Survival Of The Fittest

"I understand that things may have escalated past the point of all decorum, but you can't allow yourself to be riled up by the likes of the Carters, Tyrell. You have to be better than that." Claudeson Bademosi spoke with a calm tone as he held the heavier-than-expected outer clinic door open.

"You have to rise above them."

((Claudeson Bademosi continued from Gifts))

The last few hours had been essentially a cyclical conversation, over and over again. As Claudeson had seen fit to accompany the injured Tyrell Lahti to the clinic, the fight had been discussed over and over again. Both boys had dramatically different perspectives upon what the best course of action would have been. While not bombastic, Tyrell still quietly seethed regarding the perceived injustice that he had suffered, and more than a few times during the slow trip to the clinic and the wait to see the doctor, he had mumbled something close to what could be construed as a plan for vengeance. Claudeson, of course, had advocated for forgiveness, though at least admitting that avoidance of the two might not be the worst course of action.

Of course, there had also been his empty threat, which he had conveniently neglected to bring up - both because he truly had no footage of the incident, and because he didn't exactly wish to incur any further wrath from the ruling defensive ends of the school. As an added bonus, he was certain that Tyrell hadn't forgotten Claude's own inference that any video posted online wouldn't bode well for him, either.

So as the two exited the clinic, Claudeson had taken that moment to once again affirm to Tyrell (after another vaguely muttered threat) that the high road was the way to go. Waiting patiently out of Tyrell's way, Claude continued his sermon.

"Even if you wait until the year is over and everyone goes their separate ways, then what?" He shrugged. "You risk being arrested, indicted, and going to jail. How worthwhile would it be to waste years of your life on a few injured ribs?"

Claude wasn't sure that Tyrell saw it like that. Pride was a vicious thing - one of the seven deadly sins, and a man with wounded pride was a man who was liable to take unconscionable risks in order to regain it. If Tyrell had pulled a knife in self-defense, what kinds of plans would he have when going on the offensive? Would he maim one of them? Wound them?

Was Tyrell capable of murder?

Claudeson doubted that, but it still remained that he was the kind of man with a 'fight' response, and since the Carters had seen fit to stack the deck in their favour, any retribution might be similarly uncouth.

If not altogether warranted.

He pushed that last thought from his mind. No matter what he privately thought of the chosen tactics of engagement, his singular goal at the moment was to talk Tyrell; who was in no position to make a physical go at anyone, off the precipice.

"How are the ribs, anyway?" Tyrell had entered the doctor's office alone, of course, and hadn't said much when he'd come out. It didn't take a medical professional to see that he was still in pain, but Claudeson assumed that he'd at least gotten some sort of an answer.

"Fractured."

Tyrell stopped at the side of the street as Claudeson Bademosi continued to lecture him. Reaching into his jacket, he produced a small bottle and popped a single almond-shaped pill into his mouth. He nodded sarcastically to Claude as he spoke. There wasn’t really any chance he’d walk back into the fray, despite his cursing the Carters with every vile utterance he could muster. Not today at least - he had painkillers to take. He washed the pill down with an energy drink he'd picked up from the clinic pharmacy.

“Codeine, caffeine and…” -he put the cigarette he'd bummed from the cab driver to his lips- “…nicotine. A fuckin’ holy trinity.”

Quitting was for another day.

((Tyrell Lahti continued from Gifts))

For the most part he'd been venting aimlessly to work through the pain, though he didn't have the best audience. Ty could appreciate that he'd made the extra effort to see him to the clinic, but Claude's proselytizing was starting to get a bit tiring. No, he wasn't going to waste time going after the Carters. They were tools. Ivy had clearly said something to Bret, and he had gotten Wyatt in on the job because he had to know Ty would end him if he was alone. Much as he couldn't stand either of them, it was hard to imagine them having much in the way of complex thought other than naked self-interest. They did it for her, or at least one of them did.

Ty lit his cigarette and kept walking again, at not an especially brisk pace. His rib was fractured, for which the doctor’s recommendation was ice, rest, and painkillers. There was no hurry. He sighed, and began to concede his intent to let this slide.

"Alright, truth be told, much as the thought of neither of those guys making it past twenty is a pleasant one - I'm not sure I have the energy to keep giving a shit about them. They ambushed me two on one because everyone knows I'd fuckin' destroy Bret in a fair fight. I'm not going to waste energy on the Carters. I have nothing to prove, they proved enough themselves when they decided to tip the scale.”

Prove. I know what I want. I knew what the Carters wanted, they pretty much got it. What about Claude?

It did strike Tyrell as a bit odd that Claude had stuck around after taking him to the clinic, and even more that he was so invested in making sure he didn’t attempt some kind of half-baked revenge. It might’ve been the Christian thing to do, but in his experience it was rare that any Christian really sincerely acted the part.

What motivation could he possibly have to care what I do with my life?

No, Tyrell had to know. It might’ve made the conversation more bearable to allay Claude’s fears, but now he was curious.

“Ivy’s gaping snatch was the real cause of that fight, let’s be real here. They were trying to impress her or some shit, whatever. I’m done with them. Her on the other hand - I know exactly what I’m going to do about.”

Absolutely nothing, but you don’t need to know that.

There was a loose thread somewhere in Claude’s holier-than-thou persona, and he was going to find it and pull on it. He was the kind of person who had to be certain, had to be right about what he knew and believed about the world. It probably made him feel safe. If he had something to prove it was because he had doubts and uncertainties. It was just a matter of figuring out what those were.

“Lemme ask you something – when was the last time taking the “high road” actually worked? Did anything at all to put things right? Those fuckin’ guys – do you think they’ll ever actually get what’s coming to them?”

