2
ALBY
I really hope I don’t wet myself in front of all these people. That would just make my week.
Luckily, that hasn’t happened before on either of the previous two times I’ve sat in this hall on Name Generation Day, but never say never.
Sitting in the top row of seats, I can hardly keep the tremble in my limbs at bay as I wait for the large screen at the front of the room to turn on, eyes flicking nervously between it and the six Neutral guards split evenly on either side of the stage down below.
It’s not often that the guards for TBG are seen—they’re only an obvious presence on Name Generation Day—but the threat of them is very real.
They work to keep everyone in line and prevent anyone from leaving, and after a well-known incident that happened in a different Evot school several years ago where a student who was generated tried to run, their job has been made exceptionally easy.
Because no one has dared to attempt an escape since.
The boy was only sixteen, and they executed him on the spot.
I tug at my high neckline as if that’ll help regulate my erratic breathing as I watch a member of The Council walk across the low stage, stopping to speak with our headmistress.
After their hushed conversation, Headmistress Soya walks to the centre of the stage, her sleek ebony bob swaying with her steps.
“Can I have your attention, please?!”
Her words boom through the room, carried by her voice amplifier, and the effect is immediate: a few gasps sound out before it’s quite literally quiet enough to hear a leaf drop.
Her slanted eyes scan over the seats. “Thank you, students. The school generating is about to begin, so, as always, I’d like to say a few words.
We all understand the importance of The Bonding Games, but I realise it may be hard to see the positive impact the event has on our region when you’re in the thick of it, so let me give you a reminder of our history:
“Thirty years ago, crime rates in Techta were so high, there was a constant state of pandemonium. Murder, money laundering, rape, street fights . . . that’s what made up our region.
The state of things was so abysmal, The Council wasn’t sure anything could possibly be done to get the situation under control.
” A dramatic pause. “Until Joseph Zefron came along.”
“At just nineteen years old, Zefron came to The Council with ideas for a society with order—a region whose inhabitants could live in harmony, with minimal conflict and high understandings of one another. He pointed out how the majority of committed crimes seemed to stem from conflict, and he explained how with so many different views and personalities mixing, it was impossible to avoid altercations.” Soya clasps her hands behind her back neatly.
“So he suggested dividing Techta’s inhabitants into three categories: Evot, Exot, and Neutral.
Exots would be found with harsher personality traits, such as their violence or inability to forgive, while Evots would be identified by softer traits, like the ability to empathise and their loyalty. ”
I fight to keep my thoughts from showing on my face.
With the way the social classifications are spoken about to this day, it paints the picture that Exots are inherently “bad”, while Evots are inherently “good”.
But we all know that’s not entirely true.
Because while most people conform to their classification—the Champion being a prime example—not everyone does.
And there’s Evots like Troy Hurst strutting around to prove it.
“Neutral, on the other hand, is a perfect blend of the two: individuals would be identified by having an equal number of traits from the official Evot traits list as they did from the Exot one,” the headmistress explains.
“Within the year, all citizens were sorted into the three social classifications, and while there was some opposition and difficulties at first, with the most noticeable concerns being the divide this could bring to families, the operation mostly ran smoothly; classifications were quickly distinguished by the colours red, green”—she waves an arm outwards to gesture to the emerald glow of Avri all around us, decorating each gleaming black surface in tastefully placed strips—“and white, and buildings were reconstructed as the three Zones were created, dividing citizens of contrasting personality types and ensuring the best day-to-day experience for everyone.”
She drags out another stretch of weighted silence, then says, “For a few years, this system seemed to work, and Zefron was a key player in running everything as he had readily been accepted into The Council not long after his first proposal, making impactful decisions for everyone’s lives across Techta .
. . But small objections grew larger over time, and crime rates rapidly rose once more after the fifth anniversary of the invention of the social classifications, with murder, domestic abuse, and hate crimes the most commonly committed as animosity between Evots and Exots specifically began to grow.
“With panic spreading throughout The Council, Zefron moved up in the ranks when he saved the day yet again with his proposed idea of a yearly event that would reduce overall crime rates by allowing such serious acts to be committed in a controlled environment—although he made it clear that the main goal of the operation would be to have Evots and Exots form healthy connections, abolishing as much animosity as possible.”
