26 #2
Player 29 is collapsed on his knees, sobbing his too-pure heart out. His Avri suit is unsullied, unlike the bloody masterpiece made of mine.
I tilt my head, studying the boy with reluctant interest. He is . . . sad. He is sad that a girl from his third school died.
Why is he upset? Was he friends with her? More? I was under the impression he had never had true friends before the men who bonded me, and certainly nothing more than that. Was I mistaken?
Something . . . repugnant and slimy and green slithers through me.
My teeth smash together.
I do not like it.
Shaking myself out of the appalling state, I put my head back on how it is supposed to be, reminding myself I am always right and there is no need to doubt my intelligence; Player 29 has not had a romantic relationship before, and it would not matter if he had.
I. Do. Not. Care. Not about him, not about anything except escaping the horror of my daily life, one way or another.
I just need the boy to stop wailing because it is embarrassing for him to be one of my Bonds at this moment in time, and the sound is highly unpleasant for my sensitive ears.
Evots are truly repugnant with their softness.
Alby.
His head whips up, his sob pausing mid-cry. The last of his tears continue to streak down his face in a way that rudely attempts to prod at my gut, and I kindly tell it to fuck off.
Ez . . . Ezla . . . ? His voice sounds scratchy even in his thoughts, as if he does not know how to separate any part of him from the pain coursing through him that he is unknowingly flooding the bond with, drenching me in it.
And I take it all.
Just like I always do.
The men I am bonded to are blissfully unaware that they are constantly pushing everything they are thinking and feeling down the bond. Unlike me, who quickly figured out how to block them out, they have not cared to. Or maybe they tried and failed miserably. With them, either is equally as likely.
I never comment on the bursts of pain, the fire of arousal, the bitterness of anger, the sharpness of fear . . . I am unbothered.
Most of the time.
Just like I am unbothered by the majority of things.
Nothing can touch me.
Yes, I respond to Player 29.
You . . . you said my name.
I did.
Did he think I did not know it?
How insulting to my intelligence.
I simply prefer to call him and the other four “Players” because that is all they are. Nothing else. And that is all they will ever be.
His pain fades to the background the longer he speaks to me, all of him focused on me, just like it should be without fail. His already-splotchy cheeks deepen in colour, and his chest rises and falls faster as his breathing escalates.
You’re covered in blood, he tells me. I think he may be in shock.
I know.
His wide eyes take in every inch of me before roaming around the room containing me. And the remains of my opponent. Then they grow even larger with what can only be described as fascinated horror.
Do you like my artwork?
The ridge of his throat bobs, lips opening and closing like his mouth cannot form words, before he realises it does not need to. It’s . . . ummmmm . . .
I raise a brow even though he cannot see it, wondering where he is going with this.
Uhhhhh . . . definitely . . . you. Very, uh . . . creative.
Hmm . . . if I were doing a points system for my puppets, he would be in the lead now.
My eyes flick behind him to briefly scan over Player 25, dead on the floor with a hole in her heart where Player 29’s Avri dagger must have pierced.
Clean and efficient. I can work with that.
Well done.
His gasp is so loud at my rare praise I can almost hear it through the thick wall between us, even over the muffled raucous din of the crowd in the stands outside and the yells and screams of the Players still fighting in the surrounding taalk rooms.
I . . .
Do not look at her, I snap when he starts to turn his head the girl’s way. Because it makes him weak to feel guilty and upset about his first kill. So typical of an Evot. So pathetic.
Not for any other reason.
His head swings back to me. Sorry!
Good boy.
I feel him melt through the bond while fire licks at my bones to mimic the arousal my words also bring him.
Fine. I will admit that feeling their desperate need for me can be an ego boost, but that is all.
You . . . you’re proud of me? I did good? There is no mistaking the vulnerability in his words.
I pause to think about my response before realising there is no need to lie. It does not mean anything other than what it is: I am proud of him for becoming such a good puppet.
I am.
I didn’t want to do it . . .
My mind works. What am I meant to do here? Comfort him?
I cringe.
No, thank you.
I give him the facts: You had to, or you would be dead. The only way you will have a life after this is by taking others’. It is either you or them, and if your opponent dies, they clearly did not want to live very much.
One slow blink. Uhhhh . . . I’m not sure if that’s . . .
You are alive, I interrupt. Did you not want to stay alive for me?
His response comes quickly. I did! I do!
My lip curls upwards. You want to make me happy?
Yes! His head bobs up and down frantically to emphasise his point.
Then you will stay alive by any means necessary. You will make sure you always come back to me.
My directions bring him a sense of peace and contentment within all this, I feel as much as I see. His only purpose is to serve me. He does not have to worry about anything else.
Hmm . . . it seems I have accidentally comforted him.
Whatever. I guess this will only serve my purpose to have him falling at my feet, even if the efforts are not needed.
Yes . . . I promise, Ezla.
Very good. Now, come. It is over now.