He eyed Claude, watching for a response. His own experience was actually that very often, terrible people did eventually reap what they had sown. Ty ignored the inconvenient thought and kept going.

“People like that, they’ll just get what they think they deserve. Like what do you think Wyatt’s college life is gonna be like, huh? He’ll probably go off and rape some girl, ruin her life, and then get off scot-free because people will stand up to defend his oh-so-bright future. Good thing everyone he fucked with decided to take the high road!

You really think his life, his future, isn't anything but a burden on the rest of us? Why the hell do we all just... tolerate it?”

Tyrell was crude - borderline blasphemous, even, but there was something about his tone that caused Claudeson to pause. He'd heard it all before, of course. Being born into religion and living his life through the basic tenets of the bible was inevitably a gateway to people who would try and use his faith to tear him down, but he'd developed a decently thick skin to deal with that. In his life, he'd had to thicken his skin to deal with a lot of things - such was the reality for a black man in 2018 America, but he'd always felt that his faith was impervious to any such attack. He could be judged for the colour of his skin, for his beliefs, or even for the way that he lived his life, but in the end, his faith would still remain.

Right?

The pause lingered in his mind but in the immediate, there was a lot to unpack. Talk of Ivy Langley's 'gaping snatch', for instance, and Tyrell's looming threat to her well-being. That was mention-worthy, as was his further insistence that rising above the muck was a waste of time; the only way to get anything done and to combat those who would seek to oppress you would be to join them in the nether realm, where human decency and the honour of battle had long ago ceased to exist. Tyrell seemed quite content, quite clear on how he perceived the situation - Bret had brought a tag team partner, and in a way, so had Tyrell.

His just managed to make a lot more of a statement.

As the two walked along the path outside of the clinic, Claudeson tilted his head, honestly giving Tyrell's questions a fair shake. His initial reaction was to disagree, but then - there was that pause again, lingering.

"Look, Tyrell. I know you are probably not a man of faith." His tone was careful, measured. "In the short-term, I think you are absolutely right. It is very common for those who act out without reprisal to actually go without judgement for a long time. Particularly people with means - like the Carters, like Ivy."

Claude stayed silent for a second, mentally sidestepping the sudden feeling that he had to just throw in with Tyrell - agree with him entirely.

"But to drop down to that level when we ourselves lack the means to have the kind of protection? That may not be fair in the immediate, but it is stupid. Someone like Wyatt Carter might have the benefit of the doubt because of his means for many years, but you have to have faith that eventually, it will all catch up with him."

He stopped at the crosswalk before them to let a car go by.

"We tolerate them because it is not our place to judge them. We are not the ones who are seen fit to make judgement of filth like the Carters." He repressed a scowl, barely. "We can only take onus of our own actions, and try to help those who might need it."

He paused, before reaching out and toggling the button to safely cross the street. The lights on the crossing signals began to flash.

"Would you have had me not step in? How far would you have let that go had I not? Are you really that kind of man?"

Claudeson tried oh-so-hard to avoid a sanctimonious tone with Tyrell. He truly did - he was aware of how his words were emerging from his lips. He hadn't meant to put the injured teenager on the defensive, but a part of Claudeson wondered what kind of man would actually use a knife in a fist-fight, uneven odds or not. Even in defense, it wasn't altogether honourable.

That pause in his mind returned and it told him exactly what kind of man would do that - the kind standing before him. It brought an ugly feeling to his body that he didn't immediately recognize, but when he did, he felt a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Approval.

Ty stood at the crosswalk, sipping on his energy drink and taking the odd drag of his cigarette as Claude spoke. Much as he might've seemed like he was letting Claude spin his wheels, he was actually hanging on every word. So it seemed like he was a true believer, or at least thought he was. It wasn't Tyrell's place to judge, or indeed Claude's - no, God or Fate would sort out horrid people in time. Everyone else just had to let it slide, turn the other cheek.

It would be easier to believe him if Claude didn't so easily refer to them as "filth." Maybe he was a man of faith - as far as it served him. It wasn't hard to imagine Claude rationalizing violence in the same way he rationalized cowardice, if it came to that.

If you felt it was your place to judge the Carters, how far would you go? Maybe that's what you're afraid of.

The light on the crosswalk lit up: WALK. Tyrell pressed on.

"I don't have faith in God or the Devil or humanity, but I do have faith. In myself. Look, violence has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, and I learned pretty quick that there wasn't anyone I could plead with to stop it, least of all God. It had to be me. That's why I didn't stop training as soon as my Dad couldn't force me to go, it's why I work as much as I do. "

They rounded another corner, and Ty had to make an effort to slow himself down so as not to draw more pain from his side than he cared for. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet.

"It's pretty hard for me to not be there for myself, to let myself down. If I fuck up, it's on me. If I succeed, it's on me. I do take responsibility for my own actions, that's the point. That's why I don't see the value in waiting on God or karma or whatever the fuck. No, it very much is my place to make a judgement on people like that, I live in the world much as they do. Much as you do. Standing around doing nothing about it, you're just enabling them."

A pickup truck drove by with a bumper sticker that read Make America Great Again, and Ty pointed at the truck with his cigarette as it went by.

"The world doesn't sort out terrible people - it elects them President. You're asking how far I would've gone, but how far do you think Wyatt would've gone? You have the video, that fuck didn't want me walking away. Check it again if you don't believe me, Bret had him by the arm when you stepped in."

He stopped and turned to Claude, partly to make a point and partly because his side was still acting up.

