Survival Of The Fittest

((Matthew Bell continued from Reflections))

The day was here at last.

As Matthew had figured, nobody else was jumping at the chance to do a press conference talking about all the shit that had happened at the island, so he was the first one the media could get a hold of. From the second he’d come home, he’d been working on organising this. They’d booked a conference room in a flashy Boston hotel, sent invites to the media - a bunch of local media from Salem, Boston, Lynn, and then the national and international media. The BBC, CNN, Fox, MSNBC and a dozen others… Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if they’d all come, especially with how short notice this was. He wasn’t even sure of all the names that’d been invited, the media guy they’d hired had handled all that.

But the more eyes on all of this, the better.

As long as they didn’t invite Alex Jones or some shit.

“A couple of minutes.” Dad poked his head into the side room they were using as a little prep room. Matthew was wearing what his mom called ‘business casual’ - something a bit more formal than a leather jacket and a t-shirt, but not something stifling. He figured playing into being all rough and shit would have fit him better, but she was the one who knew clothes and fashion. Better than he did, anyway.

“Alright. Uh, how many are we looking at? Who’s there?” Matthew dabbed a little highlighter on Knife Scar #1. Knife Scar #2 didn’t need any highlighter on account of being only a couple of weeks old, but he put some on anyway. Just the finishing touches. “About… twenty or thirty people, I think.” Yeah. That was around the number he expected. The local media, then the national, then the international ones. A few were gonna be filming as well, so anyone who wanted to turn CNN or whatever on would get to see the whole thing.

He figured anyone who was watching the news at like, one PM was probably already following the SOTF news like a hawk anyway. But hell, they’d probably be broadcasting this all damn week. People would see him as the representative of the JEM survivors. The one who the media went to when something new happened. Not that it would.

Hopefully.

Scooting his chair back a little, Matthew looked at himself in the mirror. It was a far cry from the man that’d been looking back at him in that dingy little military base bathroom, but it was entirely unrecognizable from the Matthew that had cheerily went to the school trip under the impression he’d get to ski and hit on girls. That version of him was as dead as Katelyn - none of the media outlets had been talking about her, and that gave him a sort of smug satisfaction to know he’d outlasted her.

“Alright, it’s time.”

Dad poked his head in one last time. Nodding, Matthew grabbed his speech, took a deep breath, gave himself finger guns in the mirror, and followed his dad out of the room, down the corridor, and into the conference room where he’d talk to the world.

A barrage of flashes assaulted his eyes the second he walked in - seriously, why did they still use flash photography? It was 2022 - and Matthew made his way to the podium. Twenty or thirty guys might have been a little bit of an understatement, but it was hard to tell what with the goddamn flashbang. Plus five, maybe. Either way, they didn’t matter. What did matter were the cameras in the room; Fox, CNN, some local Boston channel that he only kinda recognised. His dad nodded at him and stood to the side with his mom and other assorted assistants.

All eyes were on him.

It felt good.

“Thank you all for coming. I know this was on short notice, so I appreciate so many of you being able to come here. Before we get started with the questions, I first have a statement I want to make.” Swallowing his nerves, Matthew glanced down at the short speech he’d written. He’d memorised it off by heart, but that was starting to get all jumbled up in his memories. Good thing he'd brought a script.

“I… want to talk about those we’ve lost. We all know that fourteen people escaped the island alive, but one hundred and twenty two people died on it. Two of those were soldiers who gave their lives to defend us from an Arthro Taskforce attack. They made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that no more kids had to die, from JEM or wherever they would have targeted next, and I can never thank them enough for it.” He’d kinda shit himself when it happened. If not for goddamn Marshall and June shooting him, you bet your ass he would have tried to return fire. They’d killed Shawn, they’d killed Corbin, they’d killed nearly everyone on that island. It'd have only been fair to get some revenge.

"Our student council heads, Richard Buster Jr and Chloé Delacroix. One of my fellow JROTC cadets, Corbin Azinger. Our Homecoming Queen, Rebekah Hayes. And of course, our teachers, Xavi Pérez and Jed Ramos. They were good teachers who brightened our days. They were all good people, and they're only a fraction of those who we've lost. I..." Swallow. "I would... ask that you look further into those we've lost, those who didn't make it off the island. They deserve to be remembered too."

