Chapter Text
in, out, in, out; his breathing quickens. he did it, he actually did it. controlly drops the pickaxe to the ground, standing up to face him straight. it's really him, or, well, it was him a few centuries ago. like a picture frozen in time, the figure encased in ice remained unmoving. it's obvious why: he's dead. and that's the most fascinating part. the expression engraved on his face tells him everything he needs to know — he died mere minutes before freezing up. he can't help himself, running his palm over the chilly cube. «amazing», — he murmurs on autopilot, subconsciously performing for an audience that isn't there. he's working with ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most here. he really shouldn't be wasting his time, and yet... he's drawn to him. to this ordinary person, who was only remembered as a myth. who only exists in word of mouth, a hushed whisper, but never something real. who was right here in front of him. and only him.
and it was him who found the lost contestant! forget everyone else — it was him! only him! imagine the recognition he'll finally get after this. the cameras might not stop rolling for him for a long time. and then, he'll finally be realized as the best show host by everyone; he'll definitely get it this time. lost in his thoughts, he keeps staring at his reflection in the ice. right, he needs to be on his best behavior today. he should polish his case, maybe get his buttons checked up (though it's not like he puts them to much use). how will he even wheel the chess piece in? the summer heat surely won't help his case. maybe he'll just--tell people he's got him and show evidence later? no, that won't work. think, think, think--
belatedly, he realizes, that there's something wet under his feet; and cold. it's really cold. his eyes dart up to the defrosting corpse in front of him. don't corpses rot faster after being thawed out? it doesn't seem like decomposition even set in for this guy; not yet, at least. his blood runs cold; controlly counts to ten. right, the freezer he prepared. it's not ideal, nor will it be comfortable, but it'll do for now. he gets to work, starting to push the slab of ice toward the freezer: one, two, three steps backwards, one to his right, another one back, lift from the bottom, push with your shoulder — and he's in. a chill runs down his spine as he steps back to observe him. condensation ran down the front, the droplets drawing out shapes on the face grimaced forever in horror. why isn't he moving? he needs to lock him up before it's actually too late. all of his plans will be ruined if he doesn't get on with it right now. he looks at the chess piece's face again; something in his gut does a flip. maybe, deep down, a part of him wants him to defrost; that's a dangerous thought.
he slams the freezer door shut, kicking a nearby pebble. he can unpack this situation later.