Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 // The Masquerade Ball (C.STRAY)

THE TRUTH COMES SECOND - 1 

Carrick was often the sort to ask himself: will my face give me away?

It was something he'd been asking himself a lot lately, especially with the prospect of having his face broadcasted to the nation, where people he didn't even know could pick his features apart and glue them back together in all the wrong places to come to their own conclusions. A twitch in the brow meant he was afraid, a quiver in the corner of a smirk meant he was uncertain, a steeple in the fingers meant he was impatient.

All of those things were true, he just didn't appreciate the notion that these things would be what made him a person to strangers he'd never meet. These strangers could dictate exactly what happened to him, and it all rested upon the moves in his face.

His worries were all for nothing, however, since he wouldn't have to deal with his face, not that night, at least. He became aware of this when he was faced with a dilemma in the mirror and a mask in his palm. A heavy swallow slid down the back of his throat like thick mud, and he exhaled heat - the room was scalding, and the thick suit he wore was like a straitjacket bound to his body. The collar wasn't anywhere close to his neck, yet he still felt like he was standing with a noose around his neck.

The actual situation wasn't too different, but he didn't linger. Quickly, he pulled a warm smile on his face, a confident, genuine one. At least it makes my butt look nice. He had to admit, the veiny dark greens wound sporadically over the fabric did much to accentuate his...everything.

It seemed that somebody else had the same idea as they walked in through the back door, quickly coming up behind him and landing a nice smack on his rear end. Carrick yelped and did a little hop, reaching down to protect himself from further assault. The woman that'd done the deed - one of his turquoise-skinned stylists - merely rolled her eyes and winked before moving around to adjust a few more things, particularly the area at his collar.

Carrick swallowed again, smiled smoothly. "When I volunteered, I wasn't signing up to get my ass slapped, so I'd appreciate it if you-"

"Keep talking, and it'll be your dick next."

He quickly silenced after that, clamping his lips tight and holding himself straight. Though it made him uncomfortable to refuse speech, he figured it was a much better alternate than ending up with a crooked dingle-hopper. This kitty's got claws. She'd probably rip it off...

"Hello? Earth to Carl?"

"It's Carrick."

"Whatever," the woman said, curling her fingers under his collar. Her brows were knit together in concentration, and the eyes were like darts grazing his skin. Many, many similes for the mighty tigress, and Carrick began to realize what she was going after when her hands had gone a quarter of a foot into his shirt.

He remained calm as he pulled her hand out and took a few steps back, holding a hand up to keep her from approaching again. Before he spoke, he pressed his free hand to his own chest, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt the cold metal digging into his skin. "Okay, uh, lady? You can't take this. It's mine, I'm keeping it on, thanks-good-evening-bye."

He tried to speed off through the door, but an iron grip strained his blood vessels and yanked him back. A groan left him as she dug in and swept the ribbon out from under his shirt, tugging it over his head before he could even say anything against it. "Hey, hey, hey!" He scoffed. "Lady!"

Finally, she released him, hopping out of the line of fire from Carrick's swooping arm; he missed and went stumbling forward, saved only by a nearby table that scraped at his already calloused hands. He casted a glance up, eyes squinting at the sharp-faced woman that dangled his token above her head. She craned her neck to get a good look at the dirty green ribbon, to investigate every rusted patch of the key hanging from it. "Aw. This is cute. It's like momma's parting gift."