Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 4 ★ A Fever of 103 (PC)

VICTORS OF THE ARENA - 4 - PERCY COLE 

Nothing will change, nothing will change, nothing will change the fact that we're fucked.

A sucking breath takes in the night air, bleak as it may be, and expels it as mist, visible only against a night that's lighter than the blackened trees of the arena. This breath, loud and pained, is followed by a groan, one straining with the desire to keep quiet. There are several that surround the source of this pathetic noise, three to be exact, some of which lean their heads against moss-laden trees to rest, others who tighten their hold on the blankets around them, and others even still that can't help but send a common pitying glance to the boy on the ground.

Another flush of pain rises up through Percy's abdomen, and he lurches, crying out. "Shit," he says through clenched teeth, "shit, shit, shit."

An arched back against the jungle floor lasts only a moment before the twisting ebbs away and that blissful relief returns, and with it, hope that next time it won't hurt so much, hope that next time there won't be a next time.

But, alas, he's never been so lucky.

Strangled noises. Hands rush his stomach, fruitlessly shoving at the pain in hopes it might dissipate under the flesh. Vegetation brushes his ears, his arms, his self as he squirms - the only alternative to shrieking aloud. This pain, no, this agony has been at ease for the past two, three days. Why's it have to come back here, now?

Breathing shakily, he takes his fist, the one unwounded, and curls it against his forehead. The sweat pools against the creases, trickles down his temples, leaves a taste upon his lip. "Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop," he whispers, hiking up the rapidity when the pain steadily grows. No one with the power or graces to help will ever hear, he knows, but this hardly appeals.

One thing appeals, though, a star between the branches. It's pretty. It offers a distraction.

Distraction - a distraction takes away the noises, the outcries and grunts, and so he speaks without knowing the responses. Is he even coherent? He doubts it, but there's a carelessness there. Hurt, hurt, hurt - it hurts. "Y'know, you all remind me of people I used to know." Hoarse. He is hoarse, and cracking.

Nobody hears him, and he hurts.

No, no, but they do - someone does. There's a swish of feet over dirt, and a slight vibration as that person, whoever they are, sits beside him. Percy can hardly react, what with his constant wincing, and the violent squeezing of eyelids, and the pressing of his lips together as he tries to swallow down those noises that might lead others to them. He will not be a danger; he will not be a weapon for the other team.

But then again, he thinks, squeezing a rubbery leaf, what's so wrong with being a weapon? They like you when you're a weapon. You go home- He squeaks at the back of his throat at the next pinch. -when you're a weapon. When you're a weapon, there's-

"Are you sure you can hold out?"

The voice hovers - too close, too concerned, too curious. It's a tired voice, too, and worn. But the man it comes from, Josef, seems awake enough to be able to ask, to be able to care.

And so Percy figures he should be well off enough to nod, though it comes weakly.

Josef, not much more than a dark outline sitting cross-legged in the dirt, gives the implication of deep thought, scrubbing a hand over his own knee. He croaks, as though he's about to say something, but for some reason he clamps back, starting down a different path. It comes softly, too, lilted with careful navigation and littered with pressure. It's like he expects Percy not to have noticed the switch. "Let's go back, then. How do we remind you?"