Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 1 • Unity [NB]

AUTHOR GAMES: THE ABSENT EMPRESS - TASK ONE

Click. Click. Omit the bang. 

Metal swished against metal, a smooth scrape of a bullet into the chamber - just one, just in case - and then she slapped the parts back up again, everything in its place, everything situated carefully. Everything where it ought to be.

Nothing'd been out of place when she checked it to begin with, actually. The bullet was there, the pistol sitting secure in its box at the top of the shelf in the closet. Just as it was every day. But every day she took it down, zipped through the code, removed the bullet, blew across the sleek surface, and popped it back in. It was a habit she called "routine." Habits kept her safe, though. Habits kept a lot of people safe, if they were the right ones.

Letting the gun lull against her palm, Nora Belasco rubbed the back of the other one under her nose and sniffled loudly before bouncing down into a crouch, where a gray box lay cracked open and empty. Only the flickering fluorescent light in the closet lit her movements, trying to sneak around her crazy head of hair. It was a little irritating, working against a shadow, but then she figured the light was probably irritated with her, too, as it tried to pry open the secrets between the floorboards. She felt bad - all there was to find was some small and irrelevant dead insect, or maybe some dust clumped together in some intriguing shape that'd still get swept up as a "mess" regardless of its structure.

People tended to do that sort of thing. Appealing to disregard. A boy got caught under the tires of a bus, once. Nameless and static. He was a story to tell with a little shake in the wrists and nothing more; she knew, because she heard the stories that night in the bar, serving up cocktails bitterly over the tale of a young man crushed to bone and rubble. Unfortunate, really.

Oh well.

Eventually, the gun found its place, albeit with a bit of battering against the edges of the box. The lid fell down, and she spun the numbers of the lock with the pad of her thumb, mixing them up before rising, knees cracking, and carefully pushing the box along the top shelf. "There," she breathed, "ready, just in case."

Relieved but unsure, she swayed there a moment, staring up at the box as if waiting for it to respond. When it didn't, she sighed and scraped her palm along the inner closet wall until she heard the heavy click of the ancient light shutting off. All that was left in the rest of the room to light the way was some dim lava lamp on a dresser in the corner, illuminating the wall in a bright pink glow, and whatever street lights shined in through the open blinds.

She looked around because she still hadn't accustomed herself to this place. It was cramped, only somewhere to sleep and nothing more, fitting her bed and a few stray pieces of furniture that'd come with the place. If she wanted to eat, she had a mini fridge or a Walmart bag sitting on a nightstand. It was also prone to loud noises, since it was lined up on either side by adjoining rooms belonging to someone she'd learned the name of without ever having met (Nancy's lover had strong lungs) and an old man who maintained the flowers in his single window even though they always got ripped out by douchebag kids.

It was quiet sometimes, though. When Nancy was out on the town and the old man was at the church across the street, it was quiet. And she loved those times. She loved right now, and regretted very much that she had to leave it all soon before coming back, where everything would be loud again.

Everything was so goddamn loud, all the time.

Huffing, she crossed the dark hardwood until she'd come up by the window. A quick flash of skin took up a purse, and she struggled to adjust it comfortably on her shoulder as a train blared off in the distance. By the time she found her keys, the whole room was rattling, each railroad car clanking on the bridge several yards away. The bed's headboard slapped against the plaster just like every other piece of furniture. See? Always so goddamn loud. Couldn't even hang up pictures, here. Not that she had any.