Rowan Kline Zorida

DAY THREE

I need something to distract me from the growing worry running through my head, but I’m in an empty room. My hands shake just enough to be noticeable, and I quickly slide them into my pockets. 

They dress most of the men in absurd clothing. Currently, I’m wearing a corset-like vest with a dress shirt underneath, dressed in head-to-toe black. 

Despite the need for distraction, my eyes remain glued to the floor.  I feel guilty looking into the eyes of the other people here, knowing how many of them are going to die. Or worse, die by my hand. The thought makes me sick, one I had tried to avoid until now.

My mind stops as a heavy mass slams into my side. Without thinking, I raise my fist and send it hurling towards the attacker. I attempt to stop the swing at the flash of red, but I only succeed at slowing it. 

My fist makes contact with Tucker’s face. 

His head snaps to the side before he whips back to me, a look of nothing but betrayal behind his expression. 

“Umm, Ow!” He whines, rubbing his face. I didn’t hit him hard enough to bruise. I think. 

“It’s fine, no need to apologize, I forgive you.” He says, still pressing a hand to his now marked face. 

“I wasn’t going to apologize.” This is my last attempt at ridding myself of him, before I just let him be the parasite he so clearly wants to be.” 

His jaw drops further, and he takes back his earlier statement, “But, you just sucker punched me!”

I fold my arms, “You snuck up on me.” 

“As a joke!” he yells, “I can’t deal with you right now.” 

I ignore him and take another quick survey around the room. He doesn’t leave. Instead, he rattles off about anything and everything. I don’t listen to a word, that is, until he says her name. 

“...When we left you, Oakley, and the other one, we just wandered really, I just thought Evelyn was pretty and I saw she was uncomfortable, I was uncomfortable, everyone was uncomfortable… it was just a really uncomfortable exchange, actually,” He talks so expressively, despite the lack of importance in his messages. “Oh, and she’s Alexander’s sister. Crazy, right?” 

“Poor girl,” It's the only comment I give before tuning him out again.

My leg bounces as the room fills, and Oakley hasn’t made an appearance. She could be lost or hurt. She shouldn’t be here in the first place; she is innocent and unknowing. She will figure it out, but she shouldn’t have to adjust to this lifestyle. 

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. 

“I’m going to go look for Oakley.” I don’t owe him an explanation, but I give it anyway. I push off the wall and start walking back through one of the four arches in each corner of the room.

 Tucker doesn’t follow. 

When I’m about 30 feet from the entrance, she steps through, stopping me in my tracks. 

I can’t tell if my heartbeat is picking up or dropping entirely. She only looks around for a second before spotting me. She smiles. 

My eyes take in the entirety of her, my gaze settling on her face. Her smile is shy, but her eyes shine.

She makes her way to me, and we meet halfway. She looks up at me, and I look back down at her. I can’t explain the sudden shyness, but I can’t fight it off either. I’ve seen her almost every day of my life for years; this reaction is entirely irrational.  Yet, my face warms, and I want to say something, but no words will come to my lips. 

“What?” She asks, her brow furrowed and her eyes reflecting her curiosity. 

“You look… beautiful, Oakley.” I want to say much more, but I bite my tongue. 

“You already used that one last night,” she holds up a finger, “You’ll have to come up with another one.” She crosses her arms, waiting for the words to come. 

I could come up with a thousand things to say to her, but I won't jeopardize this. 

“I’m just messing with you,” She pushes against my shoulder, “Thank you, you look stunning as well. Maybe I’ll actually get a dance with you tonight.” 

“Let’s hope.” The words are spoken low, and I battle the wanting with the reality. 

 I reach out a hand, and she takes it. If I want her to last the night, she’ll need something other than the chemicals they fed us earlier. 

As we walk, she talks, “I think I figured out how to make our Morse code thing work.” I nod, telling her to continue, “Well, the dress I wore the other day had two ribbons on it, but I didn’t like them, so I took them off. They are pretty long, I’m sure they could reach.”

“Do you still have them? That might be perfect.”

“Of course, I still have them; they are way too pretty to simply throw away. They are under my bed. When the dress disappeared, they stayed.” She shrugs. 

We reach the table, but she doesn’t go for anything, distracted by what comes to her mind, “You know, I never imagined my first ball being here. I imagined it being lively, maybe even one of King Segard's parties,” She glows as her imagination starts up. “What about you?”

I look at the ceiling momentarily, thinking of an answer. 

