19 #2
Tate stands there like a raging bull, teeth bared, every muscle bulging beneath his Avri suit. The most bloodthirsty, merciless glare I’ve ever witnessed bores into the two men on a heap on the floor. “You’re dead,” he promises.
And then he’s on them.
Blood sprays everywhere, grunts and cries ringing out as the three of them grapple on the ground.
But nothing can defeat Tate’s destructive fury, and he’s on top most of the time, not bothering to use anything other than his body to disfigure his enemies in the most primal way, large fists crushing into one face, then the next.
“NO ONE TALKS ABOUT MY HAVOC LIKE THAT! NO ONE!”
A tooth goes flying.
“YOU’LL DIE FOR IT!”
I don’t look away, not once, despite the horror of it all. I even feel some satisfaction for every hit that connects, for every agonised cry that splits the air open.
“AND I’LL MAKE SURE YOU’RE SUFFOCATING ON YOUR OWN SEVERED COCK WHILE YOU DO! YOU DISRESPECTED MY GIRL AND TOUCHED HER!”
Movement from the corner of my eye snatches my attention to the left, where my soul practically leaves my body with the panic that overtakes me in an instant.
Two Exots, the ones Aider and Troy have bonded, stride over, malice and the need for retribution for their Bonds etched into every crevice of their faces.
Oh no.
“Tate!” My panicked cry bounces right off of the commotion, grabbing no one’s attention at all—not even the large crowd’s that’s gradually gathered, half of whom look nervous, and the other half who whisper excitedly as if this is all great entertainment for them.
He might be able to take on two, but four . . . “TATE!”
He still doesn’t hear me, and my heart kicks up another notch.
Quickly losing hope, I reach over my shoulders for my armoury sticks, knowing I’ll probably be crushed in all this as I’m no match for any of the men in the brawl despite my recently budged-up Score but needing to do something anyway.
But the air in the room changes then.
The gathered Evots and Exots bolt in different directions, hurrying back to whatever activities they’d been doing around the Training Centre before they were drawn over by the commotion.
I feel her before I hear her.
“And what do we have here?”
Chest now being assaulted by the organ within it for an entirely new reason, I chance a glance over my shoulder, breath hitching at the sight of that sleek black helmet and the crimson-accented suit hugging her strong but slim figure.
Heat crawls all over my face.
“Ezla . . .” Tate’s voice is reverent as he rises from where he’d been straddling a dazed Aider.
Before adding one last kick to his face for good measure.
The two Exots, I note, have slowed, reassessing the situation now that the Champion is here. But it’s obvious they’re not going to fight. Not now that the unbeatable has arrived. And maybe as much out of respect as fear—she’s idolised and virtually worshipped by Exots all over Techta.
“Havoc, they— He was . . . He said you—”
I don’t know what makes me decide to speak up, empathy for Tate or my own blend of disgust, anger, and jealousy at the situation coming forth, but I finish for him, “H-he said you were with him—last night. That you s-slept with him. A-Aider said that.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then, the Champion takes a step forwards.
Troy whimpers, scuttling backwards with his chunky palms and elephant feet. But she’s not coming for him.
No, she’s coming for Aider.
Reaching him, Ezla crouches down, helmeted head tilting in an eerie way as she takes in the bloody mess made of his face. After a moment, she leans in, whispering something. I can only make out a faint tinny breath of that modified voice from here.
When she pulls back, the skin under all the red fluid on Aider’s face is as white as a ghost.
I chew on the inside of my cheek nervously.
Ezla straightens. “Come.”
She starts striding purposefully to where I now catch sight of Scotty, Tiger, and Cooper where the nosy spectators once stood, getting nearer, and it takes me a moment to realise the command was for me and Tate.
When I do, I drag a breath in and scamper after her, Tate a step ahead of me. “Anything for you, my darling Havoc.”
I don’t know how his tongue is still safely inside his mouth when he keeps saying things like that.
But then his face changes impossibly fast, the green of envy and a possessive fury drenching him like it never left. “Did you sleep with him? Someone else fucked my girl?” he demands. “I swear to you, I’ll fucking kill him for touching what’s mine—”
“No.”
Tate blinks at her abrupt reply. Then relaxes.
