Author Games: Ace of Spades

Quarterfinals: Ren Cayse

The confines of an empty hall were much less depressing than the confines of a growing room.

For the cesspool of ignorant players was shrinking, and the floors were becoming less cramped - Ren wasn't too fond of the elbow room, if he were being honest with himself.

As he thought back on his exit, he knew path out of the room hadn't been far. No, the path hadn't been far, but it'd taken its toll, and for that he held a fresh scorn in lungs that sucked up smoke.

Silence had been ablaze in his ears with heavy throbbing. His fingertips twitched against his palm, not quite sure whether Emerson's finger and the trigger were gone or not. Breaths came short and shallow, and he'd been convinced that his chest would be marked with bruises at the rate his heart beat against it. Bodies parted, but it only felt as though they were squeezing in on him; lights peered around shadowed heads in flashes, like the little strobelights at his previous residence.

At some point he'd gone stumbling forward, saved from a blow to the floor by a hand on his arm that lugged him up and dragged him away from the crowd.

With the scruff of red in his vision and the freedom of space, he could breathe.

They'd continued to move to the exit of the gambling hall, Milo guiding and Ren appearing to hold his own when in actuality it was only the first of the two that knew what to do - the one often told that he didn't know how to handle things.

In a haze of color and shadow the double doors were pushed open and Milo took to his instincts, sharing no words but shoving Ren off to some place where he could recompose himself. An apologetic crinkle at his brows let Ren know that he was sorry for leaving.

However, before he could shrink away into the room again, Ren took his arm - in an almost desperate attempt to keep him there - and whispered the first words that came to mind as a method of thanks.

"The world's just nothing but a bunch of selfish assholes. Remember that, and you won't go wrong."

Despite the circumstances, Milo smiled a smile that said he'd already figured that out long ago, and Ren could almost feel a prickle of pain at the corners of his lips, a small price to pay for matching Milo's grin.

"Right." 

Then he'd disappeared beyond the doors, and Ren watched as they came to a steady close, as the crack of light became nothing and he was left on his own in a poorly lit hall with horrible wallpaper.

Flash forward twenty minutes to his composure, two gunshots, and three cigarettes, and you'd see him draped lazily against the aforementioned horrible wallpaper, blowing smoke at the ceiling and going over what exactly his behavior meant for himself.

The sweat had left his palms and his heartbeat had gone normal, but he'd still panicked - something completely unlike him, and yet, it was just one root stemming from the tree that'd sent him there.

There were many more to uproot, but he'd rather keep them buried. Not all of them could be dug up in just one night, and that was all the reassurance he needed to fall into a steady, relaxed slump. His fingers drummed the wall to some happy tune, his other hand constantly fiddled with the stick in his mouth.

He was impatient, but it didn't show anywhere but his hair, the beginning of a mess.

And I left my comb at the motel. Lucky me.

With the cancer-stick dangling between his lips, he attempted to salvage what topped off his classy air, his perfected atmosphere. Fingers swept through strawberry blonde - still twitching - to fix the mess, because, as his mothers had always said, "we know you're a mess, but nobody else has to figure it out just by looking at you."