Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 6 ★ Dead Man Walking (PC)

VICTORS OF THE ARENA - QFs - PERCY COLE

Tomorrow will be kinder. Tomorrow will be kinder. 

"Tomorrow will be kinder," Percy sings quietly, voice caught on the fine line between melody and tone-deafness. The dirt will catch our heels, and tomorrow will be kinder.

The dirt very much does catch Percy's heels, the soles of his feet tucked against the powdery earth. These old ankles fold and fidget, rising up to a knee a chin presses firm to. It's a cramped ball of a position, shoulders bowed and head ducked. But he can hardly care for the ache of the position, not now, not really. A minimal thing, it is, while his head spurs with nothingness and eyes of brown stare on without color.

Cameras pay him little mind. They always do with the ones gone glassy at the cornea. And, y'know, for once he doesn't quite know whether that bothers him or not. Should he be bothered? He wants to be.

Thing is, he doesn't know how to be. Doesn't think on it, either. A mind that runs on the fuel of another's presence finds little to think about when another's presence doesn't quite show. It chugs along a little bit after the fact, but all engines become quite useless when they start to sputter. Do they not?

A particularly strong morning gust brushes Percy's nose, and he shakes his head. Nevermind that. Up his chin goes, taking to his friend, the sky. It's tinged an awfully pretty blue this hour - one that casts dark all across the floor but still lights its own domain. These trees, these trees untouched by the wrath of fire (the only place he could find solace, really), they have nothing on the sky in their shadowed glory.

These trees, they only shiver against a breeze. Pathetic, really - and then he thinks of all the times he, too, has shivered against a breeze, and bows his head once more, running a hand up his arm to stave off the gooseflesh. Pathetic, re-

A hiss, sucked right between the teeth. The gums freeze up, and he eases his hand away from the shoulder, which stings and pinches in resistance. He'd meant to attend to the burn earlier, but the blisters kept flaring up every time he got close, popping and swelling and peeling. Pus probably wasn't the best of signs, either, when it came oozing on out a time earlier. Red and purple and yellow, the colors kept on changing, and that, oh, that made him sweat and swallow.

It hurt.

But there was something else there, something in tune with the numb song he sang, something that said he just didn't care. Didn't, doesn't, won't.

So he left it alone, and ignores it even now.

But there's a little devil sitting squat upon that shoulder, burning him up with the little feetsies pattering along. It grabs him by the ear and says, "See, if Adel were here, she would've known what to do. And Josef would've never let you sit here like this. But, ah! Look around, my friend! Do you see them moping with you?"

Percy looks around. No angel, no devil. He is alone on this fine morning.

"You are far too dependent, my boy. You did this before and nearly died. You're doing it again, and this time you will, most assuredly, die."

Back and forth the head goes, a vehement shaking. "No, no, I will not die. There's- there's Nigel and he's invited me to his wed-"

"Dependence! Did he or did he not save your hide? And has he or has he not cared for you these past nine years?"

Nimble fingers clutch what thickness remains on Percy's face, and they drag down. He inhales heavily. On the exhale, he surfs upon a sentence of "leave me be."