Survival Of The Fittest

((Mikko "Mike" Korhonen ---> START))

Mike Korhonen sat, pen in hand, a grimy pad of paper in front of him. His hands were stained with ink and he rubbed his finger tips together thoughtfully, a low hum emanating from his throat. He stretched his back, slinking down farther in his chair, kicking out his legs and banging the tip of the pen against the tabletop.

The page was empty. It had been empty all lunch. For whatever reason, his muse had stood him up. Mike felt his stomach growl impatiently. He'd made an agreement that he wouldn't buy any food until he had at least one verse down. He'd then gone on to shorten it from a full verse, to a single line.

"Oh, woe is me." Mike muttered to himself. He tossed the pen down carelessly, watching it roll across the lunch room table. All around him groups were chatting, eating. His stomach growled again.

For most writers, the noise would be off-putting. But Mike had never found that to be the case. White noise, conversation just out of the reach of his ears, had always comforted him. It made him feel included, a part of something bigger.  

Mike picked up his pen, and quickly scrawled the phrase down.

" 'A Part of Something Bigger.' " He said, reading it back slowly to himself. "Hmm. Not bad. Sounding a little cliche..."

His pen hovered over the title, for an instant the idea of scrapping it passing through his mind. Above all else he despised cliches.

Oh come on, there is probably something else worth hating-

Mike paused, a light-bulb clicking on in his brain. Frantically, he scribbled out the new title. In big, bold letters beneath the scratched out text he wrote; 'CLICHES AND CAPITALISTS.'

Rhymes! Sorta! Kinda! Bahhh... Not really. I've been doing political poems too much... But if that means I can get something to eat now, why am I complaining?

((Dawson Demarke's Intro))

There was a clunk as a plastic lunch tray fell beside the area just to the right of Mike Korhonen's paper. The plastic lunch tray contained something that looked suspiciously like spaghetti and rubbery meatballs, a few blobs that could possibly be peppers, and a primordial ooze: could be tomato sauce. A juice box was positioned beside the plate of spaghetti, and the only appetizing thing on the plate, a wonderfully warm and soft bread roll, sat to the left. That was really the only thing Dawson was interested in. The bread roll was always the best part of cafeteria lunch, and she wouldn't be caught dead slurping these mysteriously shiny noodles.

The girl lowered herself onto her seat and threw her purse onto the ground, her head snapping in the direction of Mike. "Hi, Mike!" she cheered, smiling that typical Dawson smile that plagued her features so often. Now, Dawson hadn't really spoken to Mike since Sophomore year. What class was that? Gym? Art? Damn... She didn't really know a whole lot about him, aside from his odd name (wasn't it Mikko or something?), but then again, Dawson's name was a little bizarre too. Perhaps bizarre was a bit of a strong word, but Dawson wasn't a normal female name.

"What's crack-a-lacking? Writing?" She was speaking to him as if they had been friends for their entire educational life. Grey eyes suddenly turned concerned as she realized that Mike probably didn't remember her. Oh, pish posh. She was sure that he would. How do you forget someone like her?

"It's been awhile, Mike. Do you go by Mike? I could call you Mee-ko. Or is it Mike-o?" She giggled and threw her arm around the boy's shoulder. "I was in one of your classes. I think it was gym, but it could have been art. All the same shit, right? Throwing balls, throwing paint around... Same diff." She removed her arm from around his shoulder (probably not realizing how uncomfortable she was being) and took a sip from her fruit juice, swallowing quickly and looking back at Mike's paper.

"Cliches and capitalists. Catchy. Is that for a history paper?"

Mike wasn't all that familiar with Dawson. They'd shared an Art course a few semesters back... Grade Ten? Eleven? Maybe Nine? In all honesty, Mike couldn't remember much, except for the fact that they hadn't talked much. He didn't figure it for a bad thing. Hell, he couldn't think of a situation where talking to a happy freckled girl would be a bad thing.

Very few.

Dawson sat down next to him, and proceeded to make herself comfortable, throwing one lazy arm around his shoulder.

"It's been awhile, Mike. Do you go by Mike? I could call you Mee-ko. Or is it Mike-o?"

He couldn't help but grin at that. Every semester he'd have to put up with teachers fumbling with his name on the attendance list for several minutes, before interrupting them with what was quickly becoming one of his trademark lines.

