The G Game

by bluemicrocosm

-- Chapter 6 --

October 2, 8: 55 a.m.

Troy is an elite private high school with seventy percent of its students from upper class families. It boosts an Olympic size swimming pool, an indoor track field, two tennis courts, a theater, and a ballroom. The only facilities Kiros cares about are the state-of-the-art computers and expensive software that the school habitually purchases.

Of course, none of that comes free. If not for his entrance test scores that impressed the administration enough to exempt him from paying tuition, Kiros will have wound up at one of the fund-parched public schools – not that it mattered. The computers will have been disappointing, but Kiros doubts that he will miss much else.

The curriculum at Troy, which is heralded to be much more difficult and academically enriching than that of a public school, fails to engage him. The workload is heavier, but the material itself isn’t any harder. Kiros often sits through class staring out the ceiling-high windows or counting the number of people frantically taking notes.

Having attended a public school for most of his life, Kiros initially squirmed at the small class sizes. With less than fifteen people around you, it is harder to disappear in the back of the room, much less ditch. He still doesn’t like it now, especially when a smaller class meant more group discussions. If he has something to say, he’ll say it. Profound ideas aren’t going to come to him just because there are fewer mouths taking up airtime.

At least the current class is math, which means unambiguous answers and none of that BS people makeup then circulate for forty minutes in various, regurgitated form. Math also means most eyes stare at the whiteboard and not him. And today, the “whiteboard” also includes the substitute teacher, a pretty young woman called “Ms. Valentine” who looks like she just graduated from college.

The substitute glances at the clock, then at a list that she has been referring religiously to for the past hour. “Let’s see…your teacher assigned a pop quiz for today. Okay, everyone, put your stuff away.”

Predictable groans of “Are you serious?” and “Do we have to?” ripple through the room. Kiros silently agrees with them, since he’s still feeling a little lightheaded from the exams that morning. There is no way, however, that he will join the rank of grade-sensitive, Ivy League-bound prep-school kids.

In accordance with the protocol at Troy, tests are administered face down and then, once everyone has received a copy, flipped over simultaneously. For once, Kiros is thankful that Lediv is in a different class. He doesn’t think he can make his usual time today.

As soon as the signal is given, Kiros coasts through his test, solving for derivatives and partial derivatives absentmindedly. When the last number is scribbled down, he picks up his test, glancing at the clock as he walks up to the front room. About four minutes. Almost a minute longer by his usual standards.

He winces, suddenly very grateful that Lediv isn’t there to see his poor performance.

“Yes?” says Valentine. She stares at the test in his hand as if she doesn’t know why he’s giving it to her.

“I’m done,” replies Kiros.

“Are you sure? There’s a back page.”

“I know.” Kiros flips his test over.

Valentine glances at the rest of the class, where many of them are slaving over the first page. When she refocuses on him, her face contorts from exasperation.

“Do you not understand the material? I can ask your teacher to give you a make-up test if you would like to get tutoring.”

“I’m done,” repeats Kiros.

“There’s a difference between having right answers and wrong answers, young man,” taunts Valentine.

Since she refuses to take his test, Kiros simply drops it on her desk. Before he leaves, he says quietly, “I suggest you grade my quiz first before making that kind of snap judgment.”

Valentine’s face turns as bright as the color associated with her name. Snatching a pen, she proceeds to mark the life out of Kiros’ paper.

No one says a word as Kiros returns calmly to his table, although several pencils have temporarily stopped moving and ears twitch for what is going to be the latest gossip. Nor does anyone dare to comment as the substitute’s pretty face transforms from slighted anger to incredulity to embarrassment.

She doesn’t look at Kiros when class ends, a decision that he reciprocates wholeheartedly.

9: 10 a.m.

