The Great Game (2019)

7

"Is this really necessary?" The surface of the pool ripples with the view overhead. Pale clouds dilute the tension of water and I fix my gaze on a pink flower, bobbing gently and manouvering with the wind's breath.

Staining the aqua blue is a wavering reflection of the pool's edge. Studio cameras gaze down at me, unblinking with their circular white disks and a reporter sits opposite of me. Her hair is tucked into a tigh bun, the tautness mirrored in the firm compression of her lips.

With her back perfectly alligned with the slant of the chair's support, her actions seemed too false.

"Well," The reporter clears her throat as she slides her arms across her chest, "It's mandatory for the public to get a brief snippet of all the participants' personality and habits."

"You could have just said yes." I reply, trying to mask my annoyance with a forced smile.

"Interesting." The reporter raises her brows in acknowledgement as she begins to scribble furiously on her notepad. I lean forward a little and hike my feet up, to raise my eye level.

"Curt, rude and dismissive?" I read from the lines that imprint her notepad. "Don't you think that's a little rich, coming from you?"

The reporter turns towards me, her gaze becoming hawk-like and her fingers curling like claws. She lowers the pad and her voice, "You do not want to make an enemy out of me, Mr Woods. Let me warn you before you decide to do anything stupid- I am an extremely powerful person. Choosing to go against me would be the worst mistake you would have commited."

A shiver arches down my spine and my fingers curve against the wooden support of the chair. The grainy texture robs my fingers of feeling as I draw back, trying to water down the intensity of the reporter's stare. Still, I hear my voice tremble when I speak. "Right... but I don't even know your name."

The reporter bares her teeth at me, a strangled hiss concealed between her pearly whites. "I don't have a name, Woods. That's what makes me so elusive, so strong."

A tendril of iciness prickles my veins. I choose to ignore the sensation and instead, say, "I shall call you Undesirable, since most of your traits are alligned with that character."

Undesirable's dark brows furrow into a thin bridge as she brings her body forward, her lips scrunched with scarlet. In a voice so low that I nearly mistake it for the bated rustling of the trees, she speaks. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

I arch my back against the chair and compress my lips so that the distorted tremor of the water mirrored a content smirk. "Didn't anyone tell you? It's not a warning if it's not dangerous."

There is not a flicker of emotion that crosses Undesirable's face. The anger swells in the way her hands grip the chair supports and the tension that seeps through her skin.

"Let's get on with the interview, Mr Woods." I frown at her sudden eagerness to compose herself. As my gaze returns to the shimmering surface of the pool, I catch a figure melting from the shadows. My breath catches in my throat as I pull my eyes away and glance at Undesirable.

A smile catches on her lips as she notices Death from behind. "Ah, Death! My old friend, how have you been?"

A strange emotion claws at my lungs and I force myself to loosen my grip on the wooden beams. It's just Death.

Death's footsteps grow loud as he draws close and I can feel his presence behind me- a tingling sensation that turned the air warm, that made any wind paint my cheeks still.

"Martha, it's been too long." Death approaches Undesirable, his shadow flung across the floor clumsily as he strolls forward.

His lips are a painted line of composure and the arch of his back is elognated and perfect, bent to match a congenial arc. As he stretches his hand out to meet Undesirable's twitching fingers, his lashes sweep along the thin smudges of grey dashed beneath his eyes. My mind races with names to fit his demeanour. Lord of Darkness. God of Shadows.