“I wish that the rescue could have come sooner. My best friend, Shawn Bellamy, died only hours before it had come. More people could have been saved. And in this day and age, after seven previous attacks, with all the resources of the United States and her allies at our disposal, I just find it hard to believe that it couldn’t have happened sooner.” All the spy satellites, all the security cameras, all the… whatever the fuck they didn’t know about, and the terrorists could still just steal a bus full of kids and drive away happy.

“Worse yet, our government lied to us. While we were struggling and fighting just to survive another day, you were told that the bus had crashed with no survivors, that all onboard had died. While we were alive, our parents were told to mourn! I understand that it was a difficult time for… everyone, but I can’t understand what benefit this lie could have given the government. They knew, without a doubt, what had happened. And I would like clarification from uh, President Kirby and his administration as to the line of thought behind this decision. Uh, thank you, that’s all.”

Could have gone worse.

A ton of hands went up. Matthew glanced down at the seating arrangement left on the podium, matched names and positions with faces, and called on a journalist.

Somewhere among the crowd gathered inside of the hotel conference room, among the camera flashes, a hand was raised with a pen in the air. Multiple other hands went up into the air to ask questions, but Matt had picked a Mr. Raban Verity. It was listed on the seating arrangement that he was a journalist, but it never specified from what media agency or organization he was from. He was a middle-aged gentlemen with olive skin and brown hair that was greying. An old pair of glasses was over his hazel eyes. His teeth appeared to be stained, the likely culprit being the visible pack of cigarettes at his breast pocket. A visible "PRESS" ID hung from a lanyard around his neck and was resting on the dark casual suit he wore. Sitting next to him, snapping photos at him, was the photographer he brought for photos.

Upon being called up, Mr. Verity got his pen and a notepad ready. He had direct eye contact at Matthew, even though Raban's photographer was snapping more photos with a bright flash.

"Mr. Bell. You are looking for answers from the Kirby administration regarding the JEM mass kidnappings, but are you also looking for answers from other sources concerning the situation that you and other survivors were involved that you wish to mention? If so, do you hold them accountable as the government?"

Mr. Verity didn't seem to ask him a question that was meant to be personal. Verity's expression was still stoic while waiting for a response.

First question. Mr Verity. Didn't say who he was from, but he had a camera guy with him so Matthew assumed he was from one of the bigger organisations. He shoulda done some more research on these guys. Maybe got the seating arrangement forwarded early. There were a few faces that anyone could recognise, but most of them were just nobodies to him.

"Well, apart from the Arthro Taskforce, which isn't in a position to conduct an attack any time soon, the only other relevant authority that I can think of is Interpol, and as they were working with us I would like to hear answers from them as well. But, given everything took place on US soil and the rescue operation involved our armed forces, I believe the Kirby adminstration ultimately holds more responsibility and will be able to give more detailed answers."

Matthew took a sip of his water. Man, speeches and shit made you thirsty. The only other thing he'd done that was like this was huddles in football, and that was nowhere as long or as nerve-wracking.

"Uh, thank you for your question Mr. Verity. Next up, I'll ask..." Another glance back down at the seating arrangement, and then Matthew called upon another journalist.

A tall young woman looked up from her notepad and stood up.

“Hi, Westfield News,” she began.

She took off her hat with her free hand. The brunette had decided on the newspaper pretty haphazardly, simply searching for newspapers in Massachusetts and picking the one from Wikipedia’s list with the lowest verified circulation. Least likely for an organiser to have heard of it and know she didn’t work there. She’d called the venue the day before asking for a press spot, claiming to be Jess Cowan, a truly lazy combination of her middle and surnames abridged down slightly.

[Can you see Evie McKown using everything to hold back?]

Of course, Matthew could quite easily recognise the face staring him down. The brown ponytail, the black eyes had gone but her nose remained just slightly crooked where it had been broken a couple weeks prior. Still, Evie gave him a few seconds to take it in before she continued.

“My question is, what made you decide to open fire on your fellow students after the Navy and Interpol arrived? Were they not up to the standards of the,”

She paused for a beat, pretending to think about it.

“Exactly seven good people that you can remember, out of one hundred and twenty that didn’t make it?”

