16
TIGER
I’ve never felt wrath like that before. Ever. It was like it completely consumed Ezla, and the only reprieve from it was that repressed pain, as though she was working to bury it, to hide it from us.
But I felt it. We all did, I know.
And I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
The fact that she’s a tornado of a woman and currently a volcano preparing for its mighty eruption doesn’t scare me as much as it would have an hour ago.
And maybe that’s because I know she’s not allowed to kill me, but I doubt it, because with who her father is, I’m sure he could lower her punishment—so I’m aware that the forbidden nature of the act wouldn’t be much motivation for the Champion not to slay us all.
No, it’s because that fear has been flattened under the feet of my concern and intrigue and . . . hmmm . . . attraction?
Yep, that’s it!
Oh yeah, she’s the one, alright! I’ve honestly thought I might be asexual in the past, but nooohoooo! When I heard that sexy modified voice and got to absorb all Ezla’s scary coolness, my cock arose from the dead! I mean, she’s just a little intimidating, but she’s obviously my soulmate.
My thoughts spin wildly around my head, ideas whizzing at me left, right, and centre.
While we walk through the dim halls of The Bonding Games Headquarters’ central building on our way to get a first viewing of our allocated washroom, my bonding cube clutched in a secure grip and ready to be tucked away safely as soon as possible, I voice the question needed to make any one of those ideas attainable: “So this is gonna be romantic, right?”
Four heads whip my way in sync.
I smile brightly.
“You—” My brother stops. Opens his mouth again. Looks away.
Awwww, is that a blush? My big bro’s got a crush!
I open my mouth to say as much—
But all that comes out is a shriek as I dodge a bear-sized fist soaring for my face.
“She’s mine!”
Oh, not this again.
“I think we need to work on your vocabulary,” I state, straightening up and snapping my visor back down from where I’d had it flipped up to cool the sweat on my skin in case Player 4 tries that again.
“Don’t provoke him, Tiger,” Scotty scolds as he steps between me and the Ezla-obsessed beast when he lunges for me again.
My hands shoot up either side of my head in defence, palms out. “I wasn’t!”
“Fucker! You want to steal my girl!” The monster is hardly kept at bay by my brother’s hands pushing at his large chest to keep him from me.
“That’s not what I said!”
“You—”
“Gentlemen!”
Our focus zips to the front of our group, where the impatient Neutral who’s been leading me, Scotty, Alby, Player 4, and Player 17 to our Bonded washroom stands.
Arms folded over his chest, he glowers at us.
“I have other jobs to do today, so unless you’d rather not wash or have a place to stay at night, you’ll argue later, and follow me now. ”
I straighten my spine and salute him like a good soldier. “Yes, sir.”
His expression remains unimpressed.
Turning on his heel, he continues to walk, and we all stay silent. But I can feel the side of my face being pierced by the razor-sharp knives a certain someone is still throwing my way.
It’s not long before we’re stopping in front of a—you guessed it—sheeny black door.
On its centre sits a snowy luminous number ‘14’, which is our newly given Bonded group number.
Considering no one could’ve known who would survive and bond, or how many Players would be in each Bonded group, until Game 1 finished, the staff here must’ve worked hella fucking fast to have our washrooms and chambers prepared for us already.
Only fifty-two of us made it.
With twenty-four Evots and twenty-eight Exots remaining, it’s actually more than previous years.
And everyone knows it was because of The Bonding Games Champion.
With her average of fourteen kills in the first Game each year—which is almost the same amount as the average for the rest of the Exots combined—it was shocking to say the least when this year her kill count was revealed as ten.
But since the end of the Game when I felt her stab of agony through the bond, I’ve known something was up with her for those results to be like that, and I’m desperate to find out what it was.
“Head on in and have a look around. Five minutes, then I’ll take you to your Bonded chambers.
” The Neutral points to the panel beside the door.
“One of you can scan your thumb there; it will pick up on your fingerprints through your gloves like the other biometric scanners here. Only you five and your Exot have access.”
“Wicked.” I hurl myself at the panel eagerly.
The door swings open.
My hands immediately come up to protect my poor, assaulted eyes.
“Good gods!” I cry. “Scotty, it’s white!”
