The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

[Lilith]

((Previously on SOTF-TV…))

---

The Welsh Gender Services - a name which Ifan found quite funny - were open from 9 am to 5 pm, probably barring some of the lunch hours. It had a disabled access ramp for mobility-impaired users, which Ifan also found quite funny, having just been out of a cast.

Ifan had turned 18 the week prior and had been desperately waiting for a meeting. There were long waiting times - the usual for the NHS - and after finally getting a referral upon turning 17, he was immediately shifted to the ‘adult’ division of the Welsh Gender Services.

Ifan wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing. Doing all of this as a minor meant some limitations, but now that he had turned 18, it meant one thing: top surgery was accessible.

He knew it was a thing that was there, in reach, right before him.

Ifan could almost taste it.

---

Ivan could also taste it. The end was near. He had fallen where he didn’t want to go.

The Banquet Hall.

[Lilith]

At school, nobody watched SOTF-TV.

It wasn’t as popular as in America, Ifan presumed. People weren’t that interested in watching some Yankees getting murdered by their classmates, and in all honesty, neither was Ifan. He found it crude, and he found it disgusting. He couldn’t imagine killing his own classmates for the entertainment of others.

And especially the entertainment of Americans.

As he sat in the waiting room, his anxiety started to spike. He could feel his heart beating through his chest, pumping blood. Still, Ifan opened his phone and found his favourite Ivan fancam. Two years ago, Ivan fell into a pit of fire.

I got a sugarcrash, the fancam sang while Ivan fell through the floor with a stuttered edit, I ain’t got no fuckin’ cash.

---

“Maybe I should take a bath,” Ivan said upon landing on a table below him, smashing it into pieces.

The flames in the banquet kissed his new and old open wounds.

[Lilith]

Ivan was a strange character.

And Ifan thought this knowing he was a real person.

Despite explosive outbursts, he was strange because his reactions were muted, restrained, and quiet. He had bravado when needed, but he was clearly a character he played, putting on and off his TV mask whenever it was opportune.

Like when he said he was only going for five kills.

Ifan wished he could talk to him about that.

How much that reminded Ifan of himself. How important he was to him. How useful and horrifyingly similar he felt to this Floridan cis boy as a Welsh trans guy.

Ivan was the proper ordnance, the bluntest hammer, the sharpest knife.

The perfect weapon that Ifan needed as a backup.

Ifan had never felt alone since the day he had met Ivan.

---

The Tenga found Ivan. It was empty, and Ivan had bullets in his spare pockets. Five, to be exact. He was worried they’d explode from the heat.

[Lilith]

As the camera shook from the flames and the edit, Ifan’s eyes stayed on Ivan.

He didn’t have a crush on Ivan because having a crush on an actual person from a SOTF-TV was really fucking weird.

It was more… gender envy.

Ifan wished he could look like that effortlessly.

Well, if you ignored the dry and fresh blood, the burning clothes, and his sweat stains. But Ivan was still a boy. No matter what happened, Ivan was a boy. He was manhood. He was the thing that Ifan wanted to be, in the perfect container - inside and out - that resonated with Ifan on a deeper level than anything he had ever seen.

When he had to explain to his friends that he realized he was trans because of a boy from another continent trapped in a death game, Ifan realized how far-fetched the idea was.

But to Ifan? That was his world.

---

Ivan didn’t care for the narrative.

He ran from the flames, one hand wrapped around the heating shotgun burning his palm and the other on his mouth and nose.

[Lilith]

At the end of the day, an hour after waiting for the meeting, his dead name was finally called.

Ifan made a grimace

It was to be expected, but for a moment, he paused.

---

Ivan tripped on something.

[Lilith]

His dead name was called again. Ifan took a deep breath.

He looked down at Ivan.

---

The dead burning bodies of his classmates lay around him. He took a breath, then found himself frantically coughing. His body was in pain, inside and out, and his head was spinning.

Death was near.

[Lilith]

His dead name was called a third time.

Ifan took a deep breath, his hands curling into fists.

---

Crawling wasn’t easier, but he remembered that was what he was supposed to do. That’s what fire safety said, anyway. It wasn’t the flames that killed you: it was the smoke. Ignoring the fire, ignoring the dead bodies, ignoring everything, he crawled in the direction of the bright green fire exit.

It was right there.

Just in reach.

[Lilith]

Before his name was called a fourth time, Ifan got up.

And he went where he would be asked stupid questions and have to reply with stupid answers. But he’d get what he wanted.

He had to.

---

Ivan found the exit, his clothes charred, his throat burning. He shut the door behind him.

Then, he thanked all the stars and gods while lying on the staircase steps. With flames still burning his clothes, Ivan curled up at the base of the stairs, his knees pressed against his chest.

He screamed, roared, and then he was quiet.

He had never felt more alive.

[Lilith]

((To be continued…))