"Just Mike, thanks."

Dawson hadn't appeared alone, however. It seemed as if the bubbly and brightly colored girl had come bearing gifts- a tray of food, to be exact. Mike couldn't help but cast a lingering glance over towards it as Dawson jabbered on about what class they'd shared. As hungry as he was though, the appearance of the greasy noodles and odd lumps that were possibly meatballs only served to curdle his appetite. Mike bit his lip in annoyance, hearing his stomach growl in disappointment.

Oh... That looks... Very good. Probably.

It didn't. Mike mentally hushed his whining stomach into submission, and figured he would pass on lunch today. The only appetizing thing on the entire tray was the bread stick, but it was a well known fact that that was pretty much the only reason anyone ate in the cafe to begin with. While the served meals varied in quality and always held the possibility of a rat having taken a shit in it, the bread sticks were always consistent in their awesome. And that made them the first thing gone, on everyone's plate.

Mike snapped back to attention, as Dawson refocused her attention on his notepad.

"Huh? Oh, not a History Essay." He said, shaking his head. "I'm a poet, by nature. And an Anarchist, by nature as well. I'm trying to beat a poem out of my brain, but I'm coming up short. This is the title."

Mike looked at it again. Cliches and Capitalists. No, that wouldn't do at all. It sounded preachy, and downright laughable.

"Actually, it's not the title anymore." Mike said, grabbing the pen and scratching it out as well. "Gahh. Writer's block."

Back to square one I suppose.

Mike looked toward Dawson again, scratching the end of the pen against his cheek. The girl was busy enjoying her juice box.

"You much of a politics person? Or a writer? I'm open to suggestions." He said with an easy smile.

"A poet! Wow!" Dawson exclaimed like it was the coolest thing she'd ever heard of. Dawson was royally terrible when it came to writing, and essays were one of her weakest points in most classes. She usually fumbled with her word choices and came up with some of the most awkward-sounding sentences known to man. But poetry... She had never tried that before. It couldn't be too hard, right? Just make the last word in every sentence rhyme, and you're a freakin artist of the words.

Mike continued on, saying that he was also an anarchist. Dawson sort of knew what that was, but not really. He opposed government, right? Or was that religion...? Shit. Anarchist sounded sort of like anti-christ, so it probably meant he didn't believe in religion. Yes! Her deductive reasoning skills were becoming better by the minute. "Dude, I'm an anarchist too. My parents took me to church once when I was young, and we didn't go back. I wasn't really sure what to think of it all. Like, yeah, maybe there is a God out there somewhere, but I've never seen him, you know? So I understand exactly where you're coming from."

Using her excellent deductive reasoning skills, Dawson realized that Mike wrote poetry about hating religion. Wow, how absolutely interesting! She was almost positive she had never met someone so quirky in her entire life! It was fascinating for her... until she realized that capitalism had nothing to do with religion. Uh-oh. Maybe it was a negative stance on the government after all! Shit! She'd already embarrassed herself around this guy. Great. Okay, Dawson. Play it safe... Play it cool... Don't admit you're wrong for a second. If you act confident, everyone will believe you.

She watched as Mike scribbled out the title and offered a nonchalant shrug. "I thought it sounded pretty cool." She watched as he contemplated, and then he turned to her and asked for suggestions. Dawson could have died and went to heaven at this point, for she loved being a help to people. Then again, asking Dawson for suggestions was kind of like asking a homeless man for ten bucks. It just wasn't going to happen.

"Well, politics... Geez. I can't say I'm too into politics... I have a C in government class right now." She pretended to mix around her oily spaghetti with a plastic fork with interest. "And writing... Yeah, I kind of suck at that too. But not all hope is lost... I'm extremely creative. I'll come up with a good title in a matter of minutes."

A few seconds passed, and all of a sudden, Dawson stabbed a meatball with the aforementioned fork. It made something of a wet popping sound.

"Aha! I got it! The Anarchy Poem That Might Possibly Have Something To Do With Religion, But It Might Not Simply Because It Sounds Like Anti-Christ." Dawson said each word slowly and carefully, and you could tell she wasn't taking herself too seriously, especially with that goofy grin on her face. "But it's just a suggestion. I suck at making up titles too. You could always go through the alphabet and think of cool words for each letter. OR stick with Cliches and Capitalists because I thought it sounded rad. But it's up to you. You're the poet. I'm just the common man."