Debatable. You’d have to be blind to not see that Joseph Zefron thrives on chaos. Exots are viewed as almost evil, and yet when it comes to the worst one of all, he’s praised like he’s the hero we should all worship.
Not that I’d ever have the courage, or be stupid enough, to voice my opinions on the matter aloud.
“The rest of the Techtis Council jumped onto his ingenious idea, and of course, after fifteen years of planning, building, and training young Evots and Exots, the very first Bonding Games was televised!” She flashes two straight rows of pearly teeth at us.
“It was a huge success, effectively reducing crime outside of the Games, and even working to bring some Evots and Exots together as hoped, with many former Players now living out their best lives with the friends or lovers they’ve found and bonded through the event.
All these years later, and we’re now just a day away from the official start of the eleventh Bonding Games! ”
BZZZZZT!
The big screen lights up behind the headmistress with a blare of an alarm that echoes throughout the entire region.
And I mean that literally: Every Evot third school screen in Techta is identical right now, displaying the number 0 in bright green on a black background, screaming that alarm from their speakers.
And at this exact moment, I know every Exot third school screen is doing the same, but with a glowing red ‘0’ waiting to generate five of their own schools, their own speakers increasing the volume of the buzzer-like sound.
Until it abruptly cuts off.
My ears ring in the silence that follows.
Breaths held in anticipation, every eye in the room is glued to that motionless digit on the screen.
And then it starts to change.
In a blur, the screen flicks through the numbers from 191 to 360, too fast to keep track of. It goes on for one second . . .
two . . .
three . . .
BZZZZZT!
202.
The entire assembly hall lets out a sigh of relief, a momentary break from terror.
Before the number is flicked away by another blur of movement, and a rigidness grips the room once more.
Again, the numbers scroll by for one second . . . two . . . three . . .
BZZZZZT!
290.
My shoulders want to loosen, but I can’t get rid of any of the tension in my stiff body this time.
Another three heart-stopping seconds . . . another number.
308.
Thank the universe.
Only two schools left, a much lower chance of ours getting generated now. There’s still 187 third Evot Training Schools to choose fro—
BZZZZZT!
246.
I make a strangled sound in the back of my throat.
Dizziness has my head feeling light, everything all fuzzy.
The numbers are scrolling again, but no one’s paying attention as chaos rises in the room, hushed whispers rising to pleading cries, angry exclamations, words of disbelief .
. . but even some noisy excitement. Through it all, I vaguely note the buzzer going off once more, Evot Training School 359 claiming the last space.
Headmistress Soya’s voice attempts to find an ounce of acknowledgement, but not even her amplifier can beat down the uproar.
I tighten my fists on my thighs, trying to breathe through the panic, reminding myself there’s a thousand other Evots in this room and only ten of them will be generated. There’s only a 0.1 percent chance I’ll be one of them. It’ll be fine. It has to be.
Because if my name appears on that screen, I’ll be dead in a week’s time.
“SILENCE!”
Shoulders jumping up to my ears, my widened eyes lock on the man from The Council, who’s now centre stage and holding two voice amplifiers to his lips.
Ouch.
The mayhem that had taken over the assembly room comes to a screeching halt.
The older Evot gives us a stern look before walking back to the side of the stage. And that’s that. There’s no words needed when ‘202’ appears back on the screen.
Then it’s flicked away, this time by a list of names speeding by.
BZZZZZT!
Mira Flint.
BZZZZZT!
Elijah Tenner.
BZZZZZT!
Thompson Dune.
BZZZZZT!
Tate Callow.
Another buzz, another name, until Evot Training School 202 has ten Evots generated.
Moving on to the next school.
Ten buzzers . . . ten more names.
We all watch without a sound, anticipation thrumming in the air.
And then it’s our turn.
That air thickens, the tension tripling.
My breathing gets shakier, and my eyes stay glued to the screen with the impossible focus needed to fire a missile from an Avri jet. I almost expect my jittery limbs to have the ground rumbling.
The names zip by . . .
The buzzer sounds out.
“Fuck!”