Survival Of The Fittest

The dark of night was finally broken as a faint orange glow began to grow on the eastern horizon, for the first time revealing with some clarity to Oakley the world around him. Ahead of him, a field of fresh snow stretched almost as far as he could see, cut into on the left by the base of the towering mountain. Fat snowflakes tumbled lazily from the sky, and he looked up at the deep blue and exhaled a cloud of vapor.

It was dramatic. Fitting. This was horrible, of course, but if it had to happen, the least it could be was dramatic. He took some comfort in that.

He and his companion had met a short time ago, and had exchanged the requisite pleasantries and commiserations, but in the dark that had felt like so much unnecessary preamble as they trudged through the wilderness. They knew who each other were, and they knew the predicament. Interesting enough, in its way, but only for the potential it offered. Now, as the curtain rose, it was time to for the cast to introduce themselves and convert that potential to reality.

It was chilly out, but the flaps of Oakley's ushanka kept his ears warm enough. The tip of his nose prickled, but he didn't allow himself to sniffle. He didn't look behind him, at the girl there, not yet. He had let their conversation hang unanswered for far longer than was polite, but it felt like the perfect length of time.

"Well," he said, closing his eyes for a moment and continuing to watch the light change through his eyelids, "I don't know if the right question is really what I'm planning to do."

He tucked his hands into his pockets, breathed out, and opened his eyes again to watch the cloud dissipate.

"I think it's a lot more interesting to ask: if you were me, what would you do?"

“Oh, well… I suppose I’d go about things just the same. I’m not sure that it would change much.” The girl’s words came slow, their diction articulate. She had chosen them carefully.

((S118 - Betty Quinn: START))

Quinn stood some distance behind Oakley, close enough that there was no need to raise her voice, but granting enough distance that all parties should feel safe.

In the light of the sun, it could be seen that she’d removed the woolen cap from her personal bag and placed it on her head, fitting snugly there and protecting her ears from the cold air that her fingertips were starting to feel, even within the protection of her gloves. She’d need to decide what to do here sooner rather than later, she noted.

“I would try to find my friends, to make sure they’re safe, and make sure that they don’t make any rash decisions.” Quinn continued, taking a few measured steps towards her left, making very little sound and not taking her eyes off of Oakley.

She knew him fairly well from drama, though they weren’t friends, and considering Oakley’s history, the decision to not look her way, even though the light of day exposed them both seemed increasingly troublesome.

“Should I assume the same of you?” Quinn’s question came in a deliberately gentler voice

"Oh, certainly not."

Oakley smiled, though Betty wouldn't be able to see it. She was dramatic, in her own way, but not necessarily reliably theatrical. Did she understand their predicament? Whether or not she did, Oakley suspected she was unprepared to properly seize the potential it offered.

They were in trouble, certainly. At very real risk of dying. But not all of them were at the same risk. Some were doomed, and others had a reasonable chance, if never a good one. More than that, they were not nearly as isolated as their frozen environment would imply. Danya had told them, had he not? They were being broadcast to the world, or would be soon enough. Whatever happened here, it would be seen, and it would serve as their legacy. It would be their introduction to the world at large. For most of them, probably their entire story. Their lives, distilled to this.

Would it ever be possible to make anyone else see that? Would they even care?

"If I were you," Oakley said, holding up his index finger and waggling it back and forth, "I wouldn't assume anything. You know what they say about assuming."

The snow drifted down, big, slow, fat flakes. When he was a kid, he'd often tried to catch them on his tongue, but he'd never gotten the hang of it. On those occasions he did succeed, he'd found them unpleasantly cold.

"You say that you don't want your friends making rash decisions," Oakley said. "Why not?"

He chuckled briefly, puffing steam in an arc in front of him, then snapped silent for two seconds before speaking again.

"Do you think anyone's going to get out of here by playing safe?"

Quinn frowned. She could hear the smile in Oakley’s voice, how casually he seemed to treat the topic at hand, even though he seemed keen to frame himself as the wiser party in the exchange, needling her and answering her questions with his own.

