Death

An alarm blared, and twelve scientists in marred lab coats barged into a room. Smoke filled the air, choking them and stinging their eyes and throats. The acrid gasses tore through them, compromising their lungs as the alarm pounded against their ears and minds.

In the corner of the room, a tall man with closed eyes sat in an office chair behind his desk, invisible because of the dense smoke. He was alone, left behind by his colleagues in their panicked evacuation. His face was calm, and his body was still. His hands were folded in his lap, and he didn't seem to notice his coworkers who had barged in or the ubiquitous screech from the alarm. He was forcing himself to stay still and see this through.

The conflagration had yet to breach the room, but it was just outside the door opposite the new arrivals. 

A noble man coughed and ordered, "Jim, try the next door!" With a thick and full beard, he was built and looked like the incarnation of a Norse god. In a strained voice, he yelled, "Everybody else, stay down! Avoid the smoke!"

Obediently, another large man with brown hair ran across the room and tried to bust it open but was burned by the scorching metal. "Fire's on the other side! Can't get through!"

"Shit!" Staying low on his hands and knees, he coughed again and ordered, "Where's the fire lever! Somebody find it!" 

Frantically, they tried to peer through the smoke to catch a glimpse of their white salvation, the manual trigger for the suppression system, but whoever had designed the system was either incompetent or impaired, as it was placed just high enough to be covered by the smoke and thus completely invisible. 

As the coughing worsened, the man with the folded hands still sat, unperturbed and silent. The smoke was choking him, but he didn't fight back. The alarm annoyed him, the noise clouding his mind, but he still refused to pull the white lever directly to his right. Why was this? What could drive a man to not only refuse to save his own life but condemn others to death as well?

In his case, nothing. Nothing was driving him to condemn them. It was simply a complete indifference, lack of motivation, drive, or care for anything that made him feel like he couldn't be bothered to lift the sword from their necks. To him, the value of everything was nothing. Their lives weren't worth the energy to raise his hand and pull a lever. Was he enlightened or an idiot?

His lack of empathy as he heard and refused to stop the torture of the people he worked alongside for so long made a solid argument for a third case, psychopathy, and insanity, but neither was actually true.

Their panicked cries grew in fervor and frequency until the leader of the group yelled in a hoarse voice, "We're going back! E-" He fell into a coughing fit. "Everybody, make your way to my voice!" His throat was sore and red, and his voice was starting to go out, but he still tried to help as many people as he could as he made his way to the door they came from.

But, before he could make it out, a massive cracking sound echoed, and the roof caved in outside the door in a damning cacophony.

"Fuck! N-" Another coughing fit hit him. "No!" The heat was growing to be unbearable as it poured in, so he moved behind one of the four desks in the octagonal room, away from the two doors. A few women in the group screamed, and a few men began to cry silently while others cursed.

The man with the key to their salvation remained still. When his voice recovered a bit, the leader yelled as best he could, though he was still quiet because of what the smoke did to his voice, "Everybody, back here!" On his command, most of the group crawled over to him.

"Pray, all of you! Pray! Pray we can get out! Please! Please!" He began to beg as several among the group began to mutter prayers to whoever they believed might save them. None were religious, but the moment of death is the most common place to find God.

Any hope. Any hope at all is better than none. So it was with them. The straws they were grasping at were gone, so they tried to create their own and find the straws they were told existed but never believed were real.

Still unmoved, the man with folded hands began to think, 'Why? Why do they try so hard? Just be quiet already. Does it matter? Really? Any of this? I know none of you believe in any of these ridiculous lies. Just be quiet and let us die in peace already.' Then, he began to think about what was different between them.

There was clearly something motivating these people, so what was it? What did they have that he didn't? The blonde man had a family. He had two sons and a beautiful wife, but they shouldn't matter to him. A human life has as much value as any immaterial object because life is just made of objects that are immaterial. 

What about the others? What did they have? He mulled it over but came up blank as he realized most were like him. Then, an epiphany hit him. 'Oh, I see. Ha! How could I be so blind! They haven't taken the time to think about what it all really means. They just go with the flow, and when something scares them, they get scared. When something they're told is bad happens, they cry. They don't spend the time to think about what is actually bad and what you should actually be scared of. They haven't realized that death is as meaningless as life. Idiots, all of them.'

But when he finished his thoughts, his poise was interrupted by his own coughs as he unfolded his hands to let it out into a fist. The temperature was rising in the room, but he pretended not to notice.

The group couldn't bear it anymore, and several broke down into sobs and huddled together. Then, a section of the roof in the middle of the room collapsed with a sound like thunder and let in more heat as black ceiling tiles cascaded into the corridor in the middle. The air began to shimmer, and breathing seared their mouths and noses as they were slowly cooked. 

The lucky ones had already choked on the smoke and passed out, but the others were less fortunate.

As the others' cries were growing quieter and the air seared his eyes, a tear leaked from his left eyelid. The heat was ubiquitous and extreme as the paper on the desks began to curl up and burn into wisps. The tear on his cheek evaporated before it was halfway to his chin.

The conflagration's heat blinded him when he opened his eyes. He could feel it in his nasal cavity when he breathed. It was burning his face, neck, and back as he rocked back and forth in agony, wishing he had chosen an easier death. As more of the roof came down, the suppression system fell from the ceiling and crashed onto the floor, making him realize that the white lever was useless. There was no salvation.

He would never admit it, but as blood leaked from the walls of his throat and began to boil, he was scared. His fingers were becoming ash in front of his eyes; if only he could open them to see it. The slow death the man refused to prevent consumed them all.