“Oh no, don’t overthink it! Just tell me the very first thing that came to mind. I promise, I would never judge you.” She pulls her hand out of mine to hold out her pinky. I don’t know what she wants me to do, so I wait for her to tell me.

Her eyes widen, “You don’t believe me? Fine.” She shrugs, and her hand falls back into mine. 

The silence lasts all but five seconds. 

“Please tell me.” Her eyes are pleading, and I am unsure why she is so desperate to know such a little thing. She flashes a bright smile, and my defences melt away. 

“The truth?” 

“Always.” 

“I’ve never thought about it.” 

Her jaw drops, “It’s a good thing you didn’t take my promise, because you know when I said I wouldn’t judge you? I lied. How could you not think about extravagant parties, with noblemen and women?” She gasps, “Oh, and even dragons!” 

“I doubt there would be dragons at a ball, Kiki.” 

“It isn’t even a ball without dragons, everybody knows that.” 

“Oh really?” I ask in mock curiosity. 

“It seems to me as if you were never properly educated on parties.” 

“My apologies, I must have skipped that class,” I roll my eyes. 

“Clearly.” A large smile is sculpted into her face. I smile, simply because she does. 

She finally reaches forward to grab a drink before offering one to me.

“This is different from the one last night. It’s pink.” It’s a simple observation, one I could have made on my own, but I nod anyway. “On three?” 

She holds up her cup, and I tap mine against it. We count down before tipping the bottoms of our cups skyward. The liquid is cold enough to make my teeth ache, and is much too sweet. I refuse to drink anymore, but Oakley, on the other hand, licks her lips, and smiles down at the cup. 

“It tastes like candy.” 

“Oakley, that tastes like pure sugar.” 

“That's what makes it so good!” she guzzles down the rest. She looks down sadly at the empty cup before reaching for another. She downs that one too, but I stop her before she can go for a third. 

“You should eat some real food first. Let's start there. If you eat three things, you can have another one. You can’t run solely on sugar, even if you want to.” 

“You don't even know if it's real sugar! What if it just tastes like sugar?”

“I prefer not to take any chances.” 

Her shoulders slump, and she scowls at me, folding her arms and mumbling under her breath. She complies, but not before grabbing my half-empty glass and chugging  it. 

She thinks it’s funny now, but when she’s emptying her stomach later, and I’m the one holding her hair, it won’t be for either of us. 

We survey the tables before stopping at one filled with fruit. Fresh fruit wasn’t common, especially not in Candorless. We had jams and fillings, but never anything straight from the trees. 

The best place to grow food would be Shelsted, and it took too long to get from one place to another. They didn't waste resources trying. Instead, we had berries and nuts, abundant in the forests encapsulating Candorless. 

She pulls my arm, picking up a handful of small, deep-red fruit. “Look, they have cherries!” She pulls off the stem and pops it into her mouth, nodding before her hand flies to her cheek as she winces. “There is a seed in the middle, don’t try to bite into it, it hurts.” 

“Thanks for the warning,” The words are drenched in sarcasm, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I pull one from her hand, carefully biting it in half. It's just hardly sour, but the sweetness overpowers the bitterness. I pick out the pit and throw it in a nearby bin, surprised to see my fingers colored. 

“It stains,” I say, trying to clean my hand.

She gasps, high on whatever idea just came to her mind. She pries the fruit from my fingers, and I let her. She presses it up to her mouth, leaving a trail of faint red painted over her lips. 

“Did it work?” She asks, hopefully, “I was just complaining that they didn’t give anything to pretty ourselves up with.” 

“Oh, that makes sense. I guess.” I reply, and she puckers her lips playfully. 

“Well?” I looked down at her full lips, and sure enough, they were just barely more red than before. 

“It worked great.” It didn’t; the color faded quickly, but she seemed happier thinking it was there. I help her clean up the lines, holding her chin in my hand, and using my thumb to erase any pink that didn’t follow the line of her lips after she asked me to. 

She giggles, and I suddenly become very conscious of the fact that my eyes are still glued to her lips, even after my job is well over. My face goes hot, and I divert my gaze, landing on the empty wall. She laughs harder and pulls at my hand again. 

We sample all sorts of things, from strange fruits with a spiked exterior, to orange fruit Oakley learned not to bite into like an apple. 

My eyes lift from the table to find Tucker holding Alexander's sister under his arm. Alexander is within 15 feet of the couple, watching angrily. It was apparent he didn't trust Tucker around his sister, and he wasn’t willing to let them out of sight. 

I look at Tucker, and he looks back at me. He winks quickly, then smirks, looking between a fuming Alexander and the delicate girl by his side. 