“Is it possible the two of us have different definitions of rash in this situation? I’m certainly not suggesting that I would want everyone to sit around and do nothing.” Quinn continued to speak clearly as she could manage, wielding an elocution honed through many hours of theater practice. She wasn’t interested in getting tripped up in whatever game Oakley thought he was playing.

“I’m sure you’ve seen some of the interviews before, or the documentaries? If you did, you would know that one time, a lot of people survived this without having to kill each other.” She couldn’t recall the year this had happened, but it was somewhere around a decade ago. Quinn wished now that she had paid better attention to those pieces, that she might learn something about what lay ahead.

The corner of her mouth twitched as she attempted to puzzle out some question or statement that might force Oakely to speak plainly and make his intent clear. There were only so many reasons why someone would remain so relaxed yet so given the circumstances.

Quinn took a step forward.

“I wouldn’t consider attempting to repeat something like that to be particularly rash, for example. Would you?”

"Hm," Oakley said, "I suppose it depends."

The glow of morning was spreading now, light washing over the land before them, orange in that way only sunrise and sunset were. It was such a wide expanse. So much that could happen. So much that would.

"What you're describing could work, or it could not. If it does work, it will save lives. But if it doesn't, it will end them. That is certainly a risk, but not necessarily a rash one."

His tone was calm and contemplative, almost like a math teacher. He was actually thinking through this, and he wondered whether Betty was doing the same, or whether she had already decided. She struck him as somebody who was used to being listened to—both in the sense of having her voice heard and also being obeyed. How would that fare here? Would others be willing to line up to follow her plans, or would they see her as the Pied Piper, marching them merrily into a lake?

This was purely academic, of course. For good or for ill, Oakley had never been much for dancing to anyone else's tune.

"But," he continued, "there are other ways in which one could take risks to potentially save or cost lives. And I wonder, what makes one risk more rash than another?"

He spread his arms, elbows bent and palms facing up, something not quite a shrug. He let a certain edge of teasing work its way into his voice. The breeze tumbled the snowflakes against his face, to prickle his cheeks and nestle in the faux fur of his hat. When he inhaled, he felt the chill at the roots of his nostril hair.

"Is it the probability of success? Or is it something else?"

Quinn kept her breaths soft and steady. Oakley was determined to avoid speaking directly, it seemed, and it did wear on her patience. However, Quinn reminded herself, she was not being exactly forthright herself.

“I presume it also comes down to how many lives each plan would cost. I would hope so, at least.” She replied, supplying a soft smile with the second statement, so that it might be heard, though not properly seen.

By all appearances, Oakley didn’t believe that Quinn had been performing a similar sort of calculus to the one they now discussed in the dark while the two of them waited for the proper arrival of the day. But as she spoke to this boy, Quinn felt like she was skating around her own reasoning through her inability to be candid with him.

Perhaps she was weaker than she’d hoped.

“I was still wondering about you, though. It’s… I suppose while we’re talking I’m starting to wonder if it would ever be a good idea to follow the sort of rash plan that guarantees the loss of a few lives, but could possibly save the rest.

“If you were me, what would you do?” Quinn asked as she gingerly stepped forward, her voice’s tone gentle, even playful, as though the remark should be treated as little more than a joke.

Then she held her breath.

Oakley chuckled. Well well, Betty could at least learn a line from someone else, even if she wasn't innovating in her delivery. Maybe there was something to be found there. But then, perhaps he was being too generous. She was, after all, very eager to frame their discussion in the most conventional of moral terms. He wondered how she'd do with a little resistance.

"If I were you?" he said. "Well, I suppose the real problem is those words, 'guarantees' and 'possibly.' One is specific, the other so vague."

He waved his right hand in a loose circle at the end of that sentence, swirling the air and the snow. The light grew just a little brighter, and Oakley exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head slightly. The motion could be traced by the cloud of steam he breathed out, and he watched it with satisfaction. He scuffed his boots through the snow at his feet, stretching on and on unbroken save for his and Betty's footprints behind them. How many of his classmates had worn proper footwear, he wondered?

Most of them were doomed. He doubted it would take too long for nature to run its course.

"You've seen those memes about the trolley problem?" he asked. "What it sounds like you're asking is, do you flip the switch to send it down a track filled with bodies, if at the end of the line there's a slot machine?"

