The Philosophers' Game

Chapter 14: My Moral Compass Spins

Chapter 14: My Moral Compass Spins

Plato was the initial one to stop laughing at the absurdity of the fire we'd just put out. I first noticed the disillusionment return to his brown eyes, which lost their happy shine when they settled on Socrates looking at me, and it quickly spread down his face to his mouth. Plato's wide grin turned into a hard, straight line and his voice died out completely. I stopped giggling, and so did the other three Philosophers. Evidently our teamwork was not strong enough to dispel the divisive thought of the Open Forum fire alarm from our minds; this brief collaboration was nothing more than a false hope, a fleeting minute of white sunshine before the continuation of a dark gray rainstorm.

"This fire had to be the work of the outsider," I said in an attempt to redirect the unspoken conversation. After all, our secret base had just been attacked and everyone knows that if an army doesn't stand united in defense, it will fall.

A hollow-sounding "Yeah" was all Plato said, then we were plunged into silence once more. Aristotle, Diogenes, and I looked back and forth between him and Socrates, nervously awaiting an explosion. Finally, Plato shook his head and questioned, "What the hell were you thinking?"

Socrates shifted in place. "I didn't pull that alarm. I was just...going to the bathroom."

"Do you really expect us to believe that?" Plato hissed. "If that's true, why didn't you just say it in the first place, deny it right off the bat? Why did you wait until I brought it up?"

"Because I thought you knew me well enough to realize that I would never stoop so low!" Socrates shouted in response. He paused, then spoke again, his voice much quieter but just as angry, "Frankly, I'm insulted. This is just like when the outsider framed me with that note for threatening to get you expelled for vandalism. Can't you see?"

"Yes, I do see. Only this time I don't believe a word you're saying," Plato said, loading his words with as much spite as he could muster. "If I hurt your precious little feelings, oh well. I'm terribly sorry."

I saw Socrates clench his fists as if he wanted to punch Plato right in the face. But he knew as well as any of us that as a football player and wrestler, Plato was the strongest and would doubtlessly win the fight.

"Socrates..." I started to whisper warningly.

"Stop right there, little Soviet," he interrupted sadly, woundedly, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "I can tell you've officially switched sides and I don't blame you. I just wish there was something I could do to change your mind."

"Me, too," I wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, I watched the curly-haired heir of a business empire walk noiselessly back to his black Cadillac. I felt the other Philosophers' eyes on me, though they stayed mum as well. I guessed they were afraid to ask what Socrates had really meant, particularly by "little Soviet."

"We should get out of here," Aristotle suggested. "Just in case someone did see us." Diogenes, Plato, and I nodded, then we headed back to the van. No one talked for the entire ride.

.

Back at home, I finished my homework and showered, meaning to go to bed earlier than normal. However, I ended up just tossing and turning for hours. I had a calculus test the next morning, but I was way more worried about what was going on with Socrates. With the outsider. With the game.

It was past midnight when my phone beeped with a text from Benny, or Plato.

Are you okay?

After a couple hours of struggling with internal turmoil, I caught myself smiling. Yeah, just thinking. Are you?

Still pissed off, but fine.