Cademath

[Namira]

Charlie Cade Jr, if not calm, was doing a pretty good job at seeming to be calm.

She sat with a deep frown on her face, expression still, a mask of frustration.

All right, well, maybe not such a good job. Perhaps just at preventing the storm bubbling underneath the surface to explode out in a self-destructive wave of desperate anger.

It hadn't sank all the way in, but it had made it some of the way there, and Charlie felt like she was within a couple of inches of flying out of control. It was impotent rage and she knew it, and the fact that she knew it just stoked the anger further in a feedback loop of gut-churning helplessness.

Her feelings didn't count.

She'd found the knife just a few minutes after gathering her bearings. It was important to know what she was working with. The weapon was beautiful, in a terrible kind of way, crosshatched grip, a long blade, a black leather sheath, complete with belt.

Even though Charlie had held guns before, it was the most dangerous thing she'd ever seen.

She unsheathed it with a quiet shick. Back in. Shick.

Out. Shick.

In. Shick.

Charlie wasn't certain exactly how many people had been taken for the Program, so she was going to call it fifty, which was above average and ran less risk that she was lowballing it. All things being equal, she could call it a 1 in 50 chance of winning. Things weren't equal, which was kind of the idea; this was just the starting point. Right off, Charlie could half that chance. Although her weapon was a good draw, there would be better. Guns for example. Add the decent-not-amazing knife to what Charlie was going to temporarily term the 'random factor' (Not luck, she told herself. Unpredictability wasn't the same thing as luck) and that was easily dropping her chances to 1 in 100. Mishaps, bad breaks, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All of those could so easily catch her out.

Shick.

However, there were positives. Whilst it was early in the day, early in the game, not everyone would remain alive. Charlie's father had insisted she watch at least a little of the Program, emphasising that there were important strategic lessons to be taken from it, and it would be the closest thing to live combat she saw before experiencing it firsthand. Training exercises and wargames weren't the same.

It had been surreal, watching people struggle and die with her father at her side. He'd turned it into an exercise, asked her to assess the contestants and their tactics. She never disappointed her father, and had devoted extra time to studying it, even watching one of them from start to finish. Charlie hadn't enjoyed the experience, but her father had been right. Seeing that kind of violence hardened her in a way that no amount of cadet training could ever have done.

Shick.

She doubted that her father had ever expected or wanted Charlie to apply the knowledge firsthand.

That knowledge was how Charlie knew that people would already be dead. It was a high stress, high stakes situations and not everybody would be mentally prepared for it. Charlie didn't know if she was. Misunderstandings, paranoia, just random accidents; all of those would have been lethal in the game's first couple of hours.

Charlie would call it five dead already, and boost up her chances to 1 in 90. Tentatively.

Shick.

She also had to consider what she'd term the 'Cade factor'. Not her family name, but her knowledge and skills. She would be better equipped than many of her compatriots to handle this situation thanks to her combination of physical fitness, preparations and Program Intel. Others would have their own intrinsic factors of the same nature, although that didn't mean it'd affect her unless their factor was a ridiculous advantage like a machine gun. Charlie suspected that the Cade factor would count against her with some thanks to her reputation,  though, so she couldn't weight it too heavily.

Another 10% was reasonable.

That left her at a 1 in 81 chance. About 1.23% chance of winning. Living.

Shick.

So what could she do to bring that number up? A high kill count wasn't enough on its own, and at a certain point, killing multiple people off resulted in one's overall threat level increasing, nullifying the advantages that may have been gained with just one more kill. None of the highest scoring killers from the previous couple of games had won, though they hadn't been particularly smart about it either.

That having been said, it was impossible to overlook that she'd need to kill at some stage. Lay under the radar, and she was increasing the random factors exponentially by missing opportunities to gain more equipment and supplies. The risk of putting herself in harm's way wasn't just worth the reward, it was essential.

Shick.

Raw logic and numbers told Charlie that it was necessary. Uncertainty creeping through her sent the logic all-a-waver. In the Program, killing wasn't abstract or something your soldiers did or having to lay down or leave the field because you were 'out'. Killing was for keeps, and one mistake was a permanent end to it.

She tried to focus on the numbers again and just about squeezed those realities to the side.

A kill would maybe give her another 10, along with a second, but probably grant diminishing returns after that as she became more and more of a threat, especially because people wouldn't give her the benefit of
the doubt.

Shick.

Call it 1 in 65 if she could score two kills. Smart kills, where she wasn't getting hurt or on the bad side of a group of people. Allow for a big bonus if she could secure a gun, which she'd have a way better idea of how to use than most—that would let her knock off half of the additional 25% she counted in with the random factors.

Leaving her at what, 1 in 49, 50? Give herself maybe another 10% for the others who might have died in the meantime, likely more than the initial wave, but counting for less, given that some of the deaths would be resulting in her classmates becoming bigger threats too.

So, 1 in 45. If she could kill twice today, survive to the end, avoid being hurt and land herself a gun. 2.22 (recurring, couldn't forget that) percent chance of making it all the way through. At that point she could crunch some numbers, readjust certain factors, and threat assess.

Not too much of an ask, huh?

Shick.

Charlie looked down at the knife and turned it over between her hands.

Not much at all.

((In Rat In A Cage))