The First Redemption Games (1-5) & The Writer Games | 6 - 7

Finals: Sycamore Hurst

"Find water," the blond boy grunts. His voice reminds me of salt, short and sharp on the tongue. "Find water, then weapons. Bob and Dimitri are around here somewhere."

It doesn't look like it. There's nothing but sand forever, in little dunes, little hills. The sky is vast and blue. I'm still not used to the sky, to the sun. I want cold artificial lights from home, second home. They don't make you sweat. Here, everybody's clothes are damp and sticky and itchy. On the horizon, something shimmers, wobbling in the non-existent wind.

I point to it and declare, "There's water!"

The blond boy rolls his eyes and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, so that they bulge out of his sides. Mine swing loose and sweaty by my side. Becka's hands are balled into fists, like she's going to fight someone. I hope it's not me.

"Oh, Sycamore," she sighs, and she sounds quiet and thoughtful and her eyes are far away.

"We call that a mirage," Drako tells me, his voice crisp and clear. He wanders along beside Becka, very close but not touching, and instead of staring at the floor like she does, he looks around. His eyes look odd, startlingly wide and babyish, and I realise that he's not got the gold rings around them. Instead, he has purple dark streaks, like matching bruises. Why would you paint yourself like that?

"Meeraage," I repeat, rolling the word around my tongue, tasting it, "What does it mean?"

"It doesn't matter," snaps the blond boy, "It's not water and that's all that counts."

He sounds cross. I don't like making people cross. Everybody here seems sad or nervous and I want to help, to try and make it better. But I can't see any water and other than that, I don't know how. If only Yuki were here to tell me.

Yuki is dead. Becka killed her. But we have all died since then so I guess it doesn't count.

"What sort of name is Bob, anyway?" Drako asks the sky. Becka smiles, or at least she pulls her mouth up a little, and the blond boy - Marik - just sighs.

"What?" Drako protests into the silence, "It is!" I never knew anybody called Bob. In my first home everybody had names like trees. That's where my name comes from. Sycamore Hurst. All trees. And we followed the trees, under the fence, and I screamed because we weren't allowed under the fence and I didn't like the dark of the tunnel, and I roared until my throat was raw and in the end they gagged me.

"Sycamore Hurst," I whisper to myself, to stop the endless silence, "Sycamore Hurst, Sycamore Hurst."

"Shut up," Marik insists. He sounds scary so I stop. Drako scowls, his whole face screwing up. "Let him," he demands, "If it's keeping him sane, let him. Nobody will hear him."

As if to prove his point, the silence stretches on, heavy and empty even though silence isn't a physical thing, it's just a lack of something. Like dark is the absence of light. Drako wipes his forehead; Becka copies him, running a damp hand through her hair until it sticks up like a squirrel's tail. She scuffs her feet along the sand.

"After you've found water, what are you doing?"

She says you, not we.

"You're leaving?" I splutters, but Marik talks over me, which means that it isn't my turn to speak.

"We find weapons. Sort out Bob and Dimitri."

"And then?"

Some kind of dreadful knowledge fills the silence, making it worse. Marik's face looks like it has gone into shadow. Becka laughs oddly, a skittering laugh that rattles nervously around the dunes. "Oh, I see. A stand-off. Who can be a hero, offer up themselves for someone with a greater cause." Her eyes flicker to me and Marik at the 'greater cause' part. Everybody is silent. Marik still looks dark, his face twisted. Drako is unreadable, torn. I am just confused. Why would anybody offer themselves up, whatever that means.