The smell hits first – simple, warm, maddeningly ordinary. Bread. Something salty. Something with protein. The kind of meal designed to stabilise blood sugar without providing comfort.
Relief rises in me, sharp and involuntary.
I crush it.
The voice speaks again. “Rations will be allocated by compliance.” Silence. Then: “You may begin.”
No instruction on how. No one assigned roles. No explicit rule set. They are watching what we do with scarcity.
My mind begins calculating automatically. We are six, but only five present. One meal. One water source. Either they will deliver one per person, or this is the test: do we fight, do we share, do we decide?
If it is one meal for five men, the calorific content matters less than the behaviour it provokes.
Bones stands first.
Not abruptly. Smoothly, as if he’s already decided. He moves toward the tray. Hatchet strains against his cuffs, a small jerk, then stills. His eyes track Bones like a predator restrained by more than metal.
Honey rises slowly, hands open, palms visible – non-threatening, but his gaze is fixed on the water. His lips part as if he wants to speak, to negotiate. He doesn’t. Maybe he’s learned silence is safer.
Ghost doesn’t move at all.
Bones reaches the tray and pauses. He looks at the portion size, then at each of us in turn, taking in posture, colour, tremor, breath rate. Not judging. Assessing.
He picks up the water first.
My stomach drops.
Then he doesn’t drink it.
He sets it down again, divides the portions with his hands – tears bread into five uneven pieces, splits whatever protein there is with the blunt efficiency of someone who has cut meat on a field plate before. He slides the pieces to the edges of the tray, equidistant, like he’s laying out tools.
A silent offer: take one, leave the rest.
Honey moves first. Of course he does. He picks up a piece, hesitates, then breaks it in half and tries to push half back toward the centre.
Bones shakes his head once. A clear no.
Honey swallows hard and takes the half anyway, clutching it like a confession.
Hatchet’s restraint chain rattles as he leans forward, eyes on the food with an intensity that has nothing to do with appetite. Hunger makes predators. Hunger makes victims. Hunger makes mistakes.
Bones lifts a piece and walks it over to Hatchet, holding it out just within reach of his cuffed hands.
Hatchet freezes. For a moment, the tremor in his fingers is the only movement in the room. Then he takes it. Quick, efficient. No gratitude. No softness. Just acquisition.
Ghost finally stirs. He stands unsteadily, as if his body is remembering gravity. He approaches the tray without looking at it, gaze slightly unfocused. When his hand reaches for his portion, it hovers a moment too long, fingers trembling. Bones gently pushes the food into Ghost’s palm without touching skin.
Ghost flinches anyway.
I move last. Not because I want to be noble. But because I’m still calculating. One meal. One water. If water is limited,dehydration will degrade cognition faster than hunger. They know this. They’ve chosen the lever.
I take my portion and sit, keeping movements minimal.
We eat in silence. Not companionable. Not united. Just…parallel.
The food hits my stomach and my body reacts with gratitude that makes me nauseous. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I’ve no idea how much time has passed. But I guess that’s kind of the point.
A surge of energy, of warmth, shoots through me as I finish my paltry meal. My muscles loosen without permission. My brain tries to soften, to accept this as relief.