Mike blinked for a moment, stunned to silence by Dawson's words. He worked it over in his mind, confused for a moment more before the realization struck him.

"Ohh..,"

She has absolutely no idea what I am talking about. Interesting start.

While it was clear that Dawson possessed bucket loads of enthusiasm, she also appeared to have absolutely no idea what anarchism was. And listening to her ironically rather anarchic ramblings, Mike wasn't able to get a clear picture of what she thought he was talking about. Something to do with religion? Did she think he was an atheist? It was getting rather confusing rather quickly, and in an odd way Mike couldn't help but find it sad. Apathetic people annoyed him. Dawson wasn't apathetic, just badly informed.

So what, am I going to dish out the basics of Anarchism to her like some politician?

No, that wouldn't be good at all. Dawson had a short attention span. There was nothing wrong about that, but it would be rude to sit her down and force his entire anarchist spiel down her throat.

"Actually Anarchism means 'without rulers.' Not without Gods." Mike said with an easy smile. "I'm all about disbelief in the government. It's a common mistake."

Mike shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. He looked back down at his paper, and began to scribble out the title that Dawson had blurted out, quick so as not to forget it.

"But still, nice title! Very expressive. Earnest sounding. Very interesting. I think I could make something with it!"
Staring at the title, Mike's brain began to spin to life with ideas.
Mike ceased his frantic scrawls, throwing his pencil aside. He leaned back, letting out a sigh as he read over what he'd written.

"Well, it needs work." He said with a broad grin. "But I finished it."

Taking the pad of paper he passed it to Dawson, letting her read.

"It's uh, not what Anarchism is about." Mike quickly pointed out. "I suppose it's sort of a parody of the conventional idea of an anarchist. A teenage rebel. I write a lot of poems about that sort of stuff."

That is to say, a lot of poems about me...

Mike bit his lip as Dawson looked at his poem. He was always nervous when showing off his work, especially for the first time. Criticism was hard to take, even though he welcomed it. Somehow he doubted that Dawson was the criticizing type... But the feeling persisted. Mike leaned back, tapping his hands nervously on the the tabletop.

"I think I took too long writing that... It's very simplistic. But maybe you'll like it, yeah?"

"Shit," Dawson exclaimed, slapping her face when Mike corrected her. She knew it was either one or the other, and it was so unfortunate that it happened to be the other. If only she paid attention in government class, if only she polished herself to become more worldly, these kind of situations would quit happening, but oh well. It's not the worst thing to happen in her life. Making mistakes was part of growing up. Now she knew what anarchy really meant, and she was that much more worldly. Perhaps not as worldly as her new friend Mike, but it was all baby steps. Hang around this guy for a few days, and she would become the smartest girl who ever lived.

But... That wasn't her. She wasn't big on politics or worldliness. She couldn't pretend to be someone she wasn't, but she could always humor Mike on his interests.

"You know, I kind of side with you there. The government can be pretty shady, huh? I see it on TV all the time, debates and stuff." Mike seemed like the type who probably had an A in government class, bowling over all the apathetic kids with his enthusiasm on politics and laws and ethics. Dawson would be considered more apathetic, sitting calmly at the back of the class in her tiny desk, hands clasped together, eyes glued to the ceiling in a typical daydreaming stance.

The two sat in silence as Mike worked on his poem, and Dawson made a sad attempt to eat her pitiful lunch. After some time, Mike announced that he was finished, and Dawson eagerly pounced to read what he had written. She read it once, twice, even three times. She wasn't sure what to make of it. It was GOOD, yes. Very, very good. She loved the rhymes, it had a certain appeal and beat that made her actually pay attention to the words. He was skilled with writing, that was for sure. But it was also a little... bizarre to Dawson. Bizarre because she never knew anyone who felt this strongly towards someone they had never met!

"Do you really feel like this, Mike?" Dawson asked, eyes slightly wide. "I mean... blowing up store fronts and shooting police... That's kind of scary, you know?" She thought scooting away from him would be rude, so she just brought her hands a little closer to her body. "And you know, telling people to kill themselves isn't very pleasant. Like, maybe they're people just like us. They just have to.. well.. make up laws and stuff to keep the man in charge happy. And oh my god, do you really hate your parents?"

