Chapter Text
It starts with a jab. A shout from reality to yank him from sleep. A sharp poke in the ribs.
“Sunny! Wake up!” Mari commands, her bony fingers on his shoulders. The world spins before his eyes as soon as they open, hunger doubling him over in bed. Fingers clutch the taut, nonexistent stomach, nausea overwhelming. A softened apple is forced into his fingers as his awareness expands.
“Get some food in your system. It was our turn… they didn’t want the fruit to rot.” He hears her say, taking a bite out of the round fruit in her grasp, its din filling his ears. Noise. He mimics the motion, teeth sinking into the mushy flesh, tasting the watery content. Chew and swallow. Rinse and repeat. “I told them that we wouldn’t mind some mushy fruit. I was even able to score an onion! Uh…”
Sunny feels her eyes on him, awkward and imposing. He wanted her to keep talking. He just didn’t like talking back.
“Hey, do you know what day it is?” Is the next question. Sunny doesn’t move for a moment. Bones creak as his head turns to his sister, seeing those familiar hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. His draw drops, emitting no sound yet conveying knowing.
The Dread Game selection ceremony.
“W-What’s with that face? Chin up, Sunny!” She insisted, reaching down and stroking his cheek with her thumb. “You’ll be fine, okay? Believe big sis when she says that. I’ll be okay, too. It’s highly unlikely… uhm, it’s not gonna happen.”
His eyes looked down at the meal. A blink or two. A bite or so.
He wanted to disappear from this nightmare.
Last night, he’d heard it. His mom. Or someone who sounded like her. They were crying. And when he heard it, he’d felt it, too, beside him in the night, the one who fended away the cold and hushed him when the fear grew too heavy. It wasn’t going to be okay, regardless of what they preached.
The apple was nice. A little on the flavorless side, but nice nonetheless. It was filling. His own graphite-smeared thumb rubbed over the thin hide; what was left of it, anyway. It was pretty. Made of red with tiger stripes of pale yellow, speckled like stars, topped with an upright stem and a little old leaf. He was sick of pretty.
“Good morning, my stars.” Their bedroom door opened, his mother stepping inside. She looked good today; her chestnut red hair had been styled into a neat bun near her neck, and she was wearing her pearl earrings, like every other ceremony before. In her hands was a tray with the familiar tea set, filled with hot water and leaves. “Did we sleep okay? Are we ready for the big day?”
Mari nodded, her sheenless black hair scarcely following the motion. “As ready as we can be, ma.” Then, she stood to help with the tray, setting it down on the family vanity. Steam rose from the weathered cups as the liquid was poured, vaguely green “tea” settling inside. The cups were passed around, and, after a prayer of thankfulness to The Favorites, they were steadily drunk from. It was warm.
Sunny sat on the edge of the bed, observing and listening to their chatter, watching as the excuse for tea became less and less in volume. Flavorless, but welcome, very welcome, as one of the few visitors who came to curb his hunger.
“... how are we all holding up?” Mom asked, her paint-stained fingers curling around the drink. Mari was quick to respond, looking up from hers to face her mother.
“We’re doing fine, ma. It’s nothing to worry about. It’ll come, and then it’ll go. Things will be back to normal soon enough. It’s just… going to be hard. Like all the other times.” She stated, stirring the warm water with her dainty spoon, creating a miniature whirlpool that swirled in place.
“...”
The room went silent for a moment, the scraping of ceramic against metal filling the room, joined by the scent of drying paint on canvas. Briefly, his eyes darted to the propped-up violin in the corner. His hands ached at the sight of it alone.
“It’s going to be okay, my little ones,” said Ma, looking from her teacup and up at them. “Do either of you want my help getting ready? If you want, I have an old dress you can wear, Mari. It should fit you now.” She stood, the teacup set aside, hands dusting off her acrylic-caked apron.
“Sure, ma,” Mari said, downing the last of her tea and setting it aside Mom’s. Sunny watched, blinking tiredly, before deciding that he too ought to get ready. Would his old vest still fit him? To be honest… it feels like he fits it better and better each year.
