Oakley Ruby Oriana

DAY THREE

The fact that I am out and about before noon is a miracle in itself. There are a few hours before the last celebration, so we are dress in “Uniforms” which consist of a fitted T-shirt and loose jeans. The watcher still sticking to my side informs me that most other players are  likely in the common rooms. I decide to join, the awkwardness of being alone enough to make me squirm.

The common room is below the ballroom, the ceiling is half as tall, and it is significantly darker.

“You get one serving a day.” It remains monotone and emotionless as it repeats the same line I have heard an absurd amount of times already. “Starving is not recommended.” 

“Why would I want to starve myself?”

“I can not comprehend the human mind.” Robots can’t show emotion, I know this. But I swear there is a judgmental undertone. 

Rude. 

On the far side of the room, a row of cubicle-like stations line the wall. I make my way over and watch as trays are arranged and distributed. I grab one for myself before turning to scan the room. 

There aren’t a lot of people filling the tables scattered around, so I find an empty one and wait for my friends to see me.

There are three items on the tray, and I inspect each of them. There is a tall vial with a flat top, a round flat bowl, and something wrapped in foil. That's the first thing that I pick apart. It seems to be a small loaf of bread, the size of my palm. I bite into it, but find it challenging. It is tough and filled with a strange substance in the middle. It looks like a fudge, but it’s chalky, if anything. 

I reach for the tall vial, happy to see it filled with a clear liquid I assume to be water. I take a swig, but I feel immediate regret as the taste hits my tongue. It's sour, but so much worse. It doesn’t taste like lemons or anything natural. It’s more like a stinging sensation that spreads across my whole face. It feels like fireworks in my sinuses, and my jaw hurts simply from the amount of muscles that react to the taste. 

A soft laugh is heard in front of me, no doubt finding humor in my scrunched face. Evelyn's soft blue eyes smile back at me, and I'm instantly happier. 

“Oh my goodness, hey!” I laugh at my own words, trying to ignore the lingering soreness the drink brought to me. She sits across from me as I warn her of the foul contents. It keeps her laughing, even though it's clear she doesn’t believe me. 

She takes a sip, and I am more than satisfied with the instant contortion of her face. She reels backward, her spine hitting the rear of the chair so hard that it starts to tip. 

My arms shoot out trying to catch her while I'm choking on my laugh at the same time. It’s clear she is going to fall, but right as I think she is beyond saving, she is stopped. Her shoulders crash into someone's stomach. His hands are on the metal bars of her chair, keeping her from falling.

“Careful, princess, might hit that pretty head of yours,” he says with a wink.

 He props her back up, then turns to me. “Mind if I sit here? We have a mutual friend,” The boy sits before I can answer, but I don’t mind. He has a mop of messy copper curls on his head and freckles spotting his face. 

Evelyn's eyes are wide, practically bulging out of her head, and her face is visibly red. I raise my eyebrows and give her a look. She buries her face in her hands in response. The man is clearly a flirt, and Evelyn’s reaction tells me all that I need to know: she can’t tell whether she loves it or never wants it to happen again. 

I love, love. Well, it’s not love yet, but it could be, give it a month or two. Or more so, I love_ _playing matchmaker.

“Do you think we are going to be wearing red again tonight?” I try to start the conversation. 

Love can’t grow unless you plant it. 

It’s a lie and I know it, but I can’t make myself care. I want a part in this. 

We talk back and forth, bantering over themes and preferences. The boy with copper hair guides the conversation more than either of us, talking us through a list of topics, mainly consisting of questions about Evelyn.

“Which parent did you get the blue in your eyes from? It’s so dark, but it's pretty,” He says, turning to Evelyn. 

She shoots me a look, as if I have the answer. I wave my hand, kindly telling her to spit it out. She looks back, quietly muttering, “Mom,” before looking down at her already fidgeting hands. 

“Was that too personal? I feel like I'm making you uncomfortable.” His eyebrows knit together, and I think he genuinely feels bad. 

She quickly shakes her head. “No, not at all!” She still speaks softly, but louder now. They are a mess. 

“Looks like you’ve found yourself a boyfriend, Evy.” The voice makes me perk up immediately, eyes wide and a smile already on my face. 

Alexander puts his food down beside me, and I turn to smile up at him. 

“No, not interested? Ah, I don’t blame you, when she was younger—” Evelyn cuts him off, and he laughs, large and loud. 

“That seat is taken,” He snarls.

I look over at the boy, and he has a scowl on his face, lips pursed, looking at Alexander with distaste. 

“By who?” I ask, unsure. 

“Our pride and joy…” He waits for a reply I don't have before finishing. “Rowan?”

 He looks at me like it's obvious, and I look back at him like he said the weirdest words in the world. Because, in a way, he did.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind; there are two other seats.” Alexander scoots his chair closer to mine. 

The stranger's face goes white, and he points between Alexander and Evelyn, “Please tell me you didn’t get your eyes from your mom.”