"I would have taken that situation to its logical conclusion, which was someone not making it home that night. Might've been me. Probably would've been one or both of them. Doesn't matter. Either way I'd be doing more than every coward out there who just takes the beating. Maybe it'd mean something to people to see them get taken down, maybe it wouldn't. I know what it means to me. Survival."

Are you a coward, Claude? Maybe you're just pretending.

Ty looked Claude directly in the eyes.

"So yes, I am exactly that kind of man. Any other kind wouldn't be standing here right now. What about you, Claude? You didn't wait for things to sort themselves out. You stepped in, stepped up, did the 'right thing'. With, y'know, threatening blackmail. You can't tell me you wouldn't have liked to see those guys get hauled off in 'cuffs, admit it."

As the two walked away from the clinic, across the street, and presumably back towards the neighbourhood that they both lived in, Claudeson made a subtle effort to keep out of the path of Tyrell's cigarette smoke. The stank followed the pair of them like an unwashed pair of socks might lead an inquisitive mind to a gym locker, and the barely concealed distaste for Tyrell's unpleasant hobby caused Claude to grimace as he listened. Of course, the words did nothing to dissuade him of that expression.

"I am sorry," he started, remarking on Tyrell's confession of a penchant for violence within his life. Claudeson wasn't sure of specifics on the other boy's past, but if truly believed this supposed cavalier attitude towards violence, it couldn't have been overly pleasant. He closed his mouth again, trying to think of the right way to continue.

Speaking of things that weren't overly pleasant, Claude also caught himself trying to look past all of Tyrell's small shots at his faith. It was apparent within some of the wording that he'd been using throughout that he didn't think much of the Lord, of the Bible, of anything higher than what was happening here, and his little diatribe confirmed it. Confidence was fine, but Claudeson wondered how much of that self-belief had come at the cost of others.

"I think Wyatt Carter is a coward."

The words surprised him as they left his mouth, and he stopped walking, coming to a halt beside the sign for a small parkette at the side of the road. Composing himself quickly, he took ownership of his statement.

"What I mean to say is that the way he - and his brother, in fact, deal with situations? It doesn't befit men of their social standing." Claude straightened up a bit. "They decided to attack you, two on one, for what purpose? To send a message, to right a wrong? Would it not have been more of a righteous thing to confront you in public, in front of a crowd of onlookers? Yet they chose to ambush you on a path, away from school."

Claudeson shook his head.

"Wyatt would only have gone as far as he needed to send a message. Had his brother not been by his side, he likely would not have gone far at all. Look at the kind of man he is - he attacks when surrounded by his teammates on the football field. He attacks when he has backup to give him support here. Though for all of his caustic jousting - both physical and verbal, when someone stands up to him in a crowded setting and he's by himself? He flees. He backs down and resorts to crude name-calling. I have seen it happen."

The park beside them was deserted, the playground equipment standing vacant and only gently swaying in the breeze that lightly passed through the area. The smoke from Tyrell's cigarette floated towards the park, like a soft yet ominous mist.

"If that truly is the way that you feel, then perhaps my intervention best served them, and not you. Were you intending on causing them grievous harm with that knife, perhaps it would not have been them being led away in cuffs," he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow a touch, "perhaps it would have been you."

Claudeson furrowed his brow as one more thought came to him.

"If that were truly the case, then why did you not continue on with your assault? You had the upper hand - why not truly injure both of them with your weapon? Why not attack me? I stood between you and your retribution."

He held out his hands, palms up, suggesting he didn't know the answer any more than Tyrell likely did.

"I believe that we will all truly receive that to which we are owed, and so eventually, people like Bret and Wyatt will receive their comeuppance, though perhaps not in the manner that you intended to dole it out."

He shook his head and started walking again.

"Perhaps I should have let the fight reach its natural conclusion after all."

Tyrell couldn’t help but smile as Claude let slip his view of Wyatt as a coward.

That's a little blunt of you, no?

It didn’t seem an unfounded description until the other boy offered an entirely rosy picture of what bravery looked like, at which point the smile turned into a chuckle. He put out the end of the cigarette in the empty energy drink can, and tossed it into a nearby waste bin. A vaguely electrical feeling pressed him to continue walking even as Claude stopped by the small park. At least something he'd ingested in the last half and hour was beginning to take effect, or all of them. He noticed the tension in his body lessen, and the slow dulling of the various pains that wracked him. Unfortunately, he still found himself enduring mild to moderate irritation on account of the course of the conversation.

Did Claude seriously believe that people, least of all those people¸ gave half a damn about what was or appeared to be righteous?

No, of course not. But he wants to, doesn’t he? I saw him course correct there. I know what that’s like.

As he continued, that initial naked sentiment having caught Ty’s attention, he began to see what it was Claude really wanted to say. As they left the side of the park, he fell silent.

I’m willing to do whatever it takes to survive a guy trying to beat my skull in, and yet I’m a bad person? That’s what you’re insinuating, isn’t it? Judge not lest ye be judged, my ass.

Ty left a long pause. Long enough to seem thoughtful, and he continued to hold his tongue for a little longer than that. It was important that Claude thought he had to really think about this. That what he had said was cause for Ty to stumble over his words a bit. If he wanted Claude to feel bad about what he'd just said, he needed to believe it had really hurt him.

It was a calculated feint, as Tyrell's initial instinct was to tear a strip off Claude the moment he'd realized what he had actually meant. As they crested a small hill, Ty made a point of slowing down his pace. The incline was genuinely a bit painful to walk up, but not as much as he made it seem. Ty spoke at a measured and calm level distinct from his previous tirade.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m very thankful you stepped in when you did.” He stopped for a moment and put a hand on Claude’s shoulder. There was no inclination that Claude was person comfortable with physical contact, which was entirely the motivation behind this particular gesture.