The door closes. Sunny strips off his clothes (his father’s childhood nightgown and some socks) in favor of a more polished ensemble: a white undershirt with grand frilled cuffs, paired with a plain black vest, then completed with some kind of pants and dark, unpolished shoes. As he slid the single button into place, he stepped back, viewing himself in the smeared mirror. He looked presentable enough. Although…
Sunny grasped a band, scrunching one part of his outgrown hair into it, then another. Small, polite, reserved twintails. Ponytails? They were too small to be called either, but they weren’t buns. Whatever it was, Sunny liked it.
As he stood admiring his new, rarely sleek appearance, his sister returned to the room to collect the dishes. Chores were easy to keep up; they hardly had to do much (beyond their government-appointed duties). So, when she entered, tray now collected, she paused just a moment to comment.
“Sunny, are you wearing that to the ceremony?” She asked, slightly leaning back, dry hair falling to the small of her back. Sunny nodded, making indirect eye contact with her through the mirror. A small smile came to her face. “Okay, but just make sure to put it down when we go there.” She closed the door behind her.
A frown came to Sunny’s own face, low and deep. If he couldn’t wear it the entire time, why wear it at all? With reluctance, he unbanded his hair, watching as the disgusting face he knew became that much more unsightly. He shut his eyes firmly and walked away from the mirror.
When he exited, his mother and sister were both dressed for the ceremony. His mother wore a pale, coral-toned dress decorated in similarly colored lace and pearls; meanwhile, Mari donned an outfit similar to his- black vest (it boasted three more buttons) and frilly off-white undershirt, except for a long red skirt that reached her ankles. Mom turned to him and smiled.
“Sunny, dear. Are you ready to head out for the ceremony?” She asked, grasping one of his hands with both of hers, gently. Sunny vaguely nodded, eyes looking down at his shoes with bare interest. Maybe she smiled. “It’ll be alright, Sunny. I promise you that. Look; when we come back home, I’ll cook us that onion Mari brought back, alright? Do you want to help with that?”
… He nodded. His heart rate started to pick up as he stared through her and at the door.
“Wonderful. Alright, let’s head to the square now. Come on- we don’t want to be late!” She said, walking them out of the house. They left the scent of paint behind them, stepping into the open world once again. Sunny rarely ventured out, personally, because he much preferred the safe comfort of his shared room (though that too came with struggle).
The town was vast and open. Bright, indigo tapestries were strung about, decorated with the seal of the Otherworld: a four-point star encircled by a planetary ring, with a pointed crown drawn above it. Muscle memory sinks in- he half-bows before it, followed by his mother and sister. They walk on cobbled streets, an occasional rock presenting a moniker (Sunny recalls a few: August Pansonby, Camilla Colfield, Alexander Gainsborough, etc.), all of which belong to founders of this area in particular. Sunny’s sure that whoever Anastasia Ravenswood was, she was probably a pompous, stuck-up snob like the rest of the Otherworld settlers.
As they walk steadily towards their destination, a crowd starts to form. People coming home from their arduous craft, fingers full of splinters and cracks, eye bags deep and drawn, smeared with graphite and paint, positively dragging their weary feet towards the town centre. Some still hum the tune of their compositions; many clutch their wrists, and all are riddled with pain, inside and out, minds too muddied to think of that next crucial plotline in their yarns.
The religious crowd joins next. Sunny can tell by the various charms sewn onto their long sleeves- the tentacle charm for new devotees, the spider for steadfast attendees, the cat for long-standing believers, and the eye for church officials. They come bearing tattoos that signal their prayer, their hope, the dark ink making swirls on their skin, sparkling in the sun’s rays. It’s a mental scoff for Sunny; he never truly believed anyway.
Now, they gather towards the area of fate, where their lives will be decided. Mari’s fingers tightly intertwine with his, giving a squeeze. He looks up at her, expression hopefully neutral. She smiles with both lip and eye, tilting her head to the side. “Now, don’t be so worried. I already told you- it’ll come, it’ll pass. Just stay close, m’kay?”
Sunny looks forward again, breaths coming in shaky bursts, a rattling ribcage. He, too, tightens his grip around both Mari and Mother, feet coming to a stop as they take their place in the sea of others feeling the same way. Try as they might, he felt as though Mom really was scared, that Mari didn’t believe that it would pass. Who was he to trample on their bravery when a snail boasted more spine than he?