He laughed again, but there was an edge of derision to it now.

"Oh, but you're not asking if it's a good idea. You're asking what I would do if I were you."

He shook his head more firmly now, rolling his shoulders. It was chilly out here, even as morning properly broke. He wondered if he would be leaving this spot alone or with company. Right now, the former was looking more likely.

"If I was me," Oakley said, "I'd probably roll the dice. I'm fairly lucky, and I trust myself to stand at the lever. But if I was you..."

A quieter chuckle now.

"...I guess I'd ask somebody else."

Oakley’s answer was met with dead air, which seemed to carry for some time before Quinn’s voice returned, but quieter and closer, a clear edge of anxiety coloring the words.

“Oakley, do you… believe in anything?”

Oakley was silent for two more seconds. He closed his eyes, and saw a dull red glow as still more of the sun rose. A snowflake landed directly on the tip of his nose and melted, leaving a droplet of water that he was far too controlled to wipe away.

Was Betty stealing that from Hamilton? Or was she sincere? It was funny either way, but now Oakley did not laugh. He pulled the cold air into his lungs, and held it, and then when he let it out he spoke so quiet it was almost a whisper, but more confident than had he screamed it at the top of his lungs.

"I believe in myself."

His lips drew up into a wide grin, as he finally turned to face Betty.

At the moment Oakley's gaze met her own, Quinn used all of her might to slam the large rock she had been holding into the side of his head.

Oakley only had a split second to realize what was about to happen. It wasn't enough to prevent it. It wasn't even enough to properly react. His hand rose maybe eight inches, getting ready to mount a defense that was far too late.

There was, however, enough time for a brief flash of thought. It was quick and chaotic and didn't manifest as carefully-chosen words like his thoughts so often did, but the core ideas were clear.

Oakley was pleasantly impressed with Betty, personal complications she was causing aside. She had a strong sense of timing after all. That was some good dramatic irony. Here Oakley had flattered himself into imagining standing at the lever, never suspecting that he was already tied to the tracks.

The rock slammed into his head, and there was a flash of color and light and pain and ringing. His hat was thrown clear, and he crumpled backwards into the snow.

Quinn did not remain idle as the boy collapsed to the ground. She pursued him, mounting his prone form, she brought the stone down once again, and once again, she heard the awful thunk of its contact, felt the impact rush up her arm.

Gritting her teeth, she found that her breath was labored and unsteady as she finally released the rock from fingers which ached from the cold and how tightly she’d been holding the thing. Oakley lay beneath her, motionless, bleeding from the side of his head. If he was breathing, it was extremely faint. If he was alive, he would not be for long. At least, that’s what Quinn told herself.

A terrible, twisting sensation grew in her gut and Betty quickly turned her gaze from the boy’s empty face. There were still practical matters to attend to.

Oakley’s bag was more difficult to dislodge from his arm than Quinn would’ve liked, considering he had partially fallen on top of it. Still, with a bit of added effort, grunting and wobbling of the strap, she managed to get it quickly enough.

Stopping to take a breath as she attempted to return herself to stable footing, Quinn hesitated to look at Oakley again. Though she had readied herself to follow through regardless of what the boy had said, there was a sort of tragic inevitability to the way he’d answered in exactly the way she’d thought he would.

“I believe… I believe in my friends, in our class.” Quinn finally spoke again, her voice low as she slowly turned to look towards the morning sky once more. She was certain that Oakley couldn’t hear her, but it might comfort him to know that the matter wasn’t personal in any way, that a greater good was being served.

But no, he wasn’t the sort to care about that.

Quinn swallowed and cleared her throat, feeling that twisting sensation again. The guilt was inevitable, factored into the reckoning she had come to. This was not a matter of what she could do, but a matter of what needed to be done.

Regardless, it would not benefit her to be found alongside what remained of her erstwhile companion, and so Quinn made to depart the field, scooping up Oakley’s displaced hat as she did, deciding that it would likely serve better than her own in the days to come. All the while, the thought repeated, that this would unfortunately be just the first of many.

((Betty Quinn continued in These days of dishonourable peace))

There was no thought. There was no movement.

But, very very faintly, there was still a pulse.

((Oakley York continued in The Hyena Laughs))