The chatter in the room quiets, fading as every pair of eyes trails up to the balcony where Muscaria walks purposely towards the edge. 

Some look at her with disdain or anger, while others look at her with admiration or fear. The mere sight of her is enough to make my blood boil, but Oakley smiles, looking up to watch the woman she was clearly glorifying. 

“Welcome back. Tonight is the last night before the testing begins.” She pauses, waiting for some exclamation of joy, but is met with silence. Her smile doesn’t falter as she continues, “Feast and dance, for it is the last time you will have the opportunity to do so. I would like to wish each of you the best of luck, and I hope you come out victorious. By the stroke of midnight, the game will be in full play. Stay aware, and keep yourself safe.

“I must remind you of a few procedures. Each day at 9:00 a.m., excluding tomorrow, we will meet and select one person to be voted out. Detectives and Citizens, this is why your job is so important. Detectives will inform their watcher of one person they would like to paint as a suspect. Citizens will take those leads and try to sway the votes based on their beliefs. 

“Any player can step outside of their role. They can eliminate players, join the citizens, work as a detective, or try to save the lives assassins take. However, you must also fulfill your role.

“You will each be trained to do your job to the best of your ability. You will each take a placement test tomorrow so that we can track both your strengths and weaknesses. We are providing each person one weapon of their choice.” She pauses, scanning the room before letting out a sigh. 

“I would dismiss you now, but sadly, we have one more issue we need addressed. We already have a player with the inability to keep a secret. Watchers, bring me Keaton Jethro.” 

The mechanical men positioned on the wall scan the floors. Four walk towards a boy with shaved blond hair and a terrified look on his face. His eyes switch between three of the four now surrounding him, the fourth walking up behind him, grabbing his shoulders. 

The boy, Keaton, tries to get away while two other watchers restrain his arms and pull him forward. 

The last walks in front, carving a pathway through the crowd. They stop underneath the peak of the balcony, where Muscaria looks down on him. 

They force him to his knees, holding his arms behind his back, and pushing his head down. 

“One of the rules clearly states—” Muscaria says unceremoniously—“that you should remain secretive. To go unnoticed, and most importantly, do not disclose your assigned role to anyone. You did not follow this rule; therefore, you are out of the game. You failed the test.”

She changes her target to the rest of the crowd, “We have no room for leniency. If you want to join us, you must learn to withhold valuable information under any circumstance.” 

Oakley’s voice breaks my concentration on the situation, “Why are they being so rough with him?” She whispers the words, never tearing her eyes away. 

“Oakley, I don’t think you understand these tests like most of us do. This isn’t anything innocent.” I reply, feeling more guilty than ever, for reasons that are not apparent to me. 

“What are you talking about—”

“Please retrieve his identity card.” The watchers follow instructions, retrieving a small rectangle almost identical to the glass card I was given to learn my role.  She smiles, and my fists ball at my sides, knuckles white. 

“Rowan, I’m confused—” Oakley whispers. 

“I think we need to go.” 

“What? No, I need to know what’s going on.” She keeps her feet planted, and I am internally punching at the air. 

“Well, Detective,” Muscaria’s voice is cold, but it has authority that every other person in this room lacks. “You didn’t last long, but your contribution to these games was significant. You volunteered yourself to be our first example, and for that I am forever grateful.” 

I can hear him now, and every muscle in my body is tensed. 

“Please!” He screams his pleadings, his last words. Chills creep down my spine, and I try not to shiver. 

“Kiki, close your eyes.”

He continues to scream, pleading, and begging for a second chance, but the watcher draws its gun and points it at the boy's forehead. 

Oakley freezes, and I try to step in front of her, but she won’t let me.

Muscaria’s hand rises, and when it drops, the pop of the gun beats against my ears, and echoes through my pounding head.. 

No more begging, no more crying. Only silence, and the ringing of the gun, now smoking. The boy lies on the floor, limp, his face deformed. Blood pools on the once white floors. 

I force myself to tear my eyes away, only to look at Oakley’s face. 

Haunted. Her eyes are wide and glassy, her shaking hands pressed to her mouth. The glass shatters, and tears stream down her cheeks. She won't stop staring at his broken face. 

“In this game of power, intelligence is the greatest form of currency. Trust is not a luxury you can afford.” And with that, she walks away. A younger woman in a skin-tight dress follows, sharing the same sense of superiority that Muscaria has. 

I hate them. 

They leave the body of the boy lying there, dead, in a puddle of his own blood.