the building, because what other chance did he have, really - Nia took his hand, explained the situation. Lead him back inside.

"We wait," Alexander echoed back with a nod. Had he just imagined how her hand had started trembling once Beryl's name had been so clinically called? Beryl had known a lot of people, and Alexander had never really had much cause to keep track of her friends - had Nia been one of them? Were they grieving the same person? It felt tasteless to ask, now.

Whatever the case, he knew how dear to her Jeremiah was. Had only just began to learn how much it hurt to lose a friend. He wouldn't wish that pain on anyone. So, they would wait for the uncooperative, frustrating boy.

((However long it took.))