Of his four classes, Lediv shares one of them with Kiros. At first, he sighed at the thought of sitting through three eighty-minute periods without someone to entertain or challenge him. Sometimes, he finds his mind drifting off course, and he idly follows it to wherever it takes him. Voices sift through his consciousness; he listens enough to contribute where needed and to answer if called upon. During long lectures, he keeps his pen poised among a background of reeling ink caps and eraser tops, occasionally printing a term that he catches. He’s a little disappointed, though. More than a month has passed, and no one, not even the teacher, has noticed that he never turns a page in his notebook throughout a lecture.

Still, there are times when he enjoys this obscure solitude. Competition drives him, hones his mind and rejuvenates his body, yet sometimes he finds it tiring to be the object of constant scrutiny. Kiros might not be aware of it himself, but his dark, soulful gaze penetrates, as if he is reading your thoughts and judging them behind his placid mask.

Lediv knows that Kiros really can’t read minds – at least, not his. Nevertheless, it’s a relief to not have someone perpetually trying to figuring out what he’s thinking.

Especially now, when D and the Alef and Kiros’ secret dominate his thoughts.

Names of presidents fill his ears, and he pretends to write them down while wondering where D is. Since turning into a dove that morning and flying in the direction of the woods, she remains curiously out of sight. In a sense, it’s a relief, because it will be more problematic if he does see her at school. Besides, he tells himself, the contract binds them together.

Kiros worries him more than D. Something significant must have happened to his friend last night to promote the uncharacteristic reluctance that Kiros displayed that morning. Lediv can’t think of anything that isn’t family related, but even then, Kiros isn’t close enough to the remnants of his family to be substantially affected.

When Lediv stands back and examines his one and only friend, he almost pities him. Compared to Kiros, he is preposterously privileged, living in peaceful comfort his entire life. The most anxiety he has encountered is keeping up appearances and meeting expectations. Kiros’ story sounds like an emotional novel where the protagonist endures hell, then either dies or lives unhappily ever after. Yet Lediv does not pity him because Kiros won’t want his sympathies, and mostly because Lediv believes that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Since Kiros is obviously alive, he is tougher for it.

Consulting his watch, Lediv decides to mull over his friend’s circumstances for another time. He raises his hand.

“Mr. Novikov?”

“Yes?” the teacher says hesitantly, the brief panic on his face enough to convey his fear of being corrected by Lediv. Again.

"May I use the bathroom?"

Normally, if class is almost over, students are asked to wait until break. Given that Lediv has gained an unparalleled reputation at school and wields the power to turn the entire student body against anyone – peer or administrator – it is suicidal to deny him.

"Uh, certainly,” says Novikov.

"Thank you."

In front of another classroom, Lediv fixes a slightly apologetic but charismatic smile as he opens the door.

The teacher pauses in her lecture, recognition flashing across her face. Lediv has never attended her class, but word travels fast in a small place like Troy.

"Can I help you?" she asks hesitantly.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I'm helping to conduct a survey for the school newspaper and would like to ask Manuel a few questions, if that's alright," says Lediv.

"Manuel?" The teacher glances skeptically at Manuel, who is currently glowering at her. Or the white board. Or something.

Manuel, too, has a reputation at school, except one not as enviable as Lediv’s. If one seeks to find a liar, a bully, a glutton, a slacker, and a profaner in one body, then one needs to look no farther.

Manuel lifts his 160 pound body off the seat and stomps towards the door.

"It'll only take a minute," says Lediv, smiling politely at the teacher.

As soon as Lediv closes the door, Manuel crosses his arms and glares. A nervous tick in his face makes his pudgy cheeks quiver.

“Well, what is it?” he snaps, leaving out the profanity that he has no compunctions of using on teachers and students.

"I have something to show you.” Lediv extracts his cell phone from his pocket, while casually inquiring, "You like to exert power over others, correct?"

Manuel's beady eyes narrow into slits. "Yeah? What about it?"

“Unfortunately, your expression of dominance, also known as bullying, is commonly used by those who feel powerless.”

“You looking for a fight, punk? I’ll show you who’s powerless!” Manuel explodes, forgetting who he is talking to.

