red

[aunter]

R E D > You enter the door and find yourself in a glass box, suspended in the sky. Bright blue skies, white fluffy clouds, even birds pass by in the air around you. One look down and you see grass fields and sprawling lakes as far as the eye can see. Some wild horses running across the fields, some cows, just exactly what you'd expect. It's idyllic as fuck. Then the words appear:

Comments

[cutlery]

[ This is more logical than Sebastian expected, honestly, and it actually helps to soften his attitude somewhat. He listens attentively and curiously, and he ends up nodding by the end. ]

Yes. It does make sense.

[ It's a human one, after all, and that's likely why it hadn't occurred to him. He's more prone to think of things from the gamemaster's position, since, well. It's already occurred to him that this is absolutely the kind of games that demons like to play. It's just not his particular sort. ]

I suppose it is a matter of faith [ gross ]</small but I still do worry about the valuation. But we needn't fret over it further. I do not think meditating on what constitutes value and equality in experience would help us terribly much. Though this dilemma may be somewhat easier if the wheel lands on one of us? It is far more blind if it were to be the other group.

[lost_first]

And you think this all a... trust exercise?

[ He's a little incredulous, mostly because he's sitting there with the memories of all of his loved ones ripped out of his head. And there's Sebastian, agreeing with him while the stink of his pets and his master's head sits in a box at his feet.

He takes a steadying breath.]

Peter- [ and now this is more familiar ] that's all well and good. But the rules negate that possibility: if you both do the same, both are punished.

[wheatcake]

No no, I'm not done. There are variations of the Prisoner's Dilemma. It's called the Donation Game. If One gives something greater than Two, One loses. If Two gives something greather than One, Two loses. If they give something of equal value, they neither win nor lose. If they give nothing, they neither win nor lose.

The set of rules we've been given reverse that by adding a punishment component. But think about it-- I've told you about two versions of this dilemma. All of them have four outcomes.

[He gestures emphatically to the paper.]

That only has three.

[cutlery]

...Ah.

[ He reaches towards his brow to massage it lightly. ]

They have a fondness for that number, don't they?

[lost_first]

Unless the fourth one will just be considered 'equal value'.

Because it likes threes more than fours.

[ He looks to the wheel.]

Not to mention that we have no way of communicating this plan to the others. So if the wheel goes to one of them, we can't even test your plan.

[wheatcake]

Exactly! So- God, I wish I had some paper.

The way this game is set up is meant to punish cooperation and reward defection. In a normal game of Prisoner's Dilemma, the missing option on there is double defection. I'd posit this is because it doesn't want us to know what defection counts for.

But it still actually rewards generosity, if not cooperation.

My working model would be... we spin the wheel. If we land on someone not in this room, it's in our best interest to give the most generous thing possible. If it lands on someone who is in this room, we should work on figuring out what counts as a double-defection.

[He spreads his hands a little, as though he's just finished a long powerpoint presentation.] Does that make sense?

[cutlery]

Then we should hope that it is one of us, rather then the other group. They seemed fine enough people, but who knows how their own trials have been going?

[ like. sara especially? fuckin rip ]

[wheatcake]

No! Don't you see? None of the options reward selfishness.

Look at it like: give a big gift, and the only punishment is the possibility of giving something equal. Only one out of three options is bad.

Give a small gift, and two out of three options are bad.

Giving a bigger gift is the best choice. Statistically.

[lost_first]

[ It's a difficult thing. Harder than Peter knows; there's centuries of having trusted someone, someone who seemed to have the answers, who always knew how to make him believe time after time after time even as countless boys died all around them. His fingers tighten on the wheel.

It doesn't feel right. He's certain there's a trick, not to winning but to losing.
Some way to make even Peter's plan fall through.

But he closes his eyes, nods... and spins the wheel.]

[cutlery]

[ ...this is definitely a continuing conversation while the wheel is spinning ]

I believe I do understand? My point was more that while we are thinking this through, can we assume the same of the other side? Statistically, that is the optimal choice, but simply more optimal if the gifts remain in this group where it has been reasoned out.

[ As the wheel starts to slow, he waves his hand dismissively. ]

...Well, regardless, let us see.

[wheatcake]

It doesn't matter, because... oh, God. That kid's like thirteen.

[lost_first]

[ Jamie grits his teeth and it's hard. He doesn't really have much.

But he'd always been taught: from the least, what little you have is more for it.

Which is why he offers the last piece of Sal he really has, what was born on that moonlit night as they walked together through the trees, on the night where he'd realized what he might feel for her that he'd felt for no other beyond Peter.

His hope of escape.]