Dawson couldn't quit squabbling on about the poem, reading too far into it than she really should. She barely knew Mike, it was rude of her to ask him so many questions about his expertly written anarchist poem, but she couldn't help herself. Finally, she quieted and said,

"But it's great, Mike! Really! Are you going to get it published? If you do, mention me somewhere in your acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize!"

He mentioned teenage rebellion. Maybe the poem wasn't about him after all. Maybe it was about... Some other teenager. MAYBE HER! Oh no, Dawson was no rebel. Not outwardly rebellious anyway. She preferred to rebel in quieter ways, like sneaking out after dark and drinking milk straight from the gallon. Yeah. That'll show 'em.

"OH, and I have something to ask you, Mike. It's something I'm sure you've never thought about... A theory. You wanna hear it?"

Oh God how have I found myself in this situation.

Mike scratched his head, his face turning red. Well shit. Dawson had taken the poem at face value. It was apparent that while Dawson was a nice girl, she didn't exactly... function at the same level as him when it came to sarcasm and political revolution.

"No- no, ah, I'm not for hurting anyone!" Mike said, the words practically spilling out of his mouth. "Jeez, no. My parents are great, life is great. I dislike violence. I'm a pacifist."

Technically, that was a lie. Mike didn't believe in outright violence against the state to accomplish change, at least not the United States (North Korea on the other hand? Hoo boy-). But Mike did recognize that there were some lines that had to be crossed, some actions that while ugly, would need to be taken in order for his dreams to come true. The world wasn't black and white. It was more... white, with a tint of grey.

What those actions were however, weren't his concern for the time being. He was a punk kid from Seattle, and it wasn't like the United States was about to convert to anarchism overnight.

But the point still stood. Would it be wise to bring up something he himself was confused about, and revised his views about on a consistent basis, with Dawson? The girl was already confused about what he was talking about. It would appear that Mike would have to speak in smaller sentences.

Jeez, I don't mean to act elitist... But God, do I ever feel that way right now. What an ugly situation to find myself in. Ugly, but at least it's interesting!

"No, violence is bad. This poem was meant to illustrate how stupid and pointless those beliefs are." Mike said, perhaps a bit to quickly. He cringed at Dawson's facial expressions and hunched forward, gingerly sliding his poem across the table and away from Dawson.

"I suppose I need to put some work into it if you were confused. Flowery language and grand statements are all well and good, but I mean, you need to be able to reach the audience." Mike laughed, trying to shoo away the last bit of awkwardness he felt hanging in the air. Dawson's response had been less than enthusiastic... But then again, he'd jammed out the poem in a few minutes of hectic thinking. Yet, the sting of Dawson's criticism still hurt. Mike shoved those thoughts away. The whole experience was making him feel more than a bit silly.

"If I ever get a Nobel Prize I'll be sure to thank you for your contributions!" Mike said, smiling broadly. At Dawson's next question, Mike's ears pricked up. Straightening and cracking his back, Mike nodded his head eagerly.

"I'm always up to hear theories. Shoot!"

Dawson's features immediately softened, and the tense air she had been holding inside was let out with an audible phew sound. She was worried for a moment there, afraid Mike was some pent-up crazy -- writing poetry today and shooting up the school tomorrow! And since he came into contact and Dawson didn't quite understand his poem, she would be his first victim! She almost made a mental note to stay home from school tomorrow, but she heard Mike admit that he was pacifist. At least she knew what that was. He didn't like violence. "Oh, okay! It's a fiction poem. I understand now," she said with an all-knowing smile.

"Pacifism. That's respectable. I guess I'm a pacifist too. I mean, I've never hurt anyone before. I slapped my little bro once, but we were just play fighting.. It wasn't even that hard of a slap."

Mike explained the true meaning behind the poem, and Dawson nodded, examining it for the umpteenth time. "Okay, I think I understand," she said with an empty grin. It wasn't apparent if she really did understand, or if she was just saying so. Give her a science formula, and it just clicked with ease. Give her a poem, and she felt lost, grasping at whatever vague concept she could.

When Mike said that he needed to put more work into the poem, Dawson crackled to life. She sprung up and put her hand on the piece of paper, shaking her head. "No, it's fine, Mike! You don't need to change it for me! I'm sure other people would understand it just fine, but I'm just... not into poetry and politics and stuff. It flies over my head, y'know? It's the best poem ever, and I like the flowery language. Hell, I love flowers! I'm just a different kind of audience, not the main audience. Sorta."

