Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 2 // The Castle (C.STRAY)

THE TRUTH COMES SECOND - 2 

Vultures are known for their tendency to surround either something dead or something frail and alive.

Carrick had never seen a vulture personally, but he had a vague idea of what they might look like, with their hunching necks and grimacing beaks. In a metaphorical sense, he thought maybe the stylists surrounding him were vultures - until he saw the true level of apology of their eyes.

"So, what you're saying is..." Carrick said through clenched teeth, "...our uniforms were switched and you can't go and get them back?"

"I'm afraid not, sugar plum," one of the vultures said, picking and prodding at the tight fabric situated at his shoulders. He felt himself trembling as the situation continued to rise in magnitude.

"You can't go get something else? Like another suit or something?"

"No can do, sweet cheeks. Jezzie said she wants every costume from the banquet in that arena, and I ain't lookin' to get my head on no stick, no, no, no, sugar." The woman that'd spent so much time meticulously planning the veiny green suit a few days ago tsked at him, patting his shoulder as if something so small would comfort him. "You're stuck."

Carrick felt his cheeks reddening, felt his hands clench on their own. "In a dress?"

At that, any sense of apology fled the faces of those around him, replaced with an urge to laugh so heartily that it couldn't be ignored. His face tinged to an even deeper level of crimson, much contrasted by the flowing bright greens spreading from his waist down. It was bunchy, thick, heavy, and he could feel himself sweating under all the layers already. At his back, it was even tighter, cords of fabric and strings crisscrossing over his shoulder blades down to the small of his back.

He could barely breathe, and it was probably that which made him begin to huff and pace around the room. "I'm a dead man," he muttered, "that's just it: I am a dead man."

"All tributes to their tubes, I repeat, all tributes to their tubes."

The voice over the intercom was received with frustration from Carrick as he hollered back with equal levels of volume but much less monotonous energy. "I'll get in that tube when I can actually move!"

"Hey, hey," the stylist said, stepping forward again to offer more pointless comfort. "Just calm down. You'll be absolutely fine." She continued to push him forward, towards the tube, and he failed to act against it. "You've got normal shoes - look at the positives."

He was standing in the tube, then, staring back at the woman. He inhaled as best as he could, held his breath, and exhaled just as the glass was sliding before him and trapping him in a claustrophobic's nightmare. Nausea came with the darkness and the sensation of rising, but he held it all in, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Look at the positives, okay.

He cleared his throat in the pitch blackness.

"At least it makes my butt look nice."

Light flooded the tube as soon as he'd finished the statement, and with it came relief - if he'd been forced to run around in darkness, ripping over not only his own feet but the hem of the dress, he'd probably give up right then and there. It was made quite evident that it wouldn't be the case, however, with the vibrant lights and flickering jewels of chandeliers up ahead.

The momentary relief he'd felt became something like a set of claws pounding on his chest when he realized that, once again, the arena was indoors.

His breath went shallow, and instinctively, his hands went up to his chest to grasp at the key round his neck. Look at the positives, look at the positives...