Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 - A Mother's Love (VV)

FAMILY COMES FIRST - 1

What is a game without pieces to play with?

There would be no way to track the points, the progress, the evident winner. Just an empty sheet of black and white squares, maybe the colors switch if you've got one of those fancy boards, but it's the same all the way around. And yes, using makeshift pieces was always an option, but what if you sat in an empty room, four walls of white on either side of you, and the only objects you could possibly use wee syringes? You wouldn't think of risking a prick to the finger in favor of winning, now, would you?

No, you wouldn't, unless you had some bit of masochism you've been suppressing until the time came for you to claim a victory. So you'd improvise - you'd press your fingertips to the squares, somehow keeping track even though you knew your fingers were slipping into the surrounding squares. With every move it would only get worse, the chaos of entanglement entrapping your fingers in the hands of your opponent.

You'd get distracted, flick your eyes up to the one that wants you to fail most, and play your own little game, one separate from the palpable one your fingers trail. Instead of moving your makeshift pawns across the board, you'd move them across your enemy. Nails would rake skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The enemy is caught off guard in a wave of shivers as your hands become weapons, weapons that take the cloth of collars and use them to their advantage. A yank, and then you've got two options at the ready: one, smash your lips against your competitor's in a wet, slobbery kiss and call it a victory all in itself; two, take those pawns and press them against his throat.

You'd call "checkmate!" when the King met an Adam's apple, you'd scream in pleasure when the Queen bit down on the enemy's lips. Knights and Rooks, they'd defend against the desperate clawing of the one you've defeated. Whether you were one to suck or stab, the result would always be the same: victory.

Vita did not, in any way, call the cold hands sucking on the skin of her arms a victory. Vita did not, in any way, call the way eyes stabbed her with speculation a victory. But she didn't call it a loss, either. The game had just begun, and these people were unsure of whether to carelessly enlist their confidence in her (like people typically did) or not. That was all. Whether they wrote their names down on her checklist of people to please, she didn't care.

But if they did, they'd better damn well do it in permanent ink.

No point in doing it in the first place if they're just going to drown me in eraser shavings. Vita let the men and women in white lab coats and white skin and white hair and white eyes and white everything lead her over to a counter, a counter which displayed a neat row of two dozen syringes. Without meaning to, she found herself snickering. A game of chess before they make pawns of us. Gold.

Gold. From where she stood, she thought she saw liquid wealth swirling in those needles. Briefly, she recalled an old fairytale, a story that told of a man who made gold of everything he touched. The details were hazy - it'd been a decade since her mother had told her the tale - but the overall base remained. He'd been selfish, and even with riches aplenty, he'd been unsatisfied. Only when he lost those he held dear did he see the destruction in his gift.

Ever since, she'd hated the rich, and relished another tale, one of a man who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Perhaps once upon a time there'd been two sides to the story, one of those robbed and one of those sustained. But what rich man really earns his keep nowadays?

Certainly not the white people surrounding her. They were paid an insurmountable amount of wealth just to hold her arms and pick up a needle. They knew nothing of the substance they were about to inject her with, only that they were supposed to inject her with it. The masterminds of Three had probably been behind it all, and they got scraps and a whipping in return. The tailors of Eight had sewn the coats they wore, and for what? More grease and grime to paint their face, not even a bar of soap given as compensation for their efforts.