The conversation turned back to the theory that Dawson wanted to talk about, but suddenly she sort of wished she hadn't said anything. It was silly, and she didn't really know much about the specifics. She only wanted to ask Mike because he seemed a lot more knowledgeable, and perhaps they could actually get a legit conversation out of what she had to say. But, well, here it goes. Dawson rested her chin on her hands and smiled, speaking candidly, trying to sound as least air-headed as possible. "Well, you know... Remember that thing that used to come on TV? Like... that terrorist thing, with the teens killing each other? Well..." she lifted her head and squinted her eyes, as if in thought. "What if that's a giant government conspiracy!? I mean, it's possible, right? I can see it now... the government came up with that game to keep us all sad and miserable, just like TAXES!"

Ohhhh boy.

Survival of the Fittest. Now that was a fun topic to discuss.

While Mike didn't believe his government contained just that much raw malice, he'd often thought about the terrorist attacks. In this day and age, who didn't know about them? There were still so many questions, and the few survivors could tell them little. The mysterious figure known as Danya hadn't surfaced in a few years, and Mike had heard it from various sources that he was dead. Or not dead. Or a ghost.

To be honest, Mike wasn't sure.

"I don't know Dawson." Mike said plainly, after a moment of thought. He scratched at his chin.

"That's interesting. Very interesting. Maybe there is some sort of willful negligence on their part. I mean, the government manages to keep track of their business assets well enough. Odd that they can't manage to infiltrate, or even locate America's Most Wanted terrorist group."

Mike turned to Dawson, giving the girl a grin. She didn't exactly have the same interests as him, but there was no doubting her enthusiasm. It was contagious, and Mike was beginning to feel very glad that she'd bothered to come and sit with him in the first place.

Gutsy as hell. Where else do you hear of a kid just sitting down with a random acquaintance, trying their best to make conversation? Doesn't Dawson have... other friends? I hope so. It'd be a crime for a girl this bubbly to be lacking in friends.

"In any case, you may be on to something here, Dawson." Mike said with a shrug. "There's no concrete evidence for or against the government's involvement with it. And it certainly is a depressing subject. Just like taxes."

Dawson wasn't exactly disappointed, no, but it surprised her that Mike didn't know the exact answer to her question. He just seemed like he had all the answers, gave off that intelligent air, but he didn't know for sure whether Survival of the Fittest was just a huge government set-up. She had expected the conversation to go a bit differently, Mike springing up with a loud, "A-ha!" and everything would click, make sense in his head. But then again, she knew she was being ridiculous. That televised death-match was just a terrorist attack. How could Mike know if it was government-created or not? Then again, it was just a silly after-thought, some simple way to engage Mike in semi-political conversation.

"It is interesting, huh? I knew you would think so! I would do some research on it, ya know, for fun and stuff, but I'm afraid the government is tracking our computers. They would come knocking on my door, wanting to know why I'm looking up such scandalous information about Survival of the Fittest and its relations to the government, and they would be onto me in a second. The next day, I'd be floating to the bottom of the ocean tied to a rock... I don't wanna live that kind of life, Mike. Perhaps this stuff is just better left unresearched." She gave him another smile and shook her head.

She became extremely chipper when Mike mentioned that she may be onto something. She felt a bit like a puppy, desperate for attention and compliments. Mike just basically told her she was the coolest girl alive! He thought she was smart and interesting and politically informed. Could things get any better?

"I KNEW IT!" she shouted at Mike from across the table. This kid really did have all the answers! Dawson knew she picked the right boy to sit beside today. "I mean, yeah, I knew I was onto something. The governments usually behind everything these days. Wouldn't be surprised if the government picked our lunch menu for the oncoming weeks... Spaghetti Monday is such a drag." She scooted her lunch tray to the side and stood up, swinging her backpack over her left shoulder.

"I hate to cut this convo short, it was really awesome and stuff, but I have to be at the library for some research assignment. Totally forgot. Not looking forward to it. I'd rather be here, talking about poetry and politics and taxes and stuff, but.. you know, duty calls." She held out her hand for a shake. "It was nice meeting you, Mike! Hope to see you around. Maybe I'll write some poetry about politics one of these days. I'll come straight to you for a critique, and trust me, you can be as harsh as you want on me. I was kind of a bitch about yours." She smiled brightly and lowered her hand before Mike even had a chance to shake. She threw herself on him instead, giving him a tight embrace.

