Survival Of The Fittest

((Norbert from Recycle))

Man, Norbert's hands were cold.

In retrospect, he could have made some charcoal, probably, but that would have made the writing extremely obvious.

They'd still likely be able to tell he was up to something. Drawing some decoy patterns in the snow was a fun distraction, but actually throwing them all the way off his trail seemed like a tall order.

It was that or not communicate with Trinity at all, though. So here he was with cold hands, tracing a letter at a time into the frosty scattering just inside of the door of the room.

Yup.

One
at
a
time

C
L
R

D
T
N

E
X
M
P

D
Z

((Trinity Ashmore continued from Recycle))

It had been a lonely jaunt, even with an ally in tow.

She figured it might have turned out that way, even in the best of times. No matter how reliable Norbert was, or how much she admired his work ethic and attitude, he was still practically a stranger to her. Were they to talk about sports together, perhaps the most limited area of Trinity’s knowledge? She knew that the Boston Red Sox existed. She had watched Rush, and she had watched Invictus. That, more or less, was the full extent of her interest in sports in their entirety. A riveting conversation partner, she would not be.

And now, it didn’t really feel appropriate to engage in that kind of small talk, stranded out here in the ninth circle.

Maybe it would be a form of comfort for some people, but it sure as shit wouldn’t be for her. How could you begin to casually talk about your hobbies, and the TV shows you used to watch, when the toll of the dead sounded each and every day? When that very same dead surrounded them in each and every direction? It was impossible to ignore, in her eyes. And it didn’t matter how Trinity, personally, felt about each of her classmates, how little the announcements had truly tugged at her heartstrings. It still felt wrong. Like hosting a stand-up routine in a graveyard. Especially considering the ultimatum she had given herself, the one she knew that she’d never quite be fully prepared for.

So the pang of loneliness remained, burrowed inside of her. Especially now that they had reached this location, and Norbert had near-instantly started scrabbling around in the snowdrift, an uninvited guest in this long-abandoned hollow. She had stood over him for a while, looking over his shoulder to see what he was up to, a deep frown emblazoned on her forehead, but it looked as though all he was doing was scrawling random scribbles in the snow. Surely there was method to his madness; she did not need to hover over him and painstakingly wait for it all to pan out.

Searching through the rust and dust of this changing room did little to alleviate her feeling of isolation, though. It had already been thoroughly picked through, rejected remnants scattered across the floor like dead leaves. Trinity doubted there would have been anything of worth left behind in these lockers, even before this scavenging, nothing to help their cause. But seeing it in this state, empty and forgotten, hanging clothes in the centre of the room (that she most certainly had not been spooked by on more than one occasion) forming the ghosts of those who had worn them once upon a time, it just made her feel empty inside. This building was its own tomb. The island itself was dead.

She made her way back over to Norbert. Bizarre squiggles in the frost was still preferable to these intrusive thoughts.

There was a lot more written in the snow, now. And written was certainly the right word for it. Each line had been painstakingly, meticulously traced out, as clear as could be in the medium being used. For a moment, the frown reappeared on her face, as her eyes scanned each letter, top to bottom, forcing her brain not to try and rearrange them as though Norbert had prepared some back-of-newspaper word puzzle for her. It took a moment or two. Then it clicked. She stopped herself from nodding - as tall an order as it was, she still thought it best to attempt anything that could hinder the terrorist’s understanding of their actions - and ran her hand through her wild tangle of hair at the back.

“I couldn’t find anything back there,” she muttered, scratching the back of her neck as she spoke. “It looks as though somebody’s already ransacked as many lockers as they can.”

She had Norbert’s attention. Her finger, silently, tap-tap-tapped against the side of her collar. She raised one eyebrow. Just for confirmation.

“Where do you think we can find any more supplies, then?”

Norbert had to admit, he'd harboured concerns that Trinity wouldn't really grasp what he was doing and would think he was just a bit of a crazy person. He'd kept everything brief as they'd walked along together, her matching his pace (gosh he was glad that she didn't move too fast), running down the very basics of what he'd seen so far. It wasn't a long list. He really needed more to show than what he had, but no point getting hung up on that now when he was finally getting somewhere.

Regardless. Trinity hanging over his shoulder hadn't been great for that feeling of apprehension, given he was still decoying it up by the time she left his side.

When she returned, he was done, and Norbert searched her face for derision that didn't arrive.

Instead there was a flashing of understanding in her eyes, and Norbert hid the smile of relief by rubbing his mouth with his hand. Oh. Ow. Chapped lips. Darn it.

One finger on her collar. He shifted his hand, cupping his chin in a thinking posture which also happened to allow a couple of his own fingers to trail onto the band about his neck. Tap tap.

"At this point the village might be the best bet. I'm hoping that the office over there could be stocked, though. I know we have maps already, but those schematics might be more detailed. If there are any."

Just had to keep it plausible, right?

Trinity’s attention was unwavering.

One arm was folded across her body, cupping her opposite elbow. Her head was tilted up, her face pointed directly at his own. But her eyes were locked onto Norbert’s hand, his finger, watching as he scratched his chin, a facade of deep thought, waiting for some sort of mirror image gesture to signal that she was on the right track.

There it was. A slight, almost imperceptible movement of his middle and index fingers. Tap tap. This was to be their goal.

Or alleged goal, rather. She had still not chosen to throw her lot in entirely with this boy, nor, hopefully, would she ever. No matter how aligned their goals seemed to be, no matter how much of a plan he genuinely seemed to be brewing up, he would never, fully, gain Trinity’s trust. Simplemindedness could be a smoke screen. No con was too long for some. It was nothing personal, of course. She would treat all who crossed her path with the exact same suspicion.

Was it unlikely that he was attempting to lead her astray, with the level of secrecy they had reached, the attempts at silent communication they were offering one another? Yes, absolutely. She could fully admit as much. Impossible, however? Certainly not. Perhaps, once they had gathered all the pieces to this puzzle, assembled and arranged them to where they all belonged, and they were on the verge of their final destiny, he would ask her to be the guinea pig for their first, and last, attempt. Well, she knew exactly what she would say to that outcome.

That time was not now, though. Fingers crossed, it would be never. Instead, she nodded, opened her mouth, and said;

“Alright. No complaints from me. Let's move, then. No point wasting any more time here, is there?”

And as Trinity walked out the door, she made sure to press her foot directly on top of Norbert’s cryptic frostbitten message, scattering powder snow across it, obscuring the carefully scrawled out letters in the blink of an eye, leaving the ghosts of miners long forgotten once more to their cold, silent rest.

((Trinity Ashmore & Norbert ‘Coach’ Nielson continued in What Do We Do Now?))