“I didn’t have the upper hand. Two on one is never good odds, it doesn't matter how good you are. Not even with a knife. With guys their size - I was lucky to have walked away. Lucky you were there.”

With one hand on Claude’s shoulder, the other reached into his pocket and retrieved the knife. With a lazy flick, he opened it and held it out in front of Claude. Not in a grip – lightly, between two fingers. Almost as if to present it to him.

“Look at this. You see this knife?” The blade was covered in marks from where it had been dutifully sharpened.

“This isn't 'retribution.' Claude, on the ground - I was afraid for my life back there. That is not allowed to happen to me. For a long time that - fear - was my ground state. Fear that I’d eventually be too broken to keep going, that my life would never be my own. It would be over before I could even try. So I don’t let that happen anymore. You know what it was that made me draw it on them?”

He folded the knife and placed it back into his pocket, maintaining eye contact with Claude all the while. As he spoke his eyes glistened.

“Panic. It was escalation. I wasn’t looking for revenge. I wanted to fucking live and I was willing to cut my way through either of them if that was what it took. Call it paranoia, call it PTSD, whatever you want. I did only what I knew how to do. It was fear and instinct, nothing else. Maybe I justify that by reminding myself that they were bad people. That they'd deserve it. I'll do what I have to do to keep my head on straight, to live with myself. Maybe, I dunno.”

Ty let go of Claude’s shoulder and started to walk again, trying not to drag his feet. The painkillers really were kicking in, as he noticed blurry halos around the streetlights and strange lines crisscrossing his vision. It was still some distance to his home. Whether or not he got anything out of Claude, he was at least glad for the distraction. Getting home in this state, alone, was a dubious proposition at best.

As Tyrell's hand touched Claudeson's shoulder, a jolt of electricity seemed to make its way through his body. Physical contact was not something that he was altogether uncomfortable with - he would commonly embrace members of his mother's congregation in greeting, and working in homeless shelters, one had a degree of people that would stumble, stagger, or just grab on out of exhaustion. But this kind of contact - this was measured, and Claudeson could see exactly what Tyrell was trying to do. He was trying to make him uncomfortable, trying to give himself the upper hand in the conversation; that was an interesting thing he'd noticed - everything seemed to be a competition to this kid.

So he went along with it, allowing his shoulders to sag under the other boy's touch.

When Tyrell lazily removed the knife from his pocket and flipped it open, he instinctively tensed for a moment, but relaxed as he saw the loose grip. Tyrell wasn't holding the knife as a weapon, but as an instrument, as one would a tool. A means to an end. Claudeson nodded along with Tyrell's explanation. It made sense, honestly. While he didn't necessarily approve of his methodology, he understood the desire for survival. He understood the drive to do whatever it took to further oneself in the universe, to keep going, to prepare one's soul for the next stage. These were all concepts he understood.

Right?

He blinked.

Of course he did.

Tyrell put the knife away, Claude having only nodded through his explanation rather than acknowledging anything verbally. A person like Tyrell wasn't just going to open up with no reason, without a point to be made. It was a part of the reason that he'd feigned under Tyrell's touch. While he was acutely aware that some sort of underlying game going on between them, he wasn't entirely sure of the purpose. So if this was a game, he'd more than willingly play too. Visibly, he sagged his shoulders at the knife going back into Tyrell's pocket.

"Survival. Hmm."

Claudeson made a show of nodding, and looking at the ground, his body language shrinking away from the practiced show of survival instinct that Tyrell was virtually radiating. The pride practically reached out and slapped him in the face. He ignored the vile taste in the back of his throat. Tyrell removed his hand and kept on walking, the painkillers obviously starting to have an impact upon him.

He allowed himself to lag a few steps behind the boy, still making a show of considering Tyrell's words. Truth was, he was more certain than ever that he should have allowed the fight to go on. The small part of him that had considered it back in the woods was now practically screaming at him. These were not good people. Neither Wyatt, nor Bret, or even Tyrell deserved even a shred of decency, of consideration. They were men who decided to take their problems into their own hands and fight about them in the streets like rabid dogs. Perhaps that was all they truly were, in the end. Rabid dogs, who were simply waiting to be unleashed upon unsuspecting victims. Had he truly done a good thing by stopping all of this and allowing them all to keep on going?

Was the world truly better with these three men in it?

He swallowed, stuffing the feelings down once more. He had no right to be a judge. He would allow himself to judge, but the judgement itself would come down from the almighty.

Eventually.

"You know, Tyrell," Claudeson started. "I have to admit, you acquitted yourself rather well from a physical standpoint. In fact, I am more than certain that the Carter boys will wear the results of their injuries far more obviously than you will."

He spoke slowly, but allowed his gaze to slowly rise so that he was looking at the boy in front of him, who was unsteadily making his way down the sidewalk. Another car drove past, a mid-sized sedan with a window sticker that indicated a family was inside. How quaint.

"Survival does not seem to be a problem for you. Perhaps, where you lack is in understanding the context of your situation. What is the expression? Smart men do not bring a knife to a gunfight?" That sanctimonious lilt returned, almost unbeknownst to him. "There's a verse in scripture that comes to mind - Job 17:9."

Claudeson assumed that Tyrell, like most people, didn't know scripture off the top of his head, so he filled in the blank that stood between them.

"Yet the righteous holds to his way, and he who has clean hands grows stronger and stronger." He stood a bit straighter now, preparing to verbally kick the proverbial stool out from under Tyrell.

