Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 ∞ Shut Up (MADAME)

VICTORS OF THE ARENA - 1 - SEQUOIA

Red had always been a color reserved for Sequoia's finer tastes in life.

Before her winning, it was a rarity lest it be seen in the scratches on her palms or in the rashy patches that'd always find some form of residence in the crooks of her arms or on the bow of her collarbone. The other kids, they'd never taken to her very well; sometimes they'd take their red ink and slather it over her cubby of items in school, and she'd be forced later in the night, once everyone had gone to bed, to wash it all out.

Back then, she'd despised the hue, spat upon the shade. After her first spilling of it - purposeful and forced - from a girl by the name of Eloise, she saw power in a color that'd once represented downfall. She was given precisely five more opportunities to slather it just the same as it'd been slathered against herself, and once those five opportunities dissipated, the color only grew richer in value.

Silks and velvets and paints, luxuries previously unwelcome to impoverished souls like she, had all become available in abundance. Carpets such as the one she walked now were given inherent importance, and strips blocking the unworthy were tinged a color just the same.

She might've felt bad for the ones who spent their time clicking pictures and spreading white-hot flashes across the cold nature of her body. She might've, had she not earned this.

It was natural of her to love what she earned.

Sequoia drank in the attention, the exuberant cry of her name, the extended arms batted away by a distanced security. No one could touch her, and no one would; she made this quite clear in the way she held her hands upon her hips, in the way she purposefully rolled the fur upon her shoulders against her jawline, in the puckered cherry smile she sent to the masses.

One thing she made very clear to herself was that this was no act of selfishness. She was appreciative of the crowds that called out for "The Madame," and she was forever grateful in the way people jumped against their friends' shoulders in giddiness whenever she looked their way. She was indebted to the fact that these favorable battalions had given her glory up until the age of fifty, and she thanked each wrinkle hidden underneath cloth that she was held so highly, above other Victors, even.

She loved living, simply put. Life was the color of red. As was wine, which she planned to drink when she arrived home.

Until then, she'd walk through the valley, Benji at her side. A loyal brother, truly; she looked to him and he grinned, one tooth missing in the center, but still just as dependable as a full-mouthed smile. "You tired?" he asked.

Sequoia lifted her chin, shimmied her shoulders. "Do I look tired, baby brother?"

"You forget I'm nearly your age, sis."

"Perhaps it's all in the way you act, then?" She cast a wave to the sidelines, unconcerned with her brother's reaction. He knew full well of her teasing habits. He merely nudged her arm.

Someone else in the crowd stole away her attention, anyhow, managing to skim her bare arm with the smooths of his nails. She gave him the time of day; he blanched, caught in the headlights of acknowledgement.

Sequoia smiled an impatient smile. He shook away his initial shock. "Madame, say the line!"

Now, she might've pretended not to have heard him to begin with, but who was she to deny this boy three seconds? With a roll of the eye, and a taut narrowing of the face, she said, lowly, "Honey, you've got a big storm coming."

A collection of squealing erupted from the boy, spreading out in waves behind him, and Sequoia shook the curls behind her head, marching confidently down the rest of the carpet.