8
ALBY
Fucking shit.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Holy sh—
“Guys, I think I just peed my pants a little.”
Tiger’s voice tugs me forcefully from my internal breakdown.
Glancing to my right, I take him in where he’s sat beside me on the bench in the room we’ve been left in near The Dome. His leg is bouncing, and his expression is warped by nerves.
I don’t blame him. The first Bonding Game is just ten minutes away.
“Just follow the methods we agreed on. It’ll be fine.” Even Scotty looks anxious, so his words don’t have much of the desired effect. “And keep far away from the Champion,” he adds lowly.
My head dips in agreement, though that head is instantly light and airy as terror at the thought of her cascades through me.
Before this, none of us have mentioned her, but I know she’s not far from any Player’s mind. It’s more like everyone is too afraid to speak her name aloud for fear of summoning her. Even if we all know that won’t change our fate if she decides to come after us.
If Ezla Zefron sets her sights on you, you’re already dead.
I try to focus on what Scotty first said, recounting what we’ve decided to do back to him: “Wh-whoever we choose to bond, we close them in. We stay out of the way as much as possible—focus on catching our chosen Exot. We . . . we try to avoid killing if possible.”
“Good.”
Scotty doesn’t say any more than that, clearly too on edge.
My attention slides to Player 4 across from me.
With a long dark brown crew cut, two eyebrow piercings beside a slit, and storm-grey eyes burning with a borderline manic intensity, he looks ready to destroy an entire continent harder than he destroyed that guy’s face five days ago.
I don’t have a clue who his girlfriend is—I’ve never seen him with anyone but himself—but she must be a force of nature to be able to handle a brute like him.
I do wonder what it would be like to be so possessive of someone . . . or have someone be that possessive over me. But I’ve never really thought about romance or any type of intimacy in that context. And now’s definitely not the time to start.
Player 4’s crazed eyes connect with mine.
His slow smirk makes me wonder if he’s a demon in human form.
The tremble in my limbs intensifies at the thought of accidentally getting in his way during the Game.
BZZZZZT!
That sound again, the one I haven’t heard since Name Generation Day just over a week ago now, fills the room, quieting all conversations in the process. Then a feminine-sounding robotic voice pierces the silence:
“Players, congratulations on making it to the first Game.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head. So we were allowed to kill each other during the week of training if we wanted. It’s just never happened before.
The voice continues. “Game 1 will begin in ten minutes. You will now be allowed to view your opponents. You will be able to view all Exots competing, their Player numbers, their names, and their Scores. Choose wisely, and good luck in your first Bonding Game!”
Silence envelopes the room.
Then a large screen rolls over the previously empty black wall to the left, displaying the list as it was described: The display is split in two, holding twenty-five Exots on the left-hand side, and the other twenty-five on the right.
Each Exot has their picture first, then the rest of their information horizontally, starting with their first and last name, followed by their Player number, and lastly by their Score.
My eyes run over every single picture with a near-frenetic energy, taking in a couple of boys no older than sixteen, to women and men who have to be almost a decade older—Players who must be turning twenty-six before the next Bonding Games but weren’t able to escape this one, just like Iggy from my third school.
“The boys,” Scotty mutters quietly. “Player 59 and 63.”
“You think we can get both?” Tiger asks, expression twisted with a rare look of disgust as he takes the boys in. We’re only nineteen ourselves, but having sixteen-year-olds fight in these Games is just diabolical.
“We could try?” I put my own opinion in. “Their Scores say 77 and 74. I know mine’s still quite a bit lower than theirs, but you guys are in the 80s—you’d be able to catch them, right?”
Scotty dips his head. “Should do. And you can help too, Alby—don’t forget that. You’ve been able to manifest your Avri tribike a few times now without any faults. And you ride well.”
My cheeks heat at the praise. “Yeah . . . yeah, I can. I just hope my mind doesn’t go blank—it happens a lot when I’m under high pressure.” My stomach ties itself into knots as the thought infects any confidence I might’ve just gained.
Glancing back at the big screen, my eyes find the very first line on the top left.
A helmeted head, the taalk of the visor an opaque black on the outside unlike any other, crushing any chances of her face sneaking through, followed by her name, ‘Player 100’, and the unfathomable Score of 99 no other has beaten.