"Survival is one thing, Tyrell, but escalating a situation like that to the point that the survival of all combatants is not a guarantee? This is a high school fight. I would imagine you've been in them before. Those neanderthals were obviously trying to teach you some sort of lesson, one that you would inevitably walked away from to benefit them later."

Claudeson shook his head disdainfully.

"Would you truly have been able to live with yourself had you killed one or both of them in the woods? What kind of a lesson would you have learned from that? Are you not stronger when you can resolve a situation like that without damning yourself in the eyes of the Lord?"

He truly doubted that the consideration of God, or anything God-related about this situation weighed very heavily for Tyrell, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. It wasn't the path he'd intended to walk down, but almost unconsciously, he'd done so anyway.

"That survival instinct does not appear to be a strength, Tyrell. If those are the lengths it drives you, then it is a weakness."

He buried the smile that tried to bubble to the surface of his lips.

Almost.

Tyrell stopped in his tracks, and straightened up. Acquitted himself well? He’d rearranged Wyatt’s nearly irredeemable face and given Bret three strong ones. Ty barely walked away with a fractured rib and a busted open forehead, and a canvas of bruises running across most of his upper torso.

What was Claude on about? Had he even seen the fight?

Good question.

Then he quoted scripture at him.

Really Claude? Do I give off the impression of actually giving a shit what Sky-Daddy thinks of me?

If it wasn’t the tone that this arrogant fuck was taking that made Tyrell want to level him right here and now, it was the fact that he hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. Even the most casual observer would’ve been able to tell that a man of Wyatt’s size was clearly able to beat someone to death with his bare hands. Whether he intended to or not was totally irrelevant.

Let’s put our cards on the table.

Tyrell turned around and closed the distance between himself and Claude, the painkillers making it actually a bit easier to move around. He felt confident, even a bit rejuvenated. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“Funny thing to think about, instinct. Speaking of weakness, what did you do when you saw this all go down?”

There was no more calm in his tone. Before Claude could respond, he held up a hand to silence him.

“No, no, no, what was your instinct, you holier-than-thou motherfucker? You took a video. You watched. How long did you stand there with your phone before you decided to step in? How much pain did you think we were owed before you felt it was necessary to put a stop to it? How does that square with how the Lord sees your actions, that you were able to stand there and what – record it for safekeeping? For blackmail? To jerk off to? Hell if I know. I don’t care. Either way, you-”

Tyrell prodded Claude’s chest with his left hand, the one that happened to be wrapped in bandages.

“-waited. That was your judgement, Claude. You let it get to that point. Now you said it wasn’t our place to judge them, but that was exactly what you were doing when you stood there and let that fight happen! You know why I don’t buy this true-believer act of yours?”

He’d only gone to Church as a kid. They were technically Lutherans. Didn’t mean he had at all memorized scripture - he’d heard the quote in a metal album, and ended up reading the section it had been pulled from. It didn’t appeal to his sensibilities in the least.

“James 4:12. Yet who the fuck do you think you are?”

His voice took on a sarcastic tone as he made it clear that he didn’t feel like he owed Claude a damn thing. As the other boy started to speak, he simply spoke louder and continued over top of what he might've been trying to say.

“Oh, I’m thankful you stopped it. Thankful you didn’t have the guts to let us get what we really deserved. That’s what you think, isn’t it? Let those people people destroy each other, and you can just sit by and congratulate yourself on being such a big grown up fuckin’ righteous man. Bit rich for you to throw around the word coward after that performance, don’t you think?”

It wasn’t like it didn’t upset him. He was not as furious as he seemed, but he knew the best lies have a shred of truth, as that was how they managed to be convincing. So for the moment, he made no effort to stop the words that came out of his mouth.

It felt real enough to him, it ought to for Claude. Ty wanted him to fall headfirst off of his moral high ground. It was time to be direct about this. Claude once again tried to answer him, but Tyrell persisted, each question more desperate and exasperated as the last.

“Where do you get off saying that people 'get what they’re owed?' Do you think anyone deserves to be made to feel that way? Do I? Is that what I’m owed, Claude, is that what I’ve earned?! You don’t even know me, you have no idea what I’ve been through. Yet you made a judgement, stood there and let the situation get to the point where I felt that stabbing someone was the only viable option! How long was the video, Claude? How long did you wait to step in? How long did it take for Bret to pull him away? You think that piece of shit wasn’t trying to kill me? How long did you record the fight, Claude? How long did it take you to remember to do the right thing? What kind of a coward hides behind religion to justify how much of a piece of shit he is? How long did it take you to man the fuck up?! Either pull the video and I can show you exactly how much danger I was in…”

At this point Ty was practically shouting at Claude, though not deliberately. He also didn’t notice how completely lost in his words he’d become. It was so hard to tell what he actually felt from what he was trying to feel, sometimes. Though there was weakness and hurt in his voice, there was little in his stance, or his words. Quite the opposite, he felt more sure of himself than he had been since the clinic. What part of him was telling the truth about all of this? Did he really feel so wronged by Claude’s hypocrisy, or did he just want someone to inflict his own suffering on?

It was probably both, all things considered. There was nothing Claude could do or say that was going to change his mind that he'd done the right thing, and that this person in front of him truly hadn't. Tyrell took another step towards Claude, and at this point he was standing right in front of him. He spoke clearly and deliberately, to punctuate his tirade.

“…or admit you watched because you enjoyed seeing people get hurt, people you think you’re better than. Claude, if someone’s going to try and beat my fucking skull in and people like you stand by and let it happen, you’re god-damned right I’ll kill the son of a bitch. It wasn’t some act of fate that put me there, that made me get to that point. That wasn’t anything that I deserved. It was Ivy, it was Bret, it was Wyatt, and in the end - it was you.”