Oh, son of a fucking bitch.

He’d told them - he’d goddamn told the PR guy that the other survivors weren’t allowed into the press conference. He’d spluttered out something about wanting to keep the focus on him rather than a survivor committee, but really?

He didn’t want them to spoil the moment. They had their chance to set up a conference, push the narrative they wanted, and they had failed to take it. Sure, they’d probably try and speak out at some point - it was only natural if the whole country was watching your every move - but Matthew would have established himself first.

At that moment, he wished that the second shot hadn’t been disrupted.

“I stand by my actions. Maybe I wasn’t in my right mind - I mean, there’s never been an, uh, an escape attempt aided by the government before.” He could see people scribbling down on their notepads or iPads or whatever, presumably to note what she was saying. Fuck fuck, calm down Matthew, calm down. Nothing that can’t be salvaged.

“I mean, Miss McKown, there’s nothing special about the dead that I mentioned, they were just some of the more prominent members of our school. They came to mind quicker. You’re familiar with some of them, anyway. Didn’t you gun down Chloé in cold blood?”

He took another sip of his water. Let that statement digest. Let the reporters jotting down notes remember that.

“I wasn’t sure if the announcement that was given was real or not. Obviously, in hindsight, I don’t think the terrorists would have staged a rescue attempt, but when you’re stuck on that island for nearly two weeks, with so many people trying to kill you, you get a little paranoid. I saw someone who had gunned down, uh, something like five or six people in cold blood. I feared for my life.”

I feared for my life.

Those five little words were red meat to the people he was looking at when he was talking. Not at Evie, even if he was physically looking at her. He was looking at the average American, who’d hear this on their way home from work, or eating dinner, and see someone defending himself from a vicious killer. He’d already just pointed out she had committed a murder in cold blood. What was to say she wouldn’t have tried again?

“Of course, I’m sorry for that. Clearly, well, it wasn’t fake.” She’d tried to intercept the momentum. And she’d failed. Matthew offered an apologetic smile.

Right. Not local news this time. God, he was gonna sue Westfield fucking News. Matthew glanced down at the list, watching one of the security guys - not his fault but he really shoulda stopped that quickly - start to ‘escort’ Evie out of the premises while she shouted about how he couldn’t have feared for his life from a second story building or some shit.

He wasn’t really listening.

The noise of another chair squeaking as its occupant rose was obscured by the sounds of hurried footsteps, and murmurs from amongst the crowd as their attentions were briefly split between the figure standing on the stage in front of them, and the one being chaperoned out.

“Avery Bennet. MSNBC.” His voice was sharp, unlike the navy coloured suit that clung to his frame, the awkward creases matching the redness in his eyes.

“During this tragic event, many of your classmates died - without taking a life.”

Legal had been clear about not using the phrase ‘murder’.

“Do you regret complying with the terrorist’s demands?”

His face was neutral as he sat back down before the subject of his question could answer, sinking in amongst the crowd of his fellow journalists, as he kept hold of Matthew’s gaze - careful to avoid being the lightning rod for the reaction.

He clicked the eraser on his mechanical pencil twice and placed graphite against paper.

What a fucking question. Matthew’s first instinct was to tell him to go fuck himself, but he held his tongue. ‘Do you regret complying with the terrorists’ demands’. No, and you give everyone a little soundbite of him going ‘yeah I love the ATs making me kill so many people’. Yes, and… well, he just fucking said he stood by his actions! He’d look like a fucking hypocrite! Ugh. He could almost fucking respect it.

Glowering into the crowd, he took another sip of his water. Thing was nearly fucking empty.

“I don’t see it that way. Uh, complying with their demands. I see it as defending myself and making sure I was alive to see the next sunrise. There were a lot of people on that island who were gunning for a victory. I was in their way, and they were in mine, so I had to defend myself and my friends, otherwise I would not be standing here at this podium and speaking with you. It’s not like I woke up and wanted to kill anyone. But, my hand was forced.”

Most of them deserved it. Valentin was a bit of a fuckup, but that wasn’t one anyone would really know about. He was dead, his buddy was dead, and… well, even if he was alive, Shaun wouldn’t have said anything.

“That said, I deeply regret having to-”

((“You regret NOTHING, you ASSHOLE.”))

