Once their new, hypothetical situation had been realized by all in the room, the interest of the students was safely grasped. All of them were intrigued about this new exercise they were being given, and all wanted to know more.
"I want you all to imagine you're stood outside this bunker. In the distance all you can see are vast clouds of volcanic ash. Deadly gas, molten debris…generally not a situation you want to find yourselves in, I think we can all agree."
"Okay, so…there's only eight beds. I'm sure we could alternate who sleeps where, ration the food supplies. I'm not seeing how this is going to be difficult"
The teacher simply shook his head, rendering Courfeyrac's suggestion pointless.
"I'm afraid that's not an option, and I'll tell you why. In this room here…are the generators." Clicking back a page or two, he settled on one of the previous animations; this time of a dark, plain room.
"All the breathable oxygen, once the outside doors are closed, will come from this room. It has been measured precisely to support exactly eight people for one year. Try to cram anyone else into the bunker, you'll all suffocate."
"Wait…what are you asking us, then? You're asking us to decide who stays in the bunker and who doesn't?" Asked Cosette, glancing from Marius to the teacher. "I don't want to have to do that – how are we meant to decide something like that?"
"With these." Her answer came in the form of a small box, filled with small cards. Leaning up from his desk, the teacher shook them up a little as he stepped towards each student one at a time, waiting for a card to be taken before moving onto the next person.
"Don't open your cards yet. Don't turn them over. We'll go through them one at a time."
As the rest of the class chose their cards, Grantaire fiddled with his – not turning it over or unfolding it to reveal anything, but just creasing down the corners, doodling meaningless symbols across the front. Once they all had one, the teacher returned to the front of his desk, perching on the edge as he addressed them again.
"Each of your cards contains a profession. A certain skillset. When you've heard them all, you'll all have to argue your case; why should you have a slot in the bunker? And, in turn, it'll be up to your colleagues to weigh your worthiness when it comes to bringing you in, or leaving you to rot."
"Charming…" Joly muttered across to Bossuet, who just pulled a face of agreement.
Motioning for the first student to read theirs, the teacher waited as Jehan turned his over first. When he smiled, the teacher found himself doing the same, albeit more curiously.
"I'm a published poet."
"Why do you seem happy about that?"
The question quietened the young man's expression immediately, but he still explained himself anyway.
"…I write poetry as a hobby anyway. I just find it funny that it's the card I got."
"But what can a poet bring to the bunker?" Pushed another voice, one unheard up till this point. Turning in his seat, Jehan met the eyes of Montparnasse's neighbour – Claquesous – with a gentle challenge of his own.
"Entertainment, inspiration, relaxation. We'll need those things to keep morale up."
The man across the room had his hood up, despite the heat, although the bright sunlight made it all the more difficult for him to keep up his ever-present air of mystery. His voice wasn't harsh in the most common sense, but in the way that it gets under your skin. Like a slow acting venom, his insults stayed with you and his arguments continued to irritate long after a debate had come to a close. Slowly leaning forward, he gave Jehan a slight sneer.
"I'll wager I can think of ten ways I'd rather relax than listen to you go on and on about a tiger's fearful symmetry."
"Let's see if we can get through the list before we start decision making. Let's hear from…Grantaire. What have you got for us?"
Rolling his eyes, Jehan gave his attention to his friend, who was pulled out of his doodle-driven daydream to turn his card over.
"I'm a farmer."
"Useful…alright, next?"
One by one, the cards were read out; Joly was an electrician, Bossuet a freelance illustrator. Musichetta was a classically trained ballet dancer, Eponine a neurosurgeon, and Cosette a psychiatrist, while Combeferre was a lawyer, and Courfeyrac a mechanic. Feuilly got to be a chemist, Marius a soldier. Montparnasse became an actor, Claquesous a veterinarian, Bahorel an architect, and Babet a singer.
"Quite a list…last but not least, Enjolras. What've you got for us?"
"I'm a survival expert." He replied quickly; in all honesty, he either wanted to continue with the experiment or be let out early. Whichever would distract him from the fact that he felt like he was melting slowly from the inside out.
"Alright. We've heard everyone's professions. All valid in one way or another, but in the face of human beings becoming close to extinct, what skills will you want to preserve for the future? I'm going to ask you to stand up one by one now, in the order you read out your cards, and your peers will decide if they want you in the bunker with them or not. You're free to argue your case if you see fit. But first, this room needs a little…rearranging."