Well, he starts to grumble about slicing and dicing Aider “Havoc style”, but other than that, he’s calmed.
I am, too.
Tiger shoots me a wide-eyed look as we approach with me following our Bonded like a lost puppy, and I smile shyly back.
“What’s this about?” Scotty asks a little warily as he stops walking and folds sturdy arms across his chest.
Ezla stops as well. “You fight like shit.”
A beat.
Scotty’s lips have parted slightly like he can’t believe what he just heard. “Excuse me?” he finally says, not hiding his offence. “We’ve been training hard—”
“Not hard enough.”
“I’m hard enough.”
I choke at Tate’s dirty comment as his salacious gaze roves over Ezla.
Scotty completely ignores him, as does everyone else. “Well, we haven’t exactly had a full Bonded group to train with like everybody else.”
“And?” Ezla drawls, and I can imagine an imperious eyebrow raising beneath that black visor.
Actually, scratch that; no I can’t. I have no idea what she looks like—not the shade of her skin, not the colour of her hair, the width of her nose, nor the colour of her eyes. But I’m sure they’re as beautiful as everything I’ve seen of her so far, even though that’s only her fighting and—
“Do not blame me for your incompetence,” she continues, splitting through my train of thought. Then turns to me, not giving Scotty any more room to argue. “You need a lot of work.”
My throat bobs.
“And you are too skinny. Not underweight, but your body is not equipped to handle The Bonding Games.”
I’m not sure why, but it’s a billion times more humiliating hearing this from her.
Yet I notice that, oddly enough, I don’t feel as small as I usually would despite my embarrassment.
Maybe because the way she says it isn’t mean but clinical, a detached observation that holds no cruelty, no anything, actually.
It’s an odd combination of emotions now planted inside of me that I don’t know what to do with.
It’s Tate’s turn next. “You are a decent, worthy opponent.”
His entire being lights up like a Christmas tree, an almost innocent look of boyish excitement flashing through his eager eyes. “Yeah? Thank you, baby. I knew you’d appreciate me—”
“But you have attempted to copy my fighting style.”
His slow grin is unrepentant, tongue running along his top teeth. “And what about it? Every part of you is stunning—and I want any pieces I can get.”
She ignores ninety percent of that. “You cannot fight like someone so much smaller than you; you must use different techniques. Although many things you have copied from me have worked out, there is a reason your Score is 89 and not in the 90s.”
“Been stalking me, baby?”
As if he’s not the only stalkerish one here from what I’ve heard so far.
Ezla doesn’t dignify him with a response before letting her attention fall on Cooper, and Tate pouts. “You have an aversion to violence,” she states.
At her words, Cooper tenses. “What? No I don’t—”
“Do not lie to me.”
Her cold, even voice could turn the sweat dampening my brow from simply being in her presence to ice.
Cooper’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond.
“We will have to fix that,” Ezla decides, then turns to the last member of our Bonded group.
He flashes a broad smile paired with an enthusiastic wave. “Hi, Ezla! Long time no see! We were thinking we wanted to woo you—”
Scotty’s hand slams over his brother’s mouth.
My eyes have flared wide in alarm, and I’m frozen in place.
A tense pause ensues . . . before Ezla carries on with no inflection when she speaks, “You need to practice more with others who are not your brother. You must broaden your fighting style and skills, and you cannot do that if you stick to what you know. You need to study different opponents. As do you.” Her helmet shifts incrementally the older brother’s way.
“We’ve actually been trying that—”
“Not hard enough, Player,” Ezla repeats her earlier words to Scotty . . . with an unwelcome addition on the end.
“Player?” His brows shove together. “We’re your Bonded.”
“I think we have already established that I will never be calling you that.”
“But you’ll call me that, right?” Tate demands.
“No.”
“Havoc,” he growls, stepping up to her. With him a head taller, she has to look up to meet his gaze, yet she doesn’t look any less deadly.
“Player 4.”
He snarls, teeth gnashing like a wild animal’s. “No. Tate.”
She doesn’t reply before she spins on her heel, heading to the Simulation Hexagon, and the move is so abrupt that I struggle to process her next words:
“I am going to train you.”