June’s voice boomed from the side of the conference room, opposite from where they’d dragged away Evie.

Being here wasn’t a good idea. She had only been home for one day by the time she found out about it. One of the CNN journalists she followed made a tweet about it, the next second, she texted Marshall about it, the next day, she was driving the two of them down Route 1 to Boston. It was the sort of decision made with a quick heartbeat, gritted teeth. Such was her anger that she felt drained already, coursed through her so quickly that it felt like she’d run a marathon before anything had even been done.

But, it was the same fire that’d pushed her to fight him again, and again on the island, and now once more.

They had almost backed out, she and Marshall, upon seeing the security guards flanking the room. But, Evie’s removal from the room had left them occupied, provided an opening. And so, June took it, making strides towards the front of the stage, free arm swinging by her side, other arm still cast in a sling.

Already, a few of the cameras had shifted towards her, though most remained trained on either Matthew or Evie. She had stepped off the cliff. She had made a decision that was irrevocable. But wasn’t that every decision, really?

And so she continued.

“The terrorists were being blown up when you fuck- you SHOT CALIFORNIA."

Two of the guards began to approach.

“YOU SHOT EVIE. YOU FUCKING KNEW- WE ALL KNEW WHAT WAS HAPPENING, AND YOU SHOT THEM ANYWAYS, YOU SICK FUCK.”

“Call the fucking cops!” The second he heard that little bitch’s voice Matthew yelled over to his pale-faced PR assistant, who was likely assessing just how fucked he was. He was going to sue Evie, going to sue June, going to sue this motherfucking hotel, God he wished the terrorists could have taken June with them, she was such an annoying little rat of a person. They all were. He hated them because they wouldn’t stop trying to fuck him over, both on the island and now here. What was done was done, and they needed to let it go.

The composure that had momentarily stuttered with Evie’s entrance had now entirely shattered, Matthew gripping the podium tightly and leaning forwards, his bulging eyes filled with frustrated rage as he yelled over the intruder. How dare they.

“I defended myself! From you, June, and your little - little fucking friends group of murderers! I’m sorry that you can’t accept that, but that’s how it is and you can’t change that no matter how you goddamn try!” He knew he should be cool. People got heckled all the time, and looking cool and strong versus a screeching little bitch whining would be good. But he was just so fucking pissed off at them.

“Now,” Matthew took a deep breath, “the cops are on their way, so you and Evie and anyone else who might be around better get the hell out!” He tried to take a sip of his water, only to find he’d emptied the glass.

“We dragged you to that boat ourselves! If we’d been a group of murderers, we would have left you there to rot and you would have deserved it!”

Until Evie derailed everything, Marshall had been politely—if vehemently—trying to explain to the guard outside that, obviously, allowing him and June in was a proper diplomatic thing to do. It was a press conference for the survivors. Maybe they’d misheard Matthew, because it didn’t make sense to not include them.

Yes, he was aware why Matthew didn’t want them there. But all the more reason why they needed to be. June hadn't needed to convince him. He'd made a promise that Matthew would face up to his actions, and he intended to keep it. Not let him spin the public to his own whims.

That said, the guard had been holding steadfast against his argument, so Marshall had been considering waiting outside and catching the reporters on the way out. But Evie causing a distraction, and June jumping on that, changed that half-formed plan. So it was time to dart in after June and start shouting with all that his lungs, built over a career of captaining and terrible inside voice, had.

“There were four of us on that mountain with you, and your murders outnumbered ours combined! June killed no-one! California not only was blameless, she treated your wounds! And you threatened to torture—TORTURE—her! With a drill! Over nothing—”

A hand clasped around his arm. One of the guards heading towards June had changed directions to head towards Marshall instead.

“Just one moment, please—“ Marshall said, which unsurprisingly did not make the guard let go of him. Still, he bellowed right after as he was hauled back towards the door, “If you’d had your way and killed Kai, too, none of us would have escaped! Do you have any regrets about that?!”

He didn't get anything else out before he was hauled out.

This was a nightmare. Evie, June, now Marshall, all with the only purpose of fucking up this press conference. The guards were utterly useless. Seriously, how hard was it to keep a bunch of fucking highschoolers outside when you’re a goddamn grown man? The fucking Dolphins OL could do a better job!