Now was the time for Claude to answer him. Tyrell stood mere inches from Claude. Even now he could probably drop him with very little effort.

That depends on you.

So he'd touched a nerve - that much had been made perfectly clear. Tyrell had exploded with as much ferocity as he was able, considering his injuries and the painkillers that were now undoubtedly coursing through his veins. At no time during his diatribe did Claude flinch; the full height of Tyrell's 6'5" frame towering over him, but giving him no pause. As a general rule, Claudeson himself tended to slouch back a bit, adopting a bit of an open posture so as to put people at ease, but as Tyrell came at him, words flying, he straightened up and puffed himself out a little bit, showing his full six foot frame. He would not be intimidated.

A minor annoyance came in the fact that three separate times he tried to interject, and three separate times, Tyrell just continued to talk overtop of him. It seemed that Tyrell was the kind of person who preferred using volume to win his verbal battles, which was fair. That was a tactic. A tactic for blustery blowhards who pulled a knife when the going got tough, but a tactic nonetheless. Feeling secure within this knowledge only elicited a large smile from Claudeson as Tyrell finished his rant.

That couldn't have made him feel very good.

"What did I do? I did what you could not." The smile turned into a knowing smirk. "I stepped in and stopped all three of you with nothing but words and a cellular phone. There was no further escalation; no further violence. The three of you went your separate ways."

Claudeson, whom was already standing fairly close to Tyrell, took a small step towards him. This was a different version of himself than the cheerful, helpful volunteer that many saw around school. His face still remained relaxed, but in the battle between 'fight' or 'flight', there was nary a flight to be found in his body language. The two boys were standing so close that Claude could smell the blood from underneath his bandages, smell the thickly repugnant cigarette stench that hung from Tyrell's lips and slightly stained his teeth.

"You can say what you want about my faith, and you can judge me for doing what I've done, but the fact remains that the only reason you are not laying in a ditch, bleeding from your wounds - or in the back of a police car, handcuffed for the foreseeable future is because of me." He tilted his head slightly. "You had best not forget that. Your freedom is a debt, Tyrell."

For a moment, Claude's easy expression dropped and true vitriol showed through, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Smiling again, thinking for a moment, and stepping back with only a 'hm', Claude put his hand to his chin in false contemplation. His heart was racing, his adrenaline was pumping. He half expected Tyrell, this raging bull with the subtlety of a tornado, to take a swing at him. He hadn't - for if he did, he'd be proving Claudeson's point.

"Whether that is a debt that you will pay to your city, to your family, to the Almighty, to me - that is not for me to say." He carefully considered his next words. "Like you so eloquently stated, there is but one judge, and perhaps that is not me. But it certainly isn't you, either."

He shrugged, hands out in front of him so as to indicate that he didn't have all the answers.

"I do not honestly believe that any of you are owed true hardship or true pain," he lied, "and in stepping in when I did, I do not believe myself to be any superior to you, or to them."

Another lie.

"Do I dislike them? Of course I do. They're generally oafish, reprehensible men. If given the choice, I would much rather spend an afternoon with you, as opposed to them."

He gestured at Tyrell, inferring that it was in fact his own choice to accompany him to the clinic and that he didn't actually have to do it.

"I understand that you are angry - that you feel as though you have been wronged. You can yell, and scream, and curse all you'd like, Tyrell. If your anger is such that you feel as though you need to lash out and be your own judge; act as your own executioner? That is fine." Claudeson silently hedged his bets. "If you feel as though you want to take a swing at me, then that is what you will do. I trust that His judgement will be enough for me. Will it be for you?"

Ty held his gaze at Claudeson as the other boy chided him. He hadn't expected him to react with fear, because someone like Claude would think he was beyond it, wouldn't he? He would make a show of standing up to Tyrell, even if doing so was completely foolhardy. Even now, Ty knew that it would be easy to throw a jab to Claude's throat and another to his chest. All of that arrogance, and he'd be wheezing on the ground, unable to breathe. Nothing made people afraid like being unable to breathe. It would certainly wipe the stupid grin off of his stupid face.

It was like seeing a glass on the edge of a table. You knew if it fell, it would shatter. You almost wanted to push it just to see what would happen. It would be exciting. Ty did no such thing. It wasn't the right action to take right now, not by a long shot. Instead, he remained still and paid close attention to Claude's words. It was hard to tell if Claude noticed him clench and release his less-injured fist several times as he came to this decision.

Through the whole time he'd been preaching at Tyrell, not once had Claude mentioned the video he had supposedly recorded; even though he'd asked him repeatedly to show it. It was partly to prove his point that he had been in real danger, and partly to evoke some kind of reaction from Claude. That is, if the kid was even capable of mustering an emotional reaction beyond his superficial charm and insincere piety. No matter how much he'd pressed him to bring it up, Claude had simply ignored the point.

Which is really fucking strange.

This led Ty to a natural conclusion that no less surprised and pleased him.

There is no video.

Claude was lying through his teeth, and the only reason he'd known what was going on in the fight was because he'd watched it happen. Which meant he'd only intervened at the last possible moment. Which more or less vindicated what Ty had been saying this whole time.

"I do not honestly believe that any of you are owed true hardship or true pain, and in stepping in when I did, I do not believe myself to be any superior to you, or to them."


At that remark, Ty's stony-faced expression broke. He could barely conceal his grin, and did little to restrain laughter.

There's the little thread I was looking for.