As ordered, the room was soon divided into two sections, with desks and chairs placed into rows and turned to face each other across an aisle. With everyone sat down, the teacher turned to the crestfallen poet.
"Jehan, I know we've already heard two sides to yours, but did you have anything to add?"
"No, not really." He replied, with a small, resigned shrug, though his voice was still light. "I'd like to live. I think I could be useful. I mean, we're not just what our cards say, right? I have a knowledge of several different languages, which would be helpful if we needed to communicate with other survivors-"
"But that's not what you're being judged on." Montparnasse added, with less sharpness to his tone than his friend had had. "Sorry Keats, but I'm voting against. Anyone else?"
And with that, Jehan was out. Taking his turn, Grantaire gave a brief summary of why he should be allowed to stay, and was voted in fairly fast, as was Joly, Eponine, Cosette, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. While his voting-in hadn't strictly been in order, it had been fairly unanimous that his were skills they'd need once the year in the bunker was up. However, once it got around to Bahorel, and as he stood to deliver his argument, the teacher's attention was caught by Musichetta's hand suddenly going up.
"Who are you in this situation? You've already counted yourself in with the rest of us, so what's your profession?"
A sly smile spread across the teacher's face.
"I'm glad someone thought to ask me that."
"So, we have to consider you as well?"
"You don't have to, no. But I recommend you do. I'm simply 'the wild card'. You don't know what skills I have, what I could be useful for." With a glance shot around the room at the faces of sudden uncertainty, the teacher turned to Bahorel, whose slot he'd been sure was guaranteed. With only one place left, he'd been sure he'd be voted in, what with his being followed by a singer – a profession he knew wouldn't be valued too highly.
"I could be ten times as useful as an architect, or even less help than a singer."
This new revelation brought new doubt into the room, with people looking to their choices and suddenly weighing them against this new, potential big win.
"Guys, come on – No offence Babs, but I think you can stay sat down." The other student went to argue, but Montparnasse gave him a look of agreement, shaking his head as if to say; 'don't make an ass of yourself, you know you got a shit card.'
"You'll need someone with a knowledge of architecture. We'll need someone who can build shelters, bridges, dams. Maybe not in the coming year, but in the future, my skills will be more than valuable. And besides – with me, you know what you're getting. You know I'll be useful. With a wildcard, you get landed with a cashier or a youtuber."
At the offended look he got from Musichetta, he offered her a sickeningly charming smile in apology.
"You know what I mean."
"I'm voting him in." Enjolras said at last, his naturally authoritative voice breaking through the low mumble of discussion like the final crack of a gavel in a courthouse.
"The risk of losing out is too high. I'd rather be safe than sorry." Putting his hand up, he looked to Combeferre. "Anyone else?"
One by one, the votes were cast; the wild card lost his slot to the architect. With everyone in their final seats, the teacher looked at the winning members of the class with a slow nod of approval.
"Well done…all very logical choices. So, what will you do now?"
"By now, we wouldn't have much time to waste. I say we go in, shut the doors, and make ourselves at home." Suggested Courfeyrac – an idea met with agreement from the others. And with permission from the teacher, the room was rearranged again, now with all the desks forming some kind of wall between the winners, and the losers, who could only practice their horrific deaths, watch others do so in amusement, or pretend to be heartbroken at being separated from loved one's who were now safely behind the hypothetical, reinforced glass of the bunker.
"You've all been buzzed in, you're all inside, and the doors are closed forever. What happens now?"
There was a general response of 'get used to the place', or 'find out how everything works and then discuss the hard decisions they had to make. Only one person, however, didn't seem so willing to settle. Clearing his throat, Joly waited for general quiet before speaking.
"Sir? Now that the voting's finished, I'm curious – what would you have brought to the bunker?"
"That's a good point – what did we sacrifice to keep Bahorel around?" Added Grantaire, clapping his friend on the back, who in turn crossed his fingers and, in a stage whisper, began to chant; "Please be a bin man, please be a bin man…"
Without a word, the teacher went to his laptop, and opened something else over the slideshow of pictures of the bunker. Within seconds, an AVI file was playing in full screen; it showed the doors of the bunker, and a simplistically animated man walking towards the camera. A moment later, he brought out a card, and pressed it to the glass of the doors. Only when it'd zoomed in on the writing did the winner's smiles fade.
'I'm the only one who knows the bunker's exit code.'