Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 8 ★ That's All For Now (PC)

VICTORS OF THE ARENA - FINALS

The message I send, the message I send. Cut me open for the message I send.    

Message, sent. How curious, these little spots of navy on his arm! Clear them not, however; these brushstrokes, they are so easily flung around, especially in such little hands of such little people who possess such little awareness. Percy is aware, though. He is fully aware of these little people and their tendency to forget - he does teach them, after all - and rather than turning to some unnecessary fit of chastising, he smiles, shifts his weight, and looks down.

"How're the paint fumes, Kurt? Feel just about as high as a kite yet?"

The child beside him, no more than eleven, scrunches a little nose on which blocky glasses sit. He doesn't look up, merely twirling the paintbrush in his hand as he looks on at the white fence before them, wondering what to slather on in dark colors next. "I'm not real sure I can float, Uncle Percy. And...I don't really wanna try."

Percy, eyebrows raised, laughs a short, breathless laugh before shaking his head and nudging Kurt's shoulder forward. "Right, well, you can put the brush down now. Looks like it's gonna rain soon. Plus you've gotta go get cleaned up before the big banquet tonight, right?"

Like the fear of divinity has been struck into him, Kurt hurriedly bounds inside, not so careful to not make a mess as he is to avoid his mother.

Percy doesn't quite blame him; the sister-in-law is an absolute beast.

Still, looped letters stick to the fence Kurt'd been painting on. Take a look around, retire for a stroll! You'll see these navy and crimson and sage phrases at every turn. A sixteen year old's habit turned to tradition, to something these elders and midlife crises and growing children can look to when they walk past.

That is satisfaction at its finest, and, dare he say it, Percy may even be happy with himself because of it.

Admiration of an accumulation of fifteen years is interrupted by a splat of moisture on the nose, and eyes must be shielded for a glance at the source.

How lovely it is when the storm begins to fall-

-The storm begins to fall in light increments, plodding a shell in which a wrinkled baby of a turtle retreats, taking cover from a rain it hadn't anticipated. Percy, worn with sleeplessness, looks away from his friend, the sky, lax attitude gone with the very first of these chilled drops. He moves quickly, desperately, rope coiled round his shoulder and three matches set to blaze. His neck hurts something fierce bowed down the way it is, but he can hardly care for the consequence of chinking when such a rough-roll of panic spreads through him.

During daytime, against the stormclouds, the face of Cadette has decided to bless them.

No anthem plays, no sound emerges; her face shows two seconds before the cannon does.

They're doing this again. They're killing them as the faces go up. Layla, Naveen, Naveen, Layla - one more, and the end begins with beginning's end.

Cadette's face soon fades out, and in her place, a fresher one sits: Constantine; again, the cannon sounds too late, and he, like his elder, has fallen and can't get up.

And then his face is gone, and that's it. This is end's beginning and beginning's end.

Percy, for a moment, merely stands where he is, watching the turtle finally continue on its way (for the fear has been lost, here), but he soon comes to terms with this new situation, and looks to the scarlet ibis perched upon each of these little matchsticks (for the fear has been lost, here).