Chapter Text
In all things there must be hierarchy, and the world of reality television is not so much the exception as the rule itself. In a show based on competition among teenagers hungry for fame and fortune, the formation of a hierarchy is only to be expected. Naturally, the most ruthless rise to the top.
Alejandro has put much thought into this theory of reality television and its ensuing consequences, in the brief moments of relative peace and quiet he can find either within the confessional or accompanied by the symphony of Owen’s loud snores in the dead of night. The particular arrangement of such a hierarchy in its application is simple to discern.
At the bottom are the idiots. Said idiots tend to be loud, unfortunately, but also useful, as fodder or as tools. Lacking any form of reflective consciousness, or even the drive to actually win this stupid game, they operate on idiotic impulse, so Alejandro has little qualms with putting them to use. People like Tyler, Owen, or Izzy stand little chance of actually winning against real competition; thus, they best serve as pawns in the larger game, even if they erode Alejandro’s patience like little else.
The middle tier of the hierarchy consists of the competent but doomed, Sierra being the archetypal example. Distressingly effective and driven, yet distracted from the ultimate end by her own fixations. She doesn’t possess the distance from the situation necessary to see the game for what it is, consumed by pettier projects as she is.
But she’s still dangerous, and Alejandro has to take care with her and those on her level.
Only a few of those who play the game stand a real chance of winning. Himself, obviously, with Heather close behind. Unfortunately, she can’t progress beyond schoolyard pettiness or sustain a mask long enough to truly control a pawn of her own. He could neutralize her easily enough, and she walks a fragile line as is, her place within her own team far from guaranteed while his own remains uncontested.
Yet a frustrating blank spot persists on the web of hierarchy that Alejandro is assembling from the center outwards, stitch by stitch. A contestant remains unaccounted for in the vast ecosystem of which Alejandro is the apex predator.
Noah.
He’s… disengaged. He seems not to care about the contest, an outlier among a field of challengers for whom determination is the common descriptor. This means, of course, that it’s hard to unravel him. While others blab about their grievances with the slightest coaxing, Noah buries himself within his books, emerging to contribute a caustic remark here and there that has Alejandro’s mask shaking with suppressed laughter.
Sometimes Noah locks eyes with Alejandro and shares a long-suffering sigh at whatever nonsense fate—otherwise known as Chris McLean—has decided to burden them with today, as if they’re the only two people in the room with enough sense to be cynical, which, of course, they are. But how does he know that? How had he instantly picked up on the fact that Alejandro threw the final challenge in Sweden to manipulate Leshawna? Alejandro’s careful to present only the blandest, most positive face to his fellow contestants—at least until his triumph is assured, at which point he allows himself a moment to gloat, he has to take what little satisfaction he can get with these people—so why would his own teammate suspect him enough to look in the first place?
Heather knows about him, but she’s long since lost credit with the other contestants (through her own carelessness) and so no one listens to her when she calls him a snake. She had recognized his true self near-instantly; something rotten in her must have found him out beneath the artifice, like drawn to like.
But Noah? Noah’s a mystery.
Or perhaps that’s too generous. Alejandro might be paranoid, seeing things that aren’t there and substituting the illusion of depth for the real thing. Perhaps Noah’s lack of care is nothing more than what it seems, or else a cover for true incompetence. Maybe he’s so brain-dead he can’t be bothered to try, and just covers his weakness with a thin veneer of sarcasm.
(That’s certainly the impression Alejandro got from Noah’s pitiful performance during the first season of the show, which of course he had watched for research. Or at least part of it. What he could stomach.
What can he say? He has a low tolerance for idiocy.)
Something tells Alejandro he won’t be so lucky with Noah. He’s noticed how often Noah comes up with an ingenious little solution that helps them along to the finish line.
Still, it warrants investigation, just to fill in the blank at the edge of his design, his taxonomy of television.
Predator? Or prey?
He gets Noah alone after the challenge in Jamaica. Tyler and Owen are… somewhere other than the First Class cabin. Alejandro doesn’t question it and counts his blessings. Owen tends to be quite attached to Noah, and Alejandro prefers avoid any interactions with his less… tactful teammates that he can.
Noah is sitting on one of the garish golden faux-velvet couches that look like they belong in the 1970s—maybe Noah had a point with that quip he’d made about Chris’s age—book in hand, though he hasn’t turned a page since Alejandro walked in a few minutes ago.
One point for the “more-than-he-seems” theory, if he has enough sense to pay attention to Alejandro.