It was legitimately funny to see someone like Claude try so hard to convince himself and Ty that he wasn't completely full of shit. There was simply no way someone could take his tone, and live the life he did, if he didn't innately view himself as superior to everyone else. Between the reckless display of and the realization about the video, Ty couldn't help but express genuine delight.

Claude finished speaking, though Ty had turned his back to him, laughing. It hurt to do so, though not as much as it seemed it should. Probably the painkillers. He brushed a strand of hair out of his eye, inadvertently tearing off the bandage on his brow. It hadn't been sticking right since the clinic, and he tossed it aside. He'd tend to it at home. Underneath a streetlight, Claude looked like the guardian angel he seemed to want to be.

"Heheh. Nah. Though if I did throw a swing at you it'd probably feel like the Lord's judgement."

Maybe another time.

"I don't owe you a damn thing, or anyone else for that matter. There were no assurances as to how that was going to end. You know how I know that everything you're saying is complete horseshit?"

The air of levity around him was palpable. Ty was enjoying this, he really was. Was it the drugs? Probably, at least a little bit.

"I've brought up that video you said you took who-knows how many times. You haven't said a word about it. Which I can only assume means there isn't a video. Which means you really did wait until the last possible minute to step in, didn't you?"

Sensing Claude's imminent derision, he pressed on.

"I don't think there's anyone who'd doubt that putting a stop to all of that was a good call. But you, you have to make it seem like you're taking the high road, have to make it seem like you're always doing the right thing. It's not enough for the end result to justify what you did, you've got to make it look like you were making the right choice from the very beginning. Why lie, Claude? 'Grace' feeling a bit distant these days?"

They were getting closer to Ty's home. It was only so long he could prolong this conversation, though at this point it was beginning to feel like Ty had found what he'd been searching for the whole time.

It was all an act.

Claudeson scowled for a moment, as Tyrell came to the correct conclusion for what had ended the fight. His reaction, though... Claude hadn't expected him to laugh. He had expected the vitriolic words that had come next, though. It affirmed his earlier thought about the quality of character that each of them held. Wyatt Carter was a whining buffoon, who was nothing but a lackey to his brother, Bret. The bearded Carter naturally found himself at the whims of his morally bereft girlfriend, who herself was no catch. While Ivy had not been in the park, she was as much to blame for any of it as any of the men. At least, that had been Claudeson's understanding as he'd watched.

Which, as Tyrell had reminded him once more, he had in fact sat and watched it all happen.

Tyrell. Of course, he had proven to be the worst of them all. There was a slight sickly feeling in the pit of Claude's stomach. It was the sort of feeling that one had when they went to do a good deed, and realized that they'd done something that benefitted the wrong people. He had essentially saved the lives of Bret and Wyatt, and they'd never know it. What was Tyrell capable of?

Claudeson was starting to see the answer to that particular question very clearly. He was also beginning to wonder just what he was capable of.

He took the dressing down in silence, the scowl visibly sitting upon his face the entire time. He still stood ready in case Tyrell did decide that Claude needed a physical attitude adjustment. As reprehensible as Ty's preening was, Claudeson realized that it could just as easily be a prelude to a sucker-punch or some similar form of surprise attack. He wouldn't have put that past Tyrell.

Physical altercations though? Not exactly his style. He allowed the scowl to fall away from his face, and he replaced it with a practiced expression: one of pity.

"So if my sin is an omission of the facts, where does that leave you, Tyrell? What shaky ground does that allow you to stand on?"

Claudeson sacrificed one point to Tyrell. He'd been beaten up enough, tonight.

"You are correct. There was no video." He allowed the admittance to hang in the air for longer than a moment, but continued. "And yet? I stopped your fight with nothing but a few words and a prop. I stopped you from committing murder. You wish to drop the facade, Tyrell? Fine. Why don't we stop pretending that you would have been happy to let one or both of those boys walk home alive? You would have readily plunged that knife into their bodies."

There was venom in his next words.

"You would have enjoyed it."

The smile appeared back upon his face. While Tyrell would go on with the knowledge that Claudeson had falsified existence of a video, he knew that the secret would be safe on this street corner. The purported video evidence was the only thing that would keep the Carters away from Tyrell for the foreseeable future, and they both knew it.

"You can say what you want about me, or my role in this. But the fact still remains that without my intervention, you would have made a life-changing error this evening. No matter the path that we have taken to arrive here, we are here. The Lord works in mysterious ways, Tyrell." Claudeson remained under the streetlight. He would go no further. "Both of them."

It was clear which master Tyrell served. He had walked into this evening having no preconceived notions regarding the boy. Claudeson would walk out noting Tyrell as someone whom he would steer clear of. That much was certain.

"I believe that you can find your way from here." He went to turn away, but something stopped him. A flash of darkness washed over him. He looked at the teen in front of him, injured but almost gloating.

Gloating.

Claudeson's expression dramatically changed; it dropped any and all pleasantness from it. His face emanated true disdain, his eyes narrowed.

It was an ugly look.

He spit onto the sidewalk, directly in front of Tyrell.

"Get home safe, Tyrell."

His voice echoed the false platitudes that he'd expressed to the Carters as they'd left the park earlier, but the tone of his voice said so much more than he had earlier. Giving one more disdainful look to Tyrell, he turned on his heel, and strode into the darkness, off in the other direction. All he could feel was a dark energy emanating from within him. All he could feel was anger, was hatred. He wanted to go and wreck something. Wreck someone.

As he walked, ignoring anything that came from behind him, he broke out into a run. It was the only thing that he could think to do. Maybe it would keep the feelings at bay. Perhaps it would put him into a better state of mind. So much was uncertain in that particular moment, and all he wanted to do was leave Tyrell as far behind him as he could.