Alexander looks confused, casting a glance at his sister, “I mean, our dad has brown eyes, so I find it highly unlikely we got them from him.” He raises an eyebrow.

“What the hell is he doing here?” 

I turn to see Rowan standing at the head of the table. I wave at him, “The redhead? I don’t know who he is, he just said he knew you,” I shrug, “what's your name again?”

He sits up straighter, a smile on his face, before Rowan speaks over him, “Tucker. Something Tucker. You’re welcome, I just saved you from a whole theatrical performance.”

Rowan walks around the table. Choosing to sit by Tucker instead of Alexander. Tucker appears to be actively deflating. He nudges Rowan and says something under his breath that I can’t hear. 

Alexander leans over, resting on his elbow. It completely blocks Rowan from my field of vision. 

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. I smile, though I want to shrink under the feel of his eyes on me. There is a stretch of awkward silence, and I assume neither of us knows how to break it. 

Tucker groans and stands suddenly, “This is painful. How about Evelyn and I take a walk around the area? We have a few hours still, that’s a lot of time to kill,” He reaches a hand down, offering it to Ev. She takes it hesitantly. I give her a little thumbs up when she turns so red I’m convinced there is fire in her veins instead of blood. 

Alex calls out as they make their exit. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Tucker.” he blows a kiss back at us in response. 

Rowan slides into the seat Evelyn once sat in, his food still untouched. 

“Are you not gonna eat?” 

“Not this time, no appetite. Thanks, though.”

I’m about to argue, but he says my name once, softly. I take it as a sign to drop it. 

“Again with the Kiki thing,” Alexander says, and I realize I’ve become so familiar with the nickname, I don’t recognise when it is being used. “It makes no sense.” I ignore him. 

“Rowan, you need to try it at least. I would feel better if you did,” I practically demand, never breaking eye contact.

He decides to try to whatever is in the bowl, after I warn him about the other two items. 

There is a purple jelly inside, thick and mostly transparent. He dips a spoon into the bowl, and it has the same texture as gelatin. 

He goes tense as soon as it meets his tongue. 

“That bad?” I ask. He nods as my face matches his, just watching the discomfort. I reach for my own bowl anyway.

“I wouldn’t. It tastes like a perfume bottle. Oakley, I'm serious, it's bad. Curiosity killed the cat, remember?” 

“Well, it's a good thing I'm not that cat then,” I peel the lid off. It’s a dark green, so dark it almost loses its transparency, different than his.  

I take a spoon and slice into the pool of jelly, then bring it to my lips. It tastes like a sweet mint—vanilla and peppermint, wintery and cold on my tongue. 

“That's so weird. It tastes… sparkly?” 

“Yeah, I noticed that. It pops in your mouth in a hundred different places.” I reach for his. They were definitely different, and I wanted to know how. 

He was right. I spent the next five minutes trying to get the taste out of my mouth, coughing and sputtering. I even downed the rest of the sour solution in my best attempts to get it out of my mouth. I chose my poison, and I have to deal with the consequences. 

I think Alexander feels left out because he would pitch in with little comments about either me or Rowan. They would most often get ignored, but they didn’t slow. 

We decide to walk around the fortress, exploring each floor, after we finish testing out the food.  

The bottom floor is filled with training rooms, roughly 20 large glass boxes, each bigger than our bedrooms, and tainted with color. There is a walkway over the perimeter of the training room, where people can look at the rooms from above. 

The second floor had four sections, each designed differently. I assume these are shops, each one selling something different. We weren’t given money, so it’s unclear how we’ll make any exchanges. 

The level above is the common room, and the top of the four is the the ballroom, where we’re expected to appear in an hour. I haven’t run into Tucker or Evelyn, and I smile at the thought of their little, unlabeled, date. 

We say goodbye to Alexander, and he makes his way to his tower. I wasn’t paying attention to either of the boys much while we mapped out the place. I regret it, but I can’t focus on more than one thing for the life of me. Rowan and I start the climb to our rooms. The stairway is tall and winding, and we have to take a few breaks to rest our aching legs. When we reach the top, we are out of breath and fighting to get it back.

By the time I reach my room, I want nothing more than to plop down and let my legs rest, except I know there is no time for such things. Another suit is folded neatly in the drawers, waiting for me.

 Once I have it on, I stand in front of the mirror, staring expectantly. This time, pure white fabric takes form. It sways and swirls, and black accents paint themselves across the blank canvas. I can’t tell where the dress ends and my skin starts as it stretches over my collarbone. The majority of the dress is white, but there’s a series of black markings, beginning at the neckline and fading out by the time it reaches halfway to the floor. 

It’s bigger than the last one, but not by much. It puts pressure on my ribs, forcing my posture to straighten. I feel apprehensive, but there seems to be no reasoning behind it, so I force myself to shove the thought away in my mind. 

I don’t wait for the watcher this time.