“I can see that.” I feel him ease around me to get into the blinding room.
“Why is it white?!”
It’s not as if everything is black, but white is typically only seen on or in buildings when the place belongs to Neutrals or in ones like hospitals.
Lowering my arms, I squint.
“It’s white because it provides maximum visual clarity, allowing you to better assess any wounds you may receive during a Game or training, and, if a professional is not needed, for you to take care of them with the utmost success by yourselves.
” Our escort’s voice from behind me is outrageously monotone.
“Ohhhhh! That makes sense! But please warn me next time, bro!”
Then I flounce into the room to take everything in:
There’s mostly no break in the four walls, just an uninterrupted slab of purest-white opaque taalk for each face that runs from one end of the room to the other to create a massive rectangle.
On the far wall facing the door I came through, six cubby holes sit, the only things to interrupt that smoothness; there’s one for each person in our Bonded group, marked by our Player numbers in green on five of them, with the remaining one an inky crimson, the sight of which sends a bolt of excitement through me as thoughts of its owner twirl around in my head.
Only that and their faint square outlines that I can hardly make out distinguish them from the rest of the wall, as well as what looks like small biometric scanners below the numerals on each.
The top of it finishing a couple feet lower than the cubby holes and slightly to the left of them, a washing machine sits, which works like the majority of those in Techta these days: using Avri commanded to remove any messes from the clothing in five to ten minutes depending on how much needs cleaning.
They also stitch holes back together, which will be incredibly helpful if I ever get stabbed and survive without the regeneration serum in me and my suit needs fixing.
Avri’s really funny in the way it does random shit like that as well as aiding in both killing and healing someone on their death bed.
I mean, you’re going to clean my clothes, but you’re not going to get rid of my ADHD?
Not that I’d even want that—the insults I’ve received over time have on occasion made me feel a little crappy, but I’ve always liked who I am.
But the point is, the energy is rude like that.
Wouldn’t it be handy if it could cure depression?
I internally flip it off.
Then feel bad because Avri’s still really cool.
To my left in the centre of the room are a few shining benches that I’m afraid to breathe too close to for fear of tainting something so angelic-looking, and a matching row of three low tables, which I guess is where we’d lie down to help us look at any wounds, is in the middle of them.
Left of all those, hugging the far wall, are six wide cubicles with white doors that wink in the harsh lights, and I assume they enclose toilets.
Parallel to them on the other wall across the room are six shower stalls neatly lined up, and in a rare reversal, they hold the only black in the entire place with the satiny shower curtains—which are drawn until I whip one open.
“Ooooooh, fancy!” I take in the whopping showerheads fixed to the ceiling in delight.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to fuck my girl in one of them.”
Internally, I sigh.
I spin around to face Player 4— Ugh, I hate calling people numbers.
Deciding to rectify that, I ask, “Hey, what’s your name?”
He huffs as if it’s a great inconvenience to tell me but answers in that deep, beastly voice of his, “Tate.”
“Hmmm, I’m Tiger!” I say cheerily.
He narrows his eyes.
Ohh-kayyy.
Sidestepping away from that thunderstorming glower, I roam my gaze about, looking for the other one.
I find Player 17 with his helmet off, revealing damp chocolate hair as he splashes water onto his face and into his mouth from one of the taps I now notice attached to one of six sinks on the same wall as the entrance and by the toilet cubicles. “Hey, you—chocolate head!”
From the corner of my eye, I vaguely note my brother facepalming.
Player 17 pins pissed brown eyes on me, straight brows hanging low over them.
Yikes, another grumpy one.
“What’s your name?”
“Cooper,” he says shortly.
I hum.
Then my hands plop themselves on my hips. “Okay, everyone. The Powerpuff Girls isn’t gonna work anymore—”
“What?”
A loud clap of clasping hands prevents me from answering Cooper’s confused question. “Time’s up. Follow me, please,” the Neutral man says from the doorway.
He starts walking without checking to make sure we actually listen to him.
I huff as I rush to keep up, a round-eyed Alby hot on my heels. “Why do they always do that?”
“To keep things efficient.”
I side-eye my brother.
“We have no choice but to move our asses and stay on schedule,” he explains.
I hum thoughtfully again.