Dawson screamed so loudly in his ear, that Mike thought he'd broken an ear drum at first. Flinching back initially, Mike couldn't hide his grin as Dawson proceeded to yammer on about getting murdered by government spooks, tied to a rock at the bottom of the Elliot Bay. Mike wasn't fully sure if Dawson was playing up the idea for all it was worth, or if this was simply her normal behavior. For a moment, the idea that Dawson was playing the idea up to mock him was considered. He promptly scrapped it. Paranoia was an unflattering trait for him, and Dawson was too damn well, fun, to be malicious.

Dawson jarred him from his inner thoughts with an abrupt switch of conversational topics. A project, in the library. Mike felt his heart sink, ever so slightly, knowing that the most interesting part of his lunch was coming to an end.

"I understand, school can sure keep us running around some times." Mike said with a smile, lifting his hand to shake Dawson's.

"And don't worry about the poem! You weren't a bitch, your critique was- oof!"

Before he could even get his hand out past the table, Dawson had lunged at him, wrapping her arms around him and giving him a great hug.

Oh hey, pretty girl giving me a hug. Interesting. Very interesting. Mostly awesome. Man, I feel like the straight man in a comedy sketch right now.

Mike squirmed in Dawson's grasp, trying to free his own arms so he could properly return the hug. As he did so, Mike couldn't help but laugh at the situation. The hug came to an end and Mike shot Dawson a beaming smile, raising a hand to brush stray locks of blond hair from his eyes.

"I'll hold you to that, eh? If you wrote something, I'd pay good money to have the privilege of even just critiquing it!"

[[Tim Tavares, continued from J'en Ai Marre]]
"But this road doesn't go anywhere," I told him.
"That doesn't matter."
"What does?" I asked, after a little while.
"Just that we're on it, dude," he said."

In the time between French class and roaming the halls of Aurora, Tim Tavares believed he had struck a sort of epiphany. It was not the key answer he had been searching most of his life for, it had not been the solution for the question he had truly been asking since his idea of what passed for the status quo had been crushed forever. That specific question was still without an antiphon. That was the why.

This question was slightly more topical to a teenager: why am I being bored out of my mind by education?
Because in itself, waiting was the actual lesson being taught. Patience is a selective virtue; one you admire in the driver in the car behind you, but not the one ahead of you. Passive waiting is laziness, but fortitude while the going is slow and tough- that's something else.  The lesson being taught was how to sit down and shut up until things got better. Things will get better- which, as Tim knew, was complete bullshit.

I am learning to sit and take it, basically.

This simple meditation was catharsis in a way, but even as Tim entered the lunch room- not entirely sure why, since he wasn't hungry- he couldn't help but feel... satisfaction? As if he had learned some sort of awful secret to the universe or had pointed out the elephant in the room.

These things, they happen.

"Miiiike," he had called out walking across the room. He had spotted his cohort talking with a girl, reddish brown hair- looked familiar... DeMasi? DeMarcus? That couldn't be the correct surname. He hadn't seen her much, but he had hung around with Mike before, as they shared many of the same views. Interacting with him was usually enjoyable-  his upbeat personality was an antithesis to Tim's glum cynical ideals, and it helped to have someone who he could agree with. Judging by the smile on his face while he was conversing with the young lady, Kohornen was having a much better day than Tavares was.

"What's up, kid?"

Dawson chuckled and pulled away from Mike, giving him the opportunity to breathe again. She hadn't thought much of the hug, Dawson never was one to think before acting, and in her usual style of manner, she was drifting away from one subject and onto the next. "Oh, I'm actually super excited now!" she trilled, looking up the ceiling as if in deep thought. "I usually absolutely hate writing, but now I might actually write some poetry for you to read!" She laughed out loud at the thought, slapping her knee with one hand and covering her mouth with the other to hide the raucous laughter that she couldn't quite control.

Dawson, writing? Now that was unusual. Science formulas were fun, and she was decent at writing lab write-ups, but poetry...? What was she promising this guy? She could just see it now: "Roses are red, violets are blue, I can't write poetry so this will have to do." She almost told Mike about the poem she just concocted in her head, but she kept it hidden away. It would be a decent back-up poem if she couldn't actually think of any real poetry. "I'll work on it soon and once I'm done, you have to read it! Maybe we could get it published or something, who knows!"