“Control and coercion are also methods that weak people use to exert their power. From now on,” Lediv shoves his cell phone in front of Manuel’s nose, the sudden proximity forcing him to reflexively look at it.

After a tense moment, Manuel barks, “What the hell is that? A tattoo?”

“Oh, my mistake. I meant to show this instead.” With practiced ease, Lediv pulls up another image on his phone and displays it to an anger-flushed Manuel.

As the video clip plays silently to an end, the red stains fade from Manuel’s cheeks.

For a moment, Lediv simply regards the dull gaze nested in loose, plump flesh, relishing in the buzz of anticipation that lines his premeditated words.

“From now on, you will cease to harass or insult, physically or verbally, any human or animal. Understand?”

“Yes,” Manuel answers tonelessly.

The numbers change rapidly on Lediv’s watch. Four minutes. Twenty-eight seconds, twenty-nine seconds, thirty seconds – and suspicion animates Manuel’s bland expression.

Quickly, Lediv says, “Go wash your hands.”

“What?” demands Manuel.

“Nothing,” smiles Lediv.

“Did you just tell me to wash my hands?”

“Ah, that. We were discussing the importance of hygiene. Don’t you remember?”

“We were?” Manuel’s face scrunches up into a frown.

Before he can object, classroom doors open, unleashing a flood of students into the hallway.

Lediv takes the opportunity to slip into the crowd, grinning at his discovery of two more rules to the Alef.

9: 35 a.m.

“I hear you stood the teacher up,” says Lediv, falling into step besides Kiros.

Kiros groans. “Does news really spread that fast?”

“Like wildfire.”

“I had no intentions of confronting her. If she hadn’t made the impulsive and incorrect assumption that just because I finished my test fast, I don’t know the material. If I insulted her, it wasn’t out of vindictiveness.”

“You can’t blame her for making that association, though. Most people would.”

“And how exactly would you have reacted if your teacher wouldn’t accept your test and snubbed your intelligence?”

“Return to my seat, pretend to re-do my answers, then turn my test in at the same time as everyone else?”

Kiros looks at Lediv in disbelief, and sees the playful smile belying his seriousness.

“Right,” says Kiros. “It’ll be a miracle if you didn’t throw an Olympian-sized tantrum. Or verbally skin the unfortunate teacher alive, whichever comes first.”

“Are you implying that I’m a violent person?”

“Is that how you choose to interpret it?”

Lediv slides into his seat with an exaggerated huff. Several rows behind him, Kiros leans in his chair and wonders if anything interesting will happen. He hopes so. According to the syllabus, they are supposed to start on game theory.

“Today, we will be looking at gaming and strategy. I hope you all did the assigned reading,” says Kozki, the economics teacher. “A game is a situation where the players make strategic decisions based on the other players’ actions and reactions. What is it called when each player does his or her best while knowing the strategy of the other players, and no players benefit by deviating from their strategy?”

Kiros silently sniggers at the absence of hands. Kozki is notorious for being the most fearsome teacher on campus. Her infamy includes humiliating her students for answering incorrectly, giving random pop quizzes, assigning fifty odd pages of reading every night, and concocting impossibly hard final exams. In other words, she epitomizes the teacher from hell; her signature devil red suit reinforces her image. She is also the only economics teacher available, and economics is a perquisite to graduating.

At the sustained silence, Kozki implements the solution that most students dread. Picking names at random.

“Jasmann, did you do the reading?”

“Er, yes,” stammers a skinny boy.

“And what do you think the answer is?”

“Um…could you repeat the question?”

“No, that is not the answer. Eastwood, maybe you have something more intelligent to say?”

The blond girl nearly drops her pencil. “N-Nash equilibrium?”

“Good. But next time, don’t make it sound like a question.”

From his position in the very back of the class, Kiros gets an amazing view of the back of a dozen bent heads. The only person not afraid to face forward is Lediv. And himself.

Kiros’ attention refocuses to Kozki and accidentally meets her stern gaze.