Too-tall people blocked his vision as the announcer introduced themselves. Though they’re obscured, he doesn’t need to see them to know who it is: Rococo Windsors—an eccentric announcer for the Dread Game ceremony, marked by the bizarre beauty trends that sweep the Otherworld. Sunny can’t recall all the details, but the most standout ones would have to be the violet skin that sparkled when the sun hit it just right and his striking amber-toned eyes.
“Good day to all our lovely little artists out there! Nice to see some familiar faces- Calliope Colormuse, how’s the wife?” Rococo said, his voice carrying over the sea of others. Half-hearted cheers rise into the sky at the prompt, a whistle or so going off. “Lively crowd we got here tonight! I hope we’re all ready for the selection ceremony because I got two beautiful vases here with YOUR names in them! Ahem, but first, a word from our Glorious Government.”
Sunny’s vision begins to fog, eyes clouded by darkness and stars. The representative’s voice fades into the background as the speech drolls on, sudden spikes of tone changing up the otherwise stagnant words. It’s probably the same speech as all the other times- the preachy words of how the Otherworld Government swooped in during a time of crisis and need, where the godless denizens of the lands of Faraway were rescued from the hellish jaws of fear and phobia. They say something is to blame, but can’t ever elaborate on that. Nor can they elaborate on why they can’t elaborate.
“And to pledge our allegiance to those brave and ambitious heroes, we proudly volunteer our most creative, artistic, and stellar members of Ars!”
The words float into his ear, but he can hardly register them over the sound of his beating heart. When did he become so fixed upon it? And the sweat upon his brow, slicking his hands, eyes frozen forward as another’s hair brushed against him.
He closes his eyes as tight as he can, hating the feeling of the outgrown hair on his neck, how out of place it made him feel, and he wishes for it to be bundled. It’s deja vu- he’s lived this moment a hundred times before. And just like last time, or the time before that, maybe even the time before that, he’s felt just as unsteady on his feet like the newborn fawn Mother paints obsessively. It’s an ache that fills his core; it’s a desperate grasp of straws; it’s a naive and blind prayer towards something that’s not real.
Please take him back to the cramped room that smells of chemical paint.
“Sunny Sienna Suzuki.”
He felt his legs shake like a glass of water tapped by a curious toddler.
“Please come forward to the stage!”
Nausea burnt his throat. Blood rushed through his veins fast enough that the wounds received from years of consistent recital practice started to sting.
Crying. He heard it. He felt it. Quiet and distant, but it leaked from his wide eyes a drop at a time. His legs refused to take him forward to fate. So, hands brought him instead. A crowd of people breathing sighs of relief that it was him, not them, so they pushed the sacrifice forward for their sake alone.
“NO!”
A voice, torn with despair, screeched. Sunny physically can’t bear to look at its bearer.
“And for the female contestant… Georgia Ari-”
“I VOLUNTEER!”
“I-”
The world softens, unblurs. Sunny can see who has shoved everyone else aside, now climbing onto the stage in her tight vest and dramatic sleeves. Her hair is disheveled from the act alone. Sunny swallows his dread.
“I volunteer to… take her place,” Mari stated, looking Rococo in the eyes. Darkened determination shone in her two irises, one hand placed upon her raw throat.
…
Rococo’s dramatic mint-green hair, styled into a tight curl on his forehead, added to the bizarre bafflement on his face. His jaw dropped lower than the floor, professionally styled eyebrow raised to Dreamer’s Heaven, amber eyes wide with shock. He cleared his throat, wiping his hands on his powder blue vest and tucked some stray hair behind his pointed, pierced ear.
“W-Well then, my dearest artistes,” Rococo cleared his throat, displaying an ability to adapt to the unexpected. “It seems we have a volunteer! How exciting!”
He sauntered over to Mari, placing the microphone before her lips and placing an arm around her shoulder in magically conjured camaraderie. “Tell us, dear, what IS your name?”
She seemed to stare into the crowd for a few moments. “It’s Mari. Mari Dorothea Suzuki, Sir.”
Rococo gave a laugh, standing up properly after unhanding her, giving his waist-length, silken hair an eccentric toss. “Well, there you have it, folks! Our dual contestants are a Miss and Mister Suzuki! It’s been a pleasure announcing the 143rd annual Dread Games for YOU,” he pointed towards the crowd, microphone close to his lips. “Our ever-so-radiant members of Ars! Tune into your television sets in a week to see the parades, interviews, training scores, and more! Until then, I’ve been your host, Rococo Windsors!”