Survival Of The Fittest

((Samuel Avery, starting here.))

Sam did not really view himself as a cafeteria person. The food was fine, sure, but that was about the only positive thing he had to say about the place. The sheer level of chaotic noise and bustle bordered on intolerable. It was utterly impossible to focus on anything of interest, although in truth, Sam had given up on that some time ago. He was now attempting to create a stable point in all this chaos, humming a rather repetitive tune to himself in an attempt to calm his unusually agitated state.

Normally, this sort of thing wouldn't be happening. It wasn't like he hadn't seen this situation coming, after all, lunch was a (mostly) daily occurrence, and one that he'd learned to cope with fairly easily, using earbuds to replace the chaotic noise with more structured musical patterns. Unfortunately, Murphy's law meant that sooner or later he'd forget his earbuds, and apparently in this instance that meant sooner. Tragic, really.

Nonetheless, food was a necessity, so Sam dutifully picked at his salad, alternating between humming and taking small bites of a bit of lettuce. It wasn't bad per se, just rather tasteless and a bit irritating to eat. The croutons, of course, had been the best part, as evidenced by the fact that none remained. Honestly Sam had gotten the salad primarily as an excuse to eat the croutons it contained. He really wasn't sure why croutons weren't a standalone food item, but c'est la vie.

Sam liked croutons for a variety of reasons. They tasted good, had a nice crunchy feel, came in bite-sized chunks, and made crunching noises that fairly effectively drowned out... well, a fair amount of the surrounding babbling. Not enough, though. It was still there, still pervading everything despite the humming. Maybe I should get more. A lunch of croutons probably wasn't healthy, but c'est la vie. Why do I use that phrase so much? I don't even know for sure if it applies to this situation. I should look it up.

Silencing that train of thought before it took over his entire internal monologue, Sam stared at his salad for a few moments, expression betraying mild disappointment. I suppose I should eat this. Not doing so would be wasteful. Then again, wastefulness isn't specifically a negative trait, it's situational. I should analyze what I gain and weight it- A particularly loud whoop from some overly social annoyance of a human caused the burgeoning monologue to come skidding to a halt. The volume of the humming increased slightly. Please shut up so the rest of us can eat in peace.

Naturally, Sam's thoughts had no effect whatsoever on the situation, and if anything the volume seemed only to increase the more he found himself distracted by it, like a moth to a flame that consisted mostly of endless waves of noise and chaos. At the very least Sam's table was empty, so when he inevitably scrunched his eyes closed, put his hands to his ears, and began bouncing his leg under the table, nobody immediately started mocking him for it. It was inevitable that someone would notice, of course, and in the back of his mind he hoped that they would just leave him alone, not look too closely, go away and be quiet.

((Camila Cañizares))

She mumbled to herself in Spanish, loud enough that she could hear herself thinking as everyone else could. 'Cambridge Square Market', 'achiote', 'cook longer', among other ideas.

She'd dressed that day in silvery grey jeans rolled short on the ankle and a snug pink tee, those being the first clothes she'd glanced at briefly when opening her closet door. A look that was harsh and bright on the eyes, and of course she didn't care much about that observation beyond bothering to make it at all. She busily strode a single path through the aisles between cafeteria benches and took note of multiple open spots, some as large as entire tables, and she ignored most of those spots due to distance.

The closest open table was where she slotted her rear onto a seat with a simple and smooth motion. A pale, mannequin like boy was the sole point of human she could use as a frame of reference. She did not recognize his face, if she did, she forgot his face and thus he was not worth recognizing.

"Añade el vino y reduce.." A bottle of Zinfandel lasted suitably long when used for flavor cooking.

This boy hummed quite a bit for all the two seconds Camila had been sat. His other behaviors were all the more out there. One of the boys with autism, then. She was familiar, didn't need to be. It was historically never a relevant fact.

She hummed what she assuredly guessed was a countermelody to the few notes the boy kept mumbling to himself, and she hummed at her usual speaking volume. Her mind stayed onto the issue of food, preparation, so on. Her lunch was likewise ignored, sitting in a small and exotically aromatic bag clenched between the terseness of two of her knuckles.

She was aware that she was idly copying him, of course, she didn't mind. It was innocuous.

She continued to hum. Whether that boy was there or not she felt no inclination to stop.

Food came in the form of minced farm-fresh chicken and frijoles. Little bit of vegetable oil, bloomed with fresh crushed cumin seed and diced pimento. To taste, wherein, Camila liked it hot so she drowned the pan to taste.

She didn't glance up at the boy again. He'd speak if he'd speak. And he didn't, so. Camila's lunch passed peacefully.

Dangerously sticky melody he'd stuck in her head. All she'd get to remember him by.

((Camila Cañizares continued in The Good in Everyone))