Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 2 ☆ The Shattered Mountain [NIC]

ASCEND - TASK TWO

Rattle and shake; ascension exists in this plane so smooth it comes across jolted, and though the tube beneath Niclas's feet quakes not, the sheer speed at which this stuffy capsule moves causes him to ram into the glass. "Fff!"

Rattle and shake; anxiety is slight but present, and breaths come out misted and shaky. He wills himself to calm, calm down, and says, "This isn't us, Nic," it isn't us, and to an extent it works. All is well for ten seconds.

Rattle and shake; his ears pop and he flinches. Cold hands lift to hover above the cartilage, bitten without covering. "Okay," he says, and it echoes all around, "we're going higher, then?"

We're going to the stars!

This is the thought that serves to deliver true calm. As the tube rises, he keeps his gaze to the sky - it's the only way he feels an entrance can truly be stomached - but the corners of his vision are vignetted by browned rock walls, a dull and jagged structure.

Teeth grind into his bottom lip, and breaths hitch. This isn't good, he thinks, it's gonna be all sediments and knee scrapes and falling. Slowly, though, his eyes scan the crumbly and mountainous encirclement; that's the only move he can make, at least here, in this minute. Shadows sling out from under the lefthand side, plunging down against a few ledges that could possibly be climbed, if one were truly that dedicated to the venture.

Right now, though, Niclas doesn't think such a being would be himself. A thumb rubs circles against the edge of his finger in a note of nervousness. "Alright," he breathes out. "Okay. So they made it a little harder, that's fine! That's completely fine." Another glance falls downwards, and the breakfast sausages seem to wanna come back up. He swallows and looks to the righthand side, where the sun beats yellow with morning light against the inner wall. It's a much warmer sight in comparison to the pitch black chasms below. It's a much warmer sight than his sister, even, with all her black dresses and pale complexions. She's kind of a bitch too, but he wouldn't ever admit it. Aloud.

He stares at that golden illumination of rock and comes to accept the environment as is. There's nothing he can do; he knows it, acknowledges it. And then he feeds upon it.

The thumb doesn't detach from his finger. He still needs that comfort. But his arms swing out in nonchalance and he plasters on a grandiose flash of teeth and pulled lips. "How's the weather up here, folks?" He hollers it and the sound bounces against the crown. The other tributes hear him - that is the intention, after all - and a few risk frowning and furrowing their brows.

"Aw, what?" Niclas asks, pointing to himself in feigned ignorance, "You don't think it's nice? I do. Hey, dude, Serian! We're going to Corn, right?"

Another tribute, a smaller one, calls angrily out to him, but their voice gets lost in the flush of incoming wind, and Niclas shrugs upon his pedestal, shaking free the nerves from his feet. What they said likely didn't mean much, anyways. Only the the stretch between he and Corn can daunt him; the original forty yards has become what looks to be one hundred. Choppy and uneven columns of rock rise up from the deep, patches of dry snow clumped between cracks.

A gross design.

In waiting for the countdown to end, Niclas gets to chewing the tip of his pinky, eyes unfocused on some tribute teetering on her fake leg in the distance. Dad's gonna have my back. Adoxx won't let Kurt watch anything bad. Mom's hydrangeas are growing perfectly. Nobody's touched my weed stash.

Things are gonna be okay.

For a second, Niclas thinks the countdown's gone off - there's a resounding boom not unlike that of the opening cannon - and he almost hops off. Almost. Flashing light stops him and heat blows him away from the pedestal's edge. A wave of tributes get to ducking, lifting their arms, and Nic can't fathom why until a shard of rock strikes and splits open his cheek; he squeaks, off guard, at the quick sting and dripping warmth of blood.

He blinks profusely in search of the tribute he'd been staring at absentmindedly, but the girl from Seven is gone, her pedestal collapsing into the void below. And then he swings his head around, looking to see if maybe the girl'd somehow teleported elsewhere, but instead he catches sight of others already bounding along the rock columns - Amare and Virius are particularly quick in their navigation and seem to be leading.

"Aw, fuck!" Niclas scurries down from his pedestal and begins to jump from one expansive rock-face to another, propelled by the adrenaline of frustration. How could he let himself get distracted? Well, easily, actually - someone exploding wasn't exactly something you could ignore. Unless you were Adoxx.

With an aggressive flick of knuckles wiping the blood from his cheek, Nic powers on. It's not too difficult a journey. A slow one, but not a difficult one. It's like the rocks back home, he thinks, sitting up real close to the shore and all. Though this arena is one of sky and not sea, this correlation helps, and finally, finally he's found enough confidence to remove his thumb from the finger.

He presses it right back, though, as violent flapping rises from the deep. Nic throws his knees to the column, holding steadfast to the platform's edges. "The shit is that?"

Chalky feathers flit through the corners of Nic's vision. He knows the bird when it knocks into a nearby boy's legs, when it takes a nip at those strong, standing legs. The boy wavers upon the column, nearly not catching himself; Nic himself releases a breath he's been holding when he's righted.

But the breath is released for naught. A third bird, thrice the size of those birds he's so familiar with, rams into Ten's back with an aggressive cough of a caw. The boy loses his balance, ankles skidding over stone, and plummets.

Niclas throws his eyes upwards so he doesn't have to see the child fall - it's a little different when they're so close to you. But we're fine. Keep going.

It's a laborious effort, these standing long jumps. But he thinks he's doing rather well and gets a little cocky with a particularly far column. There's a closer one, sure, but to take it would be wasting time. So he jumps, and he makes it - nearly. His heels slip and the pit of his stomach drops along with his entire body, a scream of panic lurching out and clinging to the rocks. Just like his hands.

Nails digging, fingers bleeding, and dangling precariously, Niclas somehow finds the strength to laugh. It's a nervous, unnatural laugh, broken by the grunts of effort taken to try and haul himself up. "Oh, please," he breathes, "please keep those feathery demon spawn off my ass."

It's not the birds he has to worry about as another set of feet takes purchase on this platform. The boots lead into high stature - Farro, he recalls.

Niclas chuckles, smiles. "Hello. Please don't kill me?"

The boy drops down and immediately begins to swing his leg at Nic's hands. He dodges, crying out and readjusting his hold lower. "Hey, I said please!"

The boot takes a harsh swing for his nose and makes landing. Nic's hands dig into the rock harder, feet losing their hold and scraping up against the rock in desperation to stick. Pain blooms centrally on his face. An expletive flies out but he doesn't know which. And right here, this is it. A dumb, misjudged jump's gone and killed him, the subject of every "I told you so" in history. And he, son of victors, will likely die in infamy.

And the stars! They're still quite wicked, watching and doing nothing! He wants to curse them, get a little payback before he goes falling into the black, but a disturbing thwack of metal in flesh makes him look up. The color red spurts, stumbles, falls; Farro goes falling, and the stars of Niclas's eyes force him up to safety.

Somewhere, he catches sight of Amare, a pretty little thing who could probably kill him in a blink. So Nic does what any normal person who's just had a near-death experience would do. He blows her a little kiss and salutes, because, as far as he's concerned, she's the lord and saviour Jesus Christ.

She doesn't see, distracted by stepping over both bodies from Five; that's alright, though, there's always later (unless there's not). Now, Nic busies himself with recovery: dusting off his knees, spitting blood into the deep, preventing his own collapse.

After all, this could've gone much, much worse. (Of course, he thinks this before pelican excrement lands, wet and splattery, on his shoulder.) 

~~~

Score - 11

Rank - 8th