“Fircuel, since you don’t look like you’re in line for execution, what’s the Nash equilibrium in the prisoner’s dilemma? And while you’re at it, why don’t you explain what the prisoner’s dilemma is?”

Kiros stifles a sigh, then drones, “The prisoner’s dilemma is a classic example in game theory in which two prisoners are accused of collaborating in a crime. If they both confess, they receive a lighter punishment – say, five years in jail. If only one prisoner confesses, the confessor will receive a punishment lighter than if both prisoners confessed – for example, three years – while the prisoner who doesn’t confess will receive a heavier punishment, say seven years. However, if neither prisoner confesses, they spend only two years in jail. The prisoners have no way of communicating with each other. In this case, it is best for both prisoners not to confess and receive the shortest term sentence. The problem is whether or not they trust each other. If Prisoner A doesn’t confess, he risks being sold out by Prisoner B and will end up with seven years. The opposite is also true for Prisoner B. In a one-shot game, both prisoners will likely confess, as it is the most rational decision, and receive five years. This outcome is the Nash equilibrium.”

Continuing to stare blankly at Kozki, Kiros catches Lediv’s smirk. He tries to quell the anticipation resting in him as Lediv starts to raise his hand.

“Excellent job, Fircuel,” says Kozki. “You have something to add, Lex-lux?”

Speaking around a grin, Lediv inquires silkily, “Since Kiros clearly shows that he understands the prisoner’s dilemma and Nash equilibrium, I was wondering if he can apply his knowledge to this particular scenario.”

Without waiting for Kozki’s consent, Lediv launches into the details, the liquid sunshine of his voice an acute contrast to Kiros’ monotone. Mesmerizing. God-given.

“A most-wanted criminal and a respected police officer confront each other at gun-point. During the confrontation, they discover that the other person is a close friend. Assume that each gun contains only one bullet, the shot never misses its target, and that a gun wound is lethal. This is a one-shot game with two players who must choose between shooting and not shooting.

“In scenario one, the criminal shoots and the police officer doesn’t, which results in the criminal living and the officer dying. Scenario two is just the opposite. In scenario three, both of them shoot at the same time and die. In scenario four, neither shoots, so both walk away alive.

“For both players, the guilt from shooting their friend is painful, but not as much as their own death. However, letting the other person go results in repercussions worse than death. Given this information, which scenario produces the Nash equilibrium?”

Kiros immediately responds, his attention concentrated solely on the smug smile and glinting blue eyes across the room. The audience between them fades into the background; their stilted breathes form a tunnel of silence, amplifying the evenness and conviction of Kiros’ voice that cascades down its walls like sand over stone.

“No matter what one person does, it will always be in the other person’s best interest to shoot. Knowing this, both players will end up shooting, resulting in scenario three.”

The air around Lediv fluctuates, laden with an alien intensity that frightens Kiros. Tendrils of what he faintly recognizes as dread squeezes his heart as he stands transfixed before the onset of judgment. (Logically, it cannot be dread. Why should he be scared of a hypothetical case in economics class?)

Lediv drawls out his words, the force behind each enunciation staggering to a point where they can only be illusions. “Correct, they will both die. Now, which scenario would you choose to ensure that they both live?”

The sandy quality of his voice that flowed down the sound tunnel seems to return to his mouth in an unforgiving drought. Swallowing dryly, Kiros says, “The only scenario in which they both live is number four, if neither shoots. But that conflicts with their value system, because letting the other person live is worse than their own death. In this sense, there is no Nash equilibrium, the game is not played rationally, and there is no predictable solution.”

“Indeed.”

Lediv turns around, his air of intensity diffusing in the sweep of hushed awe. When Kiros blinks, he finds himself once again gazing at the back of a dozen heads.

Author's Note: This is probably my favorite chapter to date. I had a lot of fun writing it. Please review and let me know what you think!

(Sorry for the false update; I wanted to make some grammatical corrections in this chapter.)