I have a far scarier thing than my own mind, or even Aider, Troy, or Player 4, to deal with in that arena.
“Don’t doubt yourself. Confidence is key here. Just remember how easy is felt when you manifested your bike to get to Tiger the other day.”
“Fuck yeah!” the man himself enthusiastically interjects then. “That was so fucking cool, dude! You were all like, ‘I’m a pro now, Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, and you and your master can’t touch me anymore!’ ”
The two in question overhear—which isn’t hard with Tiger’s volume—and glower over at us.
Tiger flashes his pearly whites in return.
Purple stains their faces.
Troy and Aider actually haven’t done much of their usual bullshit this week—other than glaring at me every chance they get and attempting to go after Tiger the other day.
It’s either because they’re too focused on training or because Scotty’s threat actually sunk into Troy’s thick head that first day.
But now, with the malicious looks they’re throwing our way and how Troy’s large thumb draws across his throat like a villain from a children’s TV show, I don’t think they’ll be holding back anymore.
“Back to the matter at hand,” Scotty says, shifting his narrowed eyes from the duo whose gazes he’d been meeting head-on and looking back at me and his brother. “Do we all agree on bonding those two boys? They’ll be our brothers for life if we manage it.”
“Yes,” Tiger says without hesitation. Then adds, “But I’ll still be your favourite brother, right?”
Eyes rolling, the corner of Scotty’s lips tips up. “Always, Little Tiger.”
An aggressive pout. “You can’t call me that anymore, Scotty-Boo—I’m bigger than you.”
“Only with your muscles and ego.”
“That’s not true! I bet my cock’s bigge—”
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—the door opens at that moment, and a Neutral man with his ebony hair tied in a low bun at the nape of his neck enters, the glow of white Avri on his smart jacket lighting up his deeply tanned skin.
The tension in the air thickens to the point of suffocation in an instant.
“The Games are about to start. If you’ll please follow me.
You must receive your bonding cubes and your shots, and then you’ll be on live television.
Prepare yourselves.” He doesn’t wait even a second before spinning on his heel and striding out of the room, leaving all fifty of us Evots to scramble out the door after him.
Oh, god . . . this is actually happening.
A tingling, numbing sensation starts at my fingertips and works its way up my arms.
I’m going to die soon. Oh my shitting, fucking—
“Alby.”
Scotty’s voice and the accompanying hand placed on my shoulder have me jumping out of my skin.
“It’ll be okay. You’re going to get through this. We’re all going to live.” He fixes his eyes intently on me, then his brother, as we walk down the hallway leading to The Dome. “Tell me.”
“We’re all going to live.” Both mine and Tiger’s voices mix together.
Scotty’s hand squeezes before his arm drops back to his side.
Together, we move with the other Evots in a wave of black and green, our reflections walking beside us on the ever-present onyx walls.
Combating red Avri lines all down the length of the hall where those walls meet the ceiling on the left-hand side, our social classification’s equivalent on the right.
Reaching the end of the hall, the Neutral man pauses, and I crane my neck from the middle of the group to get a better look at the second man I find wearing white-accented clothing, who’s stood behind a low table holding many smallish clear boxes.
From here, I can make out the Player numbers on them—one for every Evot—and inside them, the black netting surrounding glowing green cubes.
I know what they are instantly: bonding cubes.
Holy shit, I’m about to get a bonding cube!
The organ in my chest which had already been pumping my blood around like crazy gives an extra-insistent thud.
Bonding cubes are actually something I’ve always thought I might not mind about the Games. Other than the idea of forcibly forming such a connection to someone, I quite like the idea of them, the way they so intimately link you to another human being.
“In a moment,” the Neutral with the low bun begins, and I force my eyes to leave the mesmerising cubes to land on him instead, “you will go through the door behind me and meet the arena for the first time.” He gestures to the gleaming black door with the emerald Evot square outline at its centre.
I’m assuming the Exots will be looking at a red version right now, and a shiver crawls down my back.
“For many of you, it will be the first and last time.”
Oh . . . lovely.
I think I’m going to pass out.
Tiger wraps a steadying arm around my shoulders.
“But before you enter, you must have your bonding cubes attached and the serum in your veins. So, when your Player number is called, please come and take your bonding cubes and hook the pouch to the small loop at your hip. Also make sure your visors are up so the needle can find your skin.”
