Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 ★ And Give Us Your Backstory (PC)

VICTORS OF THE ARENA - 1 - THE INTERVIEW

It's done. It's done. It's done.

He shakes with a vehemence unknown to him until now; he is hot, sweating against himself, and the air he breathes is too warm, too tight. There's a word for this sort of inhalation, for this stalling of exhalations. He calls it suffocation.

They are snuffing him out.

Just breathe. Breathe. Please, breathe, damn it. 

But he does not breathe. There's a special sort of pain rooted in the deep recesses of his abdomen, and though the little white pills they've been feeding him for the past two weeks certainly help stave off the aches, there's always a common pinch hovering just above his bellybutton. It's a pinch he despises, a sting he'd rather live without.

They tell him it's only the sting of recovery. He does not believe them. And why should he, they and their vivacious eyes crawling over his shoulders the same way a black button-up does? They have nails painted the color of a fresh flame while he is forced into an ebony blazer. Their lashes rise and fall with the coloration of yellow sparks, scrutinizing the position of his dark tie until the time comes to tighten it.

It's only when he feels the pressure of a black noose that he's allowed a glance to the side; the hall he travels reflects his image, and his image says it all: they are, in fact, trying to snuff him out. He is dressed simply, he is dressed darkly. He is dressed like a match dipped in water.

But he still feels the heat.

An escort meets him; he advises him to be sure his back is straight.

A mentor meets him; she begs him to keep his chin high.

He does both, but he does not particularly mean any of what it symbolizes.

The mentor leans in. This woman, in all her helpful glory, contributes to an incessant buzz that makes him quiver. "I think you'll be fine out there, y'know. Just glaze your eyes over and pretend to be grateful. Alright?" He doesn't see meaning in offering a response.

"Percy?" She tries again, assertion in the arch of her brow. "Alright?"

The heavy music of speakers has already begun to vibrate beneath his feet, and he's left with no choice but to try and drown it out with his own dry, cracked voice. "Alright," Percy says. "Alright." Alright.

He has to remind himself that that's his name, Percy. Percy Cole. "-Your Victor, Percy Cole-"

"Please give a warm welcome to this year's Victor, Percy Cole!"

Oh, but he does not want that name any longer.

The music is louder here, the reverberations more upbeat, more violent, and the voices more layered as everyone stumbles over one another to wish him luck. But their stumbling only makes him stumble - backwards, he goes, with a hand pressed to his chest and a lung straining faster than air can be sucked into it. Not me, not me, not me. Arms catch him and he wishes them gone. I'm suffocating, suffocating, suffocating.

Calm, calm, calm.

Suffocate, suffocate, suffocate.

The host waiting at the hall's final stretch seems to take a hint, and for a few minutes she's calmed a roaring crowd, but Percy still feels the need to mutter his dissent, pressing himself deeper into the packed team. "No, no, no. I don't want to do this." He looks to his escort, his mentor, anyone for help, really, but they feign ignorance. When he speaks, it's alongside a wheeze, face laden with wincing. "Please, don't make me do this."