The minute hand inched forward, and Dawson knew time was ticking. She wasn't one to pick school over socializing with someone as friendly as Mike, but her grade in history class was dropping oh so lower by the day, and, well... She had to make some sacrifices. "See ya laters, Mike!" she called out, gathering her things, half-eaten lunch included, and headed for the doors to the cafeteria. Passing by a trash can, she threw away the remnants of her groaty spaghetti and looked up just in time to see Tim heading over to Mike's table. She smiled and waved, not that she particularly knew Tim, but if he was a friend of Mike's, then he must be decent. And away she went, gone almost as quick as she came.

((Dawson Demarke continued elsewhere))

Mike gave Dawson a wave as she departed, watching her bounce away toward her work with enough blind enthusiasm to give the entirety of Aurora's cheerleading squad a run for their money.

"Later!" He called out, even as Dawson vanished in the lunchroom crowd.

I wonder if she'll actually finish a poem for me?

Mike doubted it would be politically verbose or filled with purple prose and symbolism, but that didn't matter in the slightest. It wasn't like poetry needed any of that anyway! Besides, Dawson didn't strike him as a political dissident, she was more of a-

Well that was just it. In just a few short minutes, Dawson had established herself as Dawson. And that made the idea of reading a poem from her all the more appealing. What would it be about? Or rather, how many things would it be about? Deep down in his brain, Mike had always wanted to believe that everyone was capable of poetry, that everyone possessed the urge to create something original and distinctive. Dawson had said she'd hated writing, but now she seemed excited about the prospect. And that alone made Mike feel all warm and fuzzy and downright happy inside.

Art! Creativity! Social justice! Yayyyyyyy-

"Miiiiike, what's up kid?"

Mike looked up from his inane ramblings, his grin widening as Tim Tavares approached his table. Tim, a skinny boy with sunken eyes and slicked back hair, looked glum. To Mike, it looked as if his friend had caught a cold and was lacking a few hours of good sleep.

Then again, that was Tim's default appearance. Not one to let a smile grace his face, it was often hard to read Tim's emotions. However, given his greeting and body language, Mike figured his friend wasn't exactly mad. More probably, the other boy was pondering something.

Probably another way our country has fucked us all over or something.

"Hey Tim!" Mike said, grinning. He gestured toward his notepad, still open to his poem.

"Nothin' much. I was just doing some writing, Dawson was helping me out. What ya' up to? I don't often see you in here at lunch. You hungry?"

Almost in response, Mike's stomach growled. Dawson had taken her half-eaten food with her when she left the cafeteria. It wouldn't have really been honourable to ask for her table scraps, but it would have been a sensible option giving the hungry pangs currently plaguing his stomach…

Oh well. No time to think on that now I suppose.

[didn't mean to leave you hanging like that, dude. had some computer issues. they're cleared up now.]

Tim glanced back at the girl Mike was speaking with, but she had all but gone. But again- she clearly must have been a  nice enough gal, as discerned by the grin his friend was flashing him.

Tim had never considered himself much of a hateful or even grumpy person- though he admitted that there were a good deal of annoyances to him at this point in time. But even then in the waves of bodies that made up Aurora's senior class, a guy like Mike was sort of a stark, frightening monument-  but in a good way.

There are people out there who get it. There are good human beings out there. Like Mike.

"I was just doing some writing, Dawson was helping me out."

"Radical." Alright then, Dawson. Tavares made a mental note of it- if only to remember the name. Besides, if she got along well with one of his friends, they were probably alright, although Tim hadn't really seen her.

Writing was something Mike was really into, to a much greater extent that Tim was. It was something he respected, and honestly, Tim figured it would probably be better to get into writing or at least improve his prose. That sort of thing can take you a long way and get your message out to a lot of people.

Mike is probably smarter than I am. He actually thinks ahead.

"What ya' up to?"

"Not really... Much right now, man. Killing time between classes. Still very sleepy."

"You hungry?"

Honestly, Tim wasn't, but the audible growling emanating from his friend's stomach struck a pity chord of sorts. "You know what? Yeah, fucking starving. Want anything?"