“What these people fail to recognise is that they were allied up and working with the, the - the single most deadliest killer on the island! I clashed a few times with their group, and every time one of them didn’t make it out alive. That’s what they’re mad about! That I’m standing here, alive and well, instead of that killer or one of their allies!” Ren died. California died. They had been working with Katelyn, enabling her to murder. They came up against him and they died. That was all that was to it. That’s all the public needed to know.

“And I’ll say it,” Matthew eyed Marshall being dragged out, “I did kill people. And I regret that I had to, but I don’t regret doing it. It was me or someone who was looking to kill me, someone who’d fired the first shot.” Jack had tried to steal his gun, Letitia had nearly goddamn shot Shaun, hell, you could make the argument that he’d nearly had his goddamn eye ripped out by a knife for Valentin.

“Apologies for the disruption, uh…” He was clearly rattled.

While Raban Verity did give a bit of a side-eye to the supposed “journalist” from Westfield News, it wasn’t until he was hearing the questions that was being asked was when Raban started to break his neutral expression and looked inquisitive.

Raban was writing surprisingly fast on his notepad, turning and flipping over new pages, scribbling on his pen with all that was being asked. His photographer continued with his photos, until things started to crash down.

Maybe for some, it was an opportunity and an opening that was needed.

Raban’s photographer took a few shots of Evie being escorted out of the room, but focused back to Matthew.

Then, it all went to hell. Raban looked amused at the sight of June and Marshall storming the room and calling out what seemed like hypocrisy from Matthew. Raban’s photographer was nearly running out of film, trying to snap the other survivors who made a surprise appearance.

During all of this, Raban was writing down all that he was processing, including the outburst that Matthew had and swearing in front of multiple journalists from the press.

Raban was looking at Matthew, raising his pen in the air again. He was making direct eye contact with him, almost like staring at him like a hawk. He didn’t say a word to Bell. He was waiting patiently to see if Matthew was trying to divert his attention from what had happened and switch back to a previous journalist.

“Uh, Mr. Verity, yes, go ahead.” Matthew took a deep breath. Couldn’t hurt. He seemed friendly enough.

Verity straightened his tie and cleared his throat, before he began to talk again.

“I hope that you do not mind that this is a part of several other questions that are being considered, but the public wants to know something, considering some of what has just transpired.”

Raban got his notepad ready. Matthew may have not seen it coming, even when Raban was looking at him like he was the public spectacle he was ending up being.

Then, Raban said it.

“Do you feel guilty for what you were supposedly forced to do?”

Raban’s demeanor seemed to seamlessly change towards Matthew. The way he was phrasing his question towards Matthew sounded less like a journalist and more of a police officer trying to interrogate him.

“You claim to regret being forced to kill, but you say that you don’t regret doing the actual killing.”

Raban seemed to twist the knife in further. “Was it also true that you threatened to torture another student on the island?”

Raban’s eye contact didn’t break from Matthew’s. He was trying to probe and drill directly into him.

A hiss through teeth.

“Truthfully, I don’t. I did what I had to do to ensure my own survival. I regret that I had to, but I won’t apologize for keeping myself alive and defending myself from threats.” Matthew’s eyes drilled into Verity’s. Frustrated but also self-assured. Someone who was confident he was right.

“...I will admit that in the heat of the moment, I might have said things of that nature. For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry about that, though the person I said it to isn’t among us anymore. Tensions… well, after a few days of bad sleep and bad food, you’re a lot more cranky and irritable, you say stuff you don’t mean.” Don’t forget the fucked up ear. It was better now, but sometimes it would just start ringing right outta nowhere.

OK. Little bastard of a question, but he thought he’d got through it alright. Matthew was about to call on someone - the guy from Fox, maybe - but there was a tap on his shoulder and a soon-to-be fired PR guy murmuring that their allotted time was up. He swore they should have had more time. Either the assholes ate more up than he thought, or he had less than he thought. Kind of a disappointment. He had so much he wanted to say. About Kirby, about the island, about everything. But that could wait. Someone would want an interview, Fox maybe.

“Sorry guys, uh, that’s all for today. Thank you for your time, and uh,”

Oh shit. June was free.