AN: Updates should occur roughly once a week and will vary considerably in size.

The quad salchow gets 13.6. A double toe jump gets 1.3. Performed in combination, they get . . .

Lulled by the numbers, Ciel's chest is soon rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The words and digits fall away, his mind slipping in the haze of early sleep, detaching from reality.

The half-dream rises unbidden— a faceless man, tall, slender, skimming backwards over ice and throwing himself high into one whirling jump, then another. He is clad in bands of jewels that circle his chest, like ribs with starved space in between. His shirt is pure white, stretching down his arms into soft, long-fingered gloves. The cloth is sewn with feathers that fade from white to grey at his waist, and below there are only fluttering black trousers and black leather skates. Thunder cracks from heaven, and the skater is falling, breaking, spinning, curled close to the ground. He is poetic, lyrical. A fallen angel.

The scene shifts, turning inside out, and Ciel is watching his own free skate from Worlds, all brusque athleticism and cold, hard lines, high-scoring jumps perfunctorily connected by footwork. Though now asleep, his brain immediately begins scoring, efficiently totaling up the technical points won by the difficulty of the attempted elements. As for the accompanying component score— which accounts for subjective qualities like "flow" and "style" and "interpretation"— he doesn't bother with it.

His subconscious flits among his other routines, scrutinizing, breaking down his every motion and judging it, tallying all through the night. Eight hours later, when Ciel Phantomhive wakes from his first night at the Olympic Village, his mind has only once paused its restless calculations.

These are his first Games. They are his game. He will get his prize.