Alejandro approaches him casually, the picture of the affable do-gooder he’s tricked these idiots into believing he is, and says, voice light and scrubbed of every ounce of bitterness and guile, “Hello, fellow teammate!”
Noah finally looks up from his book at him, eyes half-open and lidded like he’s irritated at being dragged from his reading. It’s an act, of course, since he hasn’t read a page, but it’s a good act. Could fool someone stupider than Alejandro. “Do you need something?” he faux-asks, voice dripping with derision.
Taking a stance like an earnest hero in a Shakespeare play, Alejandro reads his lines. “I was just wondering if you had any thoughts about the competition so far. It’s valuable for our team to communicate, considering how the Amazons are all at each other’s throats lately.” The fact that he hasn’t really done this before with either Tyler or Owen is painfully evident—he could only endure brief doses of those two, even if he did think they were worth listening to, which he didn’t—but it’s a deliberate hole in his argument. A test.
Noah’s eyes open fully and he sets his book down beside him. “Well, this is new. And here I thought you were content to suffer in silence carrying us dead-weights to victory each week.”
Very good.
“What? No! Of course I value my teammates’ contributions!” Excepting the many times he had ranted in the confessional about how useless these people are.
“Mhm. I’m sure you do. But anyways, I don’t have much to say. Team Victory is all gone, which is a bit surreal. Feels almost… scripted, how quickly that team went down.” Noah gives him a look, posture stiff. “But I worked for Chris for a bit, and believe me, the budget is so cheap there’s no chance the scriptwriters are getting paid for anything more than the crappy ‘jokes’”—Noah physically makes the fingerquotes, emphasizing his scorn—“Chris inflicts on us when he monologues.
“As for our team, you’ve certainly done a good job taking care of things. I’ve been pretty content to sit back and enjoy the ride, after my rather pathetic showing last time.”
This is a perfect opening. Alejandro affixes the most placid smile in his arsenal, laminated with gentle condescension that coaxes its recipients to acknowledge his superiority on their own terms. You are weak, but that’s alright. You can trust me. “Oh, don’t sell yourself short, friend! I’m sure there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
The tone is a bit much, honestly, but he doesn’t have a plan of attack here. He’s been too distracted by more pressing threats and irritants to pay much attention to Noah, beyond amusement at a spiteful joke here and there. Besides, the point is more to assess how dangerous Noah might be than to manipulate him toward a particular conclusion.
“What, like there is with you?” Noah gives him a carefully blank look in return, a hint of smugness seeping through his oil-slick eyes.
Alejandro feels his own eyes tighten with irritation, the moss-green warmth of them calcifying into hard chips of jade. How does he know? Is Alejandro that easy to read? “I must confess that I have no idea what you mean, friend.”
“I think you do.”
“Oh? Please, enlighten me.”
Noah seems to weigh something in his mind for a moment before speaking. “I know you messed with Leshawna to get her booted off the show. You’ve probably done a lot more than that, but I don’t have any hard evidence. Things line up way too well, though. Like with DJ. I wasn’t up there doing the challenge, but the track must have been wrecked between the time you and Tyler went sledding and when DJ went, and given that you were the second person on your board, it was the perfect position for sabotage. Just in time for him to lose all that confidence you encouraged in him too.
“You’re not that subtle, you know. Everyone here is just too brainless to see what’s in front of them.”
Okay. That… was a lot. Alejandro’s a bit impressed, honestly. Noah had put together much more than he’d expected. But he could work with this. “That’s… an awful lot of speculation, friend.” He leans down from his position standing in front of the other boy, so that their eyes are almost at an even level, Alejandro’s just a few centimeters above Noah’s. “And what do you plan to do with it?”
Noah meets his gaze, a hint of nervousness slipping through his composure. He’s afraid. “Well, there’s not much I can do—”
“Then why would you say anything? Why not keep it shut up in that big brain of yours?” Alejandro says, with more aggression than he’d meant to show. Stupid of him, but he’s a bit rattled by being figured out so easily.
“Because I don’t trust you at all?” There’s that irreverence again. “Neither of us are in a position to get rid of the other at this point. I can convince Owen to vote against you, but I’ve barely even spoken to Tyler, and I’m sure you’ve already got your hooks in him enough to influence his vote.”
“An impasse, indeed. But I still don’t see why you’d expose yourself like this.”
“Because you’re useful. Like I said, you’ve carried this team almost singlehandedly, and I like to win as much as you do.”
