Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 6 ♟ Tinted Glass [FSC]

ART OF WAR - QUARTERFINALS 

There was a special sort of art, Florian thought, in actively putting yourself through a situation in which the only result was the strain of being fucked over in every sense of the word. Forwards, backwards, and side-to-side. He currently sat amongst the weedy middleground, already pelted with the upwards and downwards of it all. The rest would come sooner than he'd know it, certainly.

It was a really specific sort of art, the more he thought about it. Less special, more particular. This was an art that picked and prodded. This was an art most unwelcome.

He could relate to such an art, though, for he, too, had become the invader. They'd taken him by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall, whispering, "Traitor." At some point they'd gone away, all of them, but Florian wouldn't have been able to tell if he was alone or at the bottom of a silent crowd because his head was shoved against his knees anyhow. His arms were wrapped about them, and every now and then he felt the sting of a small newborn gash, but not once did he lift his head. Not once. Not even half, or a third.

He burrowed. It wasn't hard, either. The walls around him were textured roughly, something more brittle and harsh than brick, and they were of a reddish brown color. It reminded him of a hidey hole, of someplace only some secretive rascal would take to because of the sheer grime of it all. Any windows were pushed to the wall behind him, high to the ceiling but level with the sidewalks outside. If Florian'd been able to stand without his legs quaking out from under him, he might've been able to peer through the bars. The only other exit was a grated door. Y'know, the typical dungeon scenery.

He must've really been trying to find a distraction if he'd just gone and recalled every little fact about the place he was to be executed in. How depressing. Woe is me. Insert dreadfully poetic line of distress here. Woe.

He wasn't even supposed to go it alone, not initially. Taliesin had come with him, or at least, they'd been in the underground for the first few minutes of arrival. They were to go it side by side, stuck in that burrow. Not the prettiest of places, but at least it wouldn't have been so quiet. Or maybe it would've. He wouldn't know. The very moment questioning began, Tal had gone and flashed a pretty little thing from his pocket, a free pass. He now walked free and unburdened while Florian slumped, slouched, some other "s" word he couldn't think of.

A dick move, really. He did not want to think scorn for the man. It came naturally. It came as it shouldn't've.

And he had a right mind to force himself away from the bitterness, but a cluster of noises travelling down the hall just outside made his ears rattle, made them ring. Florian kept his eyes situated on the grate, kept them open despite the swells blossoming over the large expanse of his face. Silhouettes passed through the hall, blocked out the light in a flickering line of unidentifiable figures.

The line slowed as one specific man paused to peer through the bars, to observe what criminal sat caged. The face was pretty, strong, recognizable. Florian held eye contact with this man for quite some time, all the way up until the door allowed him to see the man no more. There was no doubt within him - not that he could muster it along with the rest of his usual demeanors - that Tal saw the angled brows upon him, the deeply set frown. Florian made the betrayal very clear throughout his features. He felt it, he felt it incredibly at that moment, and he wanted to make sure Tal saw, that he knew, that he felt guilty.

And Tal saw it.

He might've tried to say something, but a blurriness had passed from one temple to the other, and once his vision had cleared once more, Tal had left.