Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 1 ☆ Ascend [NIC]

ASCEND - TASK ONE

There's something a little bit wicked about looking up at the stars, Niclas thinks. Or, he wants to think that. In his mind's eye, it's a plausible statement, but if ever he voiced this viewpoint aloud, nobody'd give it any reason to find solid ground in discussion. Perhaps that's for the better - he's never been too swell at explaining what it is that goes on through his ears, those damn ears another would sooner point out than think to look between. He blames genes on that one, but not bitterly. They do look funny.

But yes, yes, back to that little statement. See, he thinks this act of staring at the stars is wicked because, to him, it's a challenge of sorts. Those twinkling lights sit up there real nice and pretty, keeping watch over all that goes wrong, and they don't do a damn thing about it; the preachy words of teachers, the ones saying bystanders are just as much to blame as the bully, go unheard to these glistening chunks of hydrogen and helium. Like, they don't even crash down on the Capitolites who cheer for the death of a small tyke. They hardly ever even skid across the sky to give those tykes anything to wish upon.

Maybe he means to think that the stars themselves are wicked. But he didn't climb all the way up onto this roof just to deny himself such an exotic title. Wicked.

Satisfied, his back presses up against the maroon shingles, arms scraping against the malleable material as he moves to weave long fingers behind his head. In challenge, eyes of brown shoot to the spotty conglomeration above. I'll pull you all down, someday, he thinks, and you'll either be with me or against me, but the thing is, you'll be down.

His line of thought is interrupted momentarily as a bit of clanking sounds to the right; he shifts his chin so it's pointed in the direction of the ladder. As an effeminate "oomph" rises up over the house's wall, a three-sixty degree eye-roll (one of the good ones) comes over his face, and he props himself up on his rump again. "Having trouble?"

"No, no. I've got it." Not a moment later does Adoxx's head pop right up over the gutter. Her eyes are downcast, preoccupied with the sight of either the ground or something she holds. It proves to be the latter once she bests the ladder.

Hah. That's a joke.

She stands, black dress wavering at the knees. A few seconds are stolen so that she can cast him one of those brief wide-eyed, brow-raised looks, and then she swishes on over, settling herself down carefully, fabric readjusted and air blown out. To him, she lazily displays a rust-colored mug. "Do you understand the sort of hell I go through to keep you comfortable?"

Niclas carefully takes the mug from her hands and keeps hold of it with both of his. It radiates warmth, and from the surface, steam caresses cold-flushed cheeks. "Yes," he says, bumping her shoulder gently with his, "and that's why you're my favorite sister." For effect, he slurps a grateful (and loud) swallow of the cocoa, and smiles so enthusiastically he can feel it stretching his cheeks out.

Adoxx deadpans. "You're gonna get wrinkles if you do that."

The smile drops. "Y'know, I bet you're great at parties." Instead, lips mold around the rim of the cup, and he looks forward, gaze cast out over the rest of the Victor's Village. It isn't too late in the night, so most of the lights in the occupied houses are still on, casting yellow squares on the buildings beside them. It greatly affects how many stars can be seen up above, but obviously, that's not a concern anymore.

For some reason, the sight of it all makes Niclas's stomach wrench up in discomfort, and he presses his chocolate covered lips tight against each other. Adoxx notices he's stopped drinking despite the cup covering his chin. She smacks his elbow with the back of her hand.