Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 ♟ Connecting the Dots [FSC]

ART OF WAR - 1

It was a special sort of art, Florian thought, to breathe and walk and jump and do all the little things taken for granted. Bodies, truly, were something he'd always taken a special sort of interest in, not in examining from the outside, but from charts and maps and everything of the like. It was so intricate, really, but people paid each breath no mind. They did it involuntarily. Moving one foot in front of the other was a little different, and some people didn't even have the patience for that, but balance - he appreciated balance.

Florian was a scale of equilibrium. That didn't mean he had to make sense of himself.

He wasn't even all that sure why he currently sat in Jaune, seated in some fantastical restaurant with chandeliers and a plethora of utensils spread across the table in front of him. "Work from the outside in," his mother told him once. He always forgot.

The food was tasteless, too, despite being freckled with spices he couldn't pronounce. He had the same meal every night he worked - it was a requirement in his contract, you see, for the client to treat the assistant to a meal and a room. It'd gotten old. He didn't want the treatment, no, he didn't; once upon a time he'd enjoyed it, but he quickly lost interest. Each night, he was forced to one joint or another, and each night, he ate without an appetite.

Naturally, he found other ways to occupy the time allotted to meals. He found interest in bodies, yes, and though he checked charts in his free time, he checked faces during work. Now, what was it today? The woman across from him - she muttered on about the spices he failed to taste, about the grandeur around them. This client, she was pretty. A thick tan, black hair that looked unbrushed but clean, a small nose and lips that sort of just puckered all on their own.

These were the cut-outs he saw day to day. Sure, some were blonde, some were thicker, some were even male - but nonetheless, they were similar. They'd all mutter on while he barely listened. They'd all smile and duck their heads once they finished eating. They all paid the bill and rose with Florian, they all stepped into the cool night air, they all hailed a taxi for Sarcelle and slipped inside with a bottle or two of something intoxicating.

They all were uncertain. But Florian said nothing, not when he sat back on the rumbling seats, not when he pressed his head to the window as those bottles were unscrewed. The clients, like the woman, would say, "Would you like a drink?"

He would shake his head, smile, and say, "No, thank you."

The drive would typically drone in silence, or maybe in snippets of conversation if the person was particularly nervous. This was usually the time people used to either reconsider or excite themselves. Florian had learned, and he respected this time by not speaking.

Once they'd reached their destination, however, that attitude usually changed, and as they changed, Florian acted as the scales of equilibrium once again and matched them.

Into the hotel they'd go, like now, signing into the lobby, grabbing up a key, heading upstairs. He'd become awfully accustomed to this routine. The hotel was never shabby either; they were always the best in Sarcelle, designed specifically but indirectly for his line of work (to be direct was to promote the job, and that was illegal, as far as he knew). They would blow over the bustle of entering the room, and Florian would let his client stand in awe over the golden wallpaper and the bed and the little counter where he made a drink per request of the guest. He always plopped in an olive, too. His parents were always big on olives.

And then the both of them would sit at the edge of the bed. And then he'd break away from his detachment. And then he'd look at his client, intently, brows raised and eyes large.