Swallowing hard, I finger the mentioned loop on my Avri suit, anxious gaze shifting back to the table to search for my bonding cube within the forty-nine others while the Neutral behind the table starts announcing numbers and handing the pouches off to each Evot after opening their box.
Being the lightest green there, it’s not hard to find, and my breath catches at the gentle glow peeking through the netting.
“They’re cool as hell,” Tiger voices my thoughts with round eyes. “So much better than looking at them through screens.”
I agree. We’ve only ever been able to look at pictures of them in school since students aren’t allowed bonding cubes unless they’re generated for the Games, and the Bonded understandably keep theirs close to themselves.
Now I can see those pictures didn’t do them justice; they look almost ethereal in real life, and that’s without even being close enough, or them bare enough in their pouches, to see fully.
It seems no one wants to comment on the regeneration serum, though.
Not that I can blame them when the concept of it has me fighting full-body jitters.
It’s freaky how it allows us to regrow limbs, and it appears to be a universally avoided topic, other than in lessons at school, until you’re watching it work in the Games.
Or in this case, living it.
It’s made from Avri commanded to heal anything but a killing blow until you reach 0%, where you’ll either already be dead or the next blow after that will finish the job if it’s bad enough.
So really, it’s a good thing. But the Games are deadly enough that it would be obscene not to give us any extra help, making the miracle that is the serum feel more like a given.
“29!”
Gasping, I hurry though the crowd to get to the table.
When I reach it, I unsteadily lift my visor, then my chin, head tipping back as I clench my fists as if I could crush my anxiety in them. The needle pricking my skin has my eyelids scrunching together, and my breath leaves me in a rush of relief when it’s done in only a few seconds.
I don’t feel any different.
The Neutral hands me my pouch without a word, and I take it with wide eyes before I make my way back over to Tiger and Scotty in what’s almost a run, trembling hands bringing the pouch closer to my face to get a better look at the translucent two-inch cube within.
The younger Gold brother’s beguiled face appears directly on the other side of it. “Wow! Look at it, Scotty!”
He’s already looking, and I’d say he appears intrigued if he wasn’t so unreadable right now.
“35!”
“Oh!” Tiger whips around in a flash to go fetch his own cube and shot.
While he’s at it, I open the little clasp attached to the top of the net in my hand; bringing it down to my right side, I fix it onto the small loop there.
They’re designed so that when pulled hard enough, the pouches open and release the cube within, so I’ll have to make sure I only do that when we have the boys secure.
No one wants a loose bonding cube roaming around for just anyone to pick up.
Tiger comes back with his own bonding cube already hanging at his hip at the same time Scotty is called up, and I watch the latter walk to the table before focusing back on his brother. “You good?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I blow air out of my mouth. “Just a little . . . petrified.”
His expressive blue eyes stretch out to saucers. “Same! But we’ve got this! And I genuinely believe that, Bestie! Otherwise I would’ve made a mourning song—I can’t die without leaving a melody like that behind!”
Despite all that’s about to happen, I crack a genuine smile.
But then I sober too soon, unable to crush my doubts completely. “If . . . if I don’t make it, I-I just want to say that—that you’ve been the most amazing friend I’ve ever had. It’s been one of the best weeks of my life.”
My vision grows blurry, and Tiger’s face contorts into an expression of pure horror.
“No, don’t cry!” A tiny squeak escapes me as he crushes me against his chest. “We’re all going to live together after this!
And we have so many limbs to grow back to get there!
We’ll make it! We’ll all be brothers—you, me, Scotty, and those two boys we’ll bond!
And we’ll be able to be really, really happy and do whatever we want for the rest of our lives! ”
A thought occurs to me as he pulls back: “Say we do survive, and . . . and those boys don’t . . . what then? Or what if they get bonded by someone else?”
His golden brows push together in extreme concentration, before he nods at whatever conclusion he’s come to. “Then we’ll bond someone else. And we’ll still be happy.” He scoops my pinkie up with his, his skin a few shades darker next to mine, and locks them tight. “Pinkie promise.”
“Pinkie promise . . .”
My whispered words are the last to drift off into the air before the taalk door at the end of the hall starts to rise upwards.
The din of the spectators from within that it had been keeping at bay is deafening as it roars into my ears.