Leave the ugliness behind.

Claudeson ran.

((Claudeson Bademosi continued at #Swiftball))

Ty stood rubbing his sore knuckles while Claude berated him for the final time. It was impressive, the lengths he went to convince himself that Ty was the monster he needed him to be. Would Ty have enjoyed the escalation? Only if it had gone his way; it probably wouldn't have. That was here nor there, Claude was convinced he would have and that seemed to matter. He was especially convinced that he, in spite of quite obviously having some pretty impure motives, had done the right thing.

If you think I'm a monster, than anything you would've stopped me from doing is monstrous. You're creating a fiction so you don't have to imagine that you might've done the same thing. You have to be so fucking perfect. You're not like me, are you? You're so much worse. And more like Ivy than you'd ever admit.

Much as he wanted to point out to Claude how much he was projecting, Ty managed to hold his tongue long enough to watch the guy unravel. It was admittedly what he'd wanted to see the whole time, from the moment he'd taken a closer look at Claude. In some way he was like a wall that you could tell had been painted over, if you only looked close enough. Where he had thought there would be some kind of revelation in bringing Claude down to his level, he felt empty. Much as getting a Christian to admit believing Ty served Lucifer was hilarious, it almost didn't justify the effort. Claude was about what he had expected. Worse, actually. Was he supposed to feel good about this? What was the point of forcing someone to be honest if the truth was just as awful as the lie?

If I don't, who else will?

Seeing Claude turn around and spit in his direction seemed to draw the point home. There was a passing sense of satisfaction at seeing him show his true colours, but nothing more. It was fun to imagine that Claude was conflicted, that his faith was a mask to conceal a hollow, ugly spirit. In his drive to see what that looked like, he didn't really spend much time thinking of why he wanted to even see it. Morbid curiosity? Did he just want Claude to suffer?

Yeah, that's probably it. One day he's not going to have someone like me to stand in for your worst impulses. One day he'll tear yourself apart trying to fight them off. He'll deserve it. Get fucked, Claude.

Either way, the itch was scratched, and now he had to find something else to occupy himself with. He wasn't going to second-guess his instincts. He never did. It was like he'd told Claude - he could only have faith in himself. If not that, then what else? As Claude stormed off, Ty only had the chance to offer a short farewell.

"See ya 'round!" he said cheerfully, as if Claude wanted to ever see him again.

The expression Claude left him with always stung a bit whenever he heard anyone say it, sincere or not. Home had never really been a safe place to be for him, so it was hard to break the habit of delaying every trip where that was the destination. The old place was at least a few more blocks away at this point, but the street signs and houses were now quite familiar. There wasn't anything that could hurt him there now, but Ty still had to force himself to get moving again.

It was hard to pull any decent lesson from that experience. He'd been told that adversity breeds strength; but the same man who told him that was an alcoholic rapist, who promptly collapsed into downward spiral the moment he faced a serious personal tragedy. Most of the virtues that were impressed upon Ty growing up turned out to be lies and fantasies. At least it had taught him to be honest with himself if he couldn't be with anyone else. Dishonesty seemed to be a matter of course for most people, though it always seemed to be in vain.

Few people really knew themselves, and even less could really reckon with their imperfections. Most people just inflicted their pain and confusion on everyone around them. Whatever Claude got from the airs he put on surely wasn't making him very happy, but he held onto his own personal fiction like it was his only lifeline. Ivy was so perturbed by a break in her carefully constructed persona, she had him attacked just to make her feel better. Drank like a fiend because she couldn't face it herself. Kids like Lucas Brady could be so troubled by something like losing a student council election that he'd torpedo his entire social life over it. Hilariously so, but it was still amazing to witness the lengths people would go to just because reality was too difficult to reckon with.

Life was going to show up and wreck their shit regardless of what anyone said or did. They were all just a bunch of fucked up kids, like in every high school. Tying himself in knots over people being too weak to be themselves wasn't going to do him any good. If he didn't understand them - fine. He didn't have to. Only a few. Only the ones he could trust to be honest, or at least upfront in their dishonesty.

Looking at his phone, he noticed he'd missed a few texts from Erika.

I had to fuck this up too, didn't I?

They were supposed to meet up. He had a gift for her. An excuse to try to mend whatever had happened to put a rift between them. Stopping in his tracks, he quickly sent out a text. Thankfully, she replied quickly enough he didn't have to agonize over what she was going to say.

[+] erika

> i got jumped on the way home. didn't mean to disappear.

> Fucking what? Ty, are you okay?

> getting there. fractured rib, wounded pride. i'll tell you about it later. sorry i didn't say anything sooner.

> No, I totally understand. What the shit happened? Do you know who it was?

> yeah. it's a long story. got a doctor's note so i'm gonna skip out tomorrow.

> :C That's so messed up. I'm sorry.

> i'll make it. can I come by your place tomorrow night instead? i still have something i wanna show you.

> Dude! I'll come to you. Take care of yourself! Just make a big ol' blanket burrito and stay put ok?

> alright. can you come by after school?

> I will, I promise.

A promise to show up and talk to him. Just words, but it felt like something to hold onto. A sentiment he didn't feel like he needed to question or examine. It was hard to figure out why that was. Maybe it was just a teenage infatuation, but he didn't listen to the voices in his head that said as much. He didn't want to. Tyrell plugged in a pair of headphones and found an appropriate songto take him home.

Hopped up on painkillers and the bit of pain they were failing to kill, he couldn't help but whisper along to the words.

"Fight every fight like you can win. An iron-fisted champion. An iron-willed fuck up."

((Tyrell Lahti continued in The Good in Everyone))