“And, what, you think you can outplay me at this game? Use me and then throw me away when I’m too much of a threat?” Alejandro’s fake smile widens into something realer, more bitter in its baring of teeth. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
Noah barks out an unrefined laugh. It’s grating, how unrepentantly himself he is. “It’s a bad position to be in either way, but you would have figured me out at some point. You just forced my hand, and I’d like to actually survive this season. Even if I can’t coast to the finish, I’d rather not sink.”
“Ah, yes, you were particularly tactless last time… So what do you propose? An alliance?” Alejandro raises an eyebrow at the idea, and Noah’s eyes follow the movement.
“No,” he drawls. “Frankly, I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you—”
“Not very far!” Alejandro interjects brightly.
Noah rolls his eyes. “—Not very far, no. The point being—”
Alright, this had already been quite entertaining, but it was time to retake control.
Alejandro straightens his back and gazes down imperiously at Noah. “Friend, as much as I admire your deductions, you neglected to consider something. In the event that the votes of our team are evenly split, Chris will force a tiebreaker challenge, and as much as I… respect your talents, I trust my ability to win such a challenge more.”
Noah gives him that unimpressed mask one more time, irritated at the interruption. He clearly hadn’t overlooked this eventuality, but he’d been hoping Alejandro had. So sad that his teammate thought so little of him.
“But I do think it’d be useful to have someone on this team who isn’t a total idiot.” Emphasis on the total. Alejandro places a hand to his chest and allows a quiver of emotion to enter his voice, the picture of long-suffering. “It’s been so hard to corral this team on my own.
“I could use some help.”
The cabin is quiet for a few moments after Alejandro’s proclamation. Noah’s eyes are wide, Alejandro’s words having finally broken through his impassive posturing.
“Wait a minute. So you want an alliance. With me.” The words drip with caustic skepticism.
Got him. “Well, it isn’t ideal, but my options are limited. Prove you’re worth keeping around, and I’ll take us to the final two.”
Noah recovers from his shock and leans back against that ugly, ugly couch. “But why? What do you even get out of this?”
“An ally—one I can keep under my thumb—and a reprieve from idiocy.” Alejandro gestures between the two of them. “You’re the only decent conversation on this deathtrap, except Heather.”
He deliberately omits the far less flattering truth: that this is a ploy thought up on the spot to keep Noah quiet by implicating him in Alejandro's more... underhanded maneuvers. Workable, but it's hardly ideal to shackle himself to the other boy like this. Hopefully that cynical streak would win out over any more heroic impulses, and Noah would shut up to save his own skin and reap the benefits that a partnership with Alejandro would provide—for a while, at least.
“And what’s to stop you from betraying me at any moment?”
“Absolutely nothing, of course. But what was it you so eloquently said?” Alejandro turns and begins to leave the room, posture deliberately relaxed in assurance of victory. “If you can’t coast, you’d rather not sink.”
He feels Noah’s gaze burning a hole in his back as he pauses at the exit. Casting a glance over his shoulder at the other boy who sits stiffly on the couch, Alejandro delivers the final line.
“So start swimming.”
Alejandro loves the confessional, would marry this cramped, depressing little bathroom if he could, if only for the moments of peace it affords him, away from the screaming and insipid arguments his fellow contestants seem to generate spontaneously. He comes here often, just to sort through his thoughts and add some interpretive flair to his actions out in the world of the game. He understands more than most the importance of playing to an audience and welcomes the opportunity to explain away whatever mortifying embarrassment the sadists who produce this show force him to undergo on a given day. More than that, he relishes the ability to stop performing for a moment.
Or at least to change masks, the kind and helpful team leader in favor of the perfect villain. Two ends on the tightrope of perfection Alejandro has wobbled atop for much of his life. At this point, he’s the consummate performer. Even Noah, for all the pleasure he clearly took in unraveling his plots and ploys thus far, has only seen through one mask in favor of another.
Now, how to spin this particular development for the audience? How to deliver the illusion of complete control, even if this “alliance” with Noah was comparatively perilous by his exacting standards?
The words come to him like lines he’s been reading for his entire life.
“Finally, a worthy diversion. This will require a defter touch than most of my plans so far, but it was getting a little too easy lately. Boring, even.”
Perhaps this “alliance” would be his undoing. Perhaps he’d overextended in his efforts to preserve the status quo he’s developed so far and keep Noah quiet. But if an unequal partnership with Noah, fueled by mutually assured destruction, destroys him, at least he will drag the other boy down with him.
But first, the parting words before the curtain falls on this opening scene.
“With a little coaxing Noah could turn out to be quite the predator indeed.
“On a leash.”