9
ALBY
The volume increases tenfold as cheers soar across stands to meet us down below.
We walk out of the hall and into The Dome single file, Scotty at my front and Tiger at my back, all of us taking in the intimidating scene before us: Thousands of Evots, Exots, and Neutrals blur together in the stands that surround the arena floor; starting eight feet from the ground, they steadily gain height all the way to the far wall that circles around the entire venue.
At the ceiling miles above, countless white circles and outlines of squares in red and green dot the onyx taalk like stars in the night sky, and that Avri is found lining corners and joints around the place in a multitude of long and short strips too, reflecting off of every indestructible taalk surface.
As my head swivels around my neck in amazement at seeing all this in person for the first time, I find the only break in the public behind me, where an obsidian rectangular box sits imposingly.
It’s one-way, nobody able to see inside of it, but everyone knows this is where the Game Master views the Games with the other higher-ups who like to watch us be slaughtered like wild animals.
It’s also where the one-hour countdown will appear when the Game begins.
It’s obvious the Exots aren’t here yet, which I’m grateful for: I’ve never seen one of them up close and personal—I’m still reeling from the ones I saw in person for the first time a week ago from inside the limo—and in a moment’s time, that’s exactly how it’ll be. And I’m completely unprepared.
Will they speak to us or just lop off our heads the first chance they get?
Watching this on television each year—as is non-negotiable for the citizens of Techta, unless they’re those of Techtis watching in person—doesn’t let you sneak a peek into an Exot’s head to study their thought processes.
And though they’re always violent, no two are the same.
Hopefully, they’re just a little tamer this year.
I can hardly make out the spectators from the centre of the arena where the fifty of us Evots pause and spread out into a clustered group rather than a single line—they’re so far away.
Or maybe it’s because the room is spinning as I stand on my unstable feet?
Before I can decide, the crowd’s hollers and whistles and cheers increasing alerts me to the fact it’s no longer just us in the arena.
They’re here.
The back of my neck prickles.
Coming from a doorway that’s appeared in the wall beneath the stands directly opposite us, they stride into the arena single file the same as we did.
With so much distance between us and them, I can’t see much more than hazy red-embellished figures closing in on us.
But that doesn’t stop the sheer terror from rampaging underneath my skin, urging me to flee.
My heart could crack a rib at this rate.
Counting down from ten in my head over and over again while the ruby glows get nearer and nearer . . . clearer and clearer . . . I force myself to stay put.
And then they’re standing before us.
As the large group spreads out like we did, I stand as stiff as a board, focusing on Tiger and Scotty’s presence beside me, reminding myself I have support now that I never thought I would in this Game—in this lifetime, even.
I flit my eyes over the Exots’ faces behind there clear visors, unable to stare too long for fear of dismemberment due to putting a target on my back if my gaze is interpreted as too brave or challenging.
I take in the younger and older faces from sixteen to twenty-five, reminding myself that they’re just like us, forced into this world of brutality way too young.
It was far easier to do when they weren’t standing fifteen feet away.
Gulping audibly, I move my eyes elsewhere, taking them on another tour around The Dome . . . which is when I realise I can’t spot any cameras.
But I know they’re there.
There weren’t any visible ones in the training room where the first live was recorded either. But you can feel their eyes on you, watching your every move and sharing each of your breaths with the entire world.
No technology is impossible in 4057, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out there’s a camera floating right by my head at this exact moment, undetectable to the naked eye.
Before I can think more on what or where they could be, an amplified voice booms through the arena, bouncing across each surface in an endless echo:
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the eleventh Bonding Games!”
The Dome screams its approval.
There’s no apparent source of the words, but we all know the Showmaster is safely up there in that black box with the other Techtis Council members.
I wonder if they’re scared the Exots would chew them up like dog toys, too, if they were to show themselves.
“I feel humbled to be back again this year to introduce you to Game 1: The Bondings!”
“Sure he does,” Tiger mutters sassily to my left, and I feel a small spike of amusement beneath all the suffocating dread.
“But first, let us welcome our Champion!”
Every single muscle in my body locks up.
I exchange a wide-eyed look with Tiger, but I could swear there’s a sparkle of excitement in his, while mine is just pure, unadulterated terror.
The gathered Exots part down the middle like the red sea.
Some sort of choked noise leaves my mouth.
“The one and only Exot who has managed to live as an Unbonded five years in a row! The ruthless . . . the exceptionally intelligent . . . the completely unforgiving . . .”
He keeps speaking, but I can no longer hear him. My vision tunnels, the blood rushing in my ears drowning out the ground-rumbling din of the crowd and turning it into nothing more than white noise.
“Oh, god . . .” It’s a breath of air, hardly discernible.
At the centre of the parted Exots, there she is.
Making her way through the Player-made walkway, Ezla Zefron’s Avri glows like the spilled blood of her victims, stained darker by her inky venom.
On either of her upper arms, her Avri creates the number ‘100’, glaring lethal daggers at the world around her.
Mirroring mine, two small square outlines sit just below either collarbone, but then hundreds of tiny versions trail down her inner and outer legs in single uniform lines, copied like this on her forearms from elbow to wrist. A small gap in the blackish-crimson squares at the top of her thighs gives way to the belt-like Avri strip circling her hips, no thicker than an inch, and from TV, I know her back contains another square outline, this one directly between where we keep our two armoury sticks on the upper edges of our shoulder blades, and her spine from the middle of her back to where any dimples would be displays ‘EXOT’ vertically, the ‘E’ levelled with her lower ribcage and the rest of the letters trailing down underneath.
And lastly, the sleek black helmet embellished with sparsely placed luminous energy that’s kept her features hidden all these years tops off the entire look, warning me even further away from her and giving the impression she’s more an otherworldly creature of mass destruction than a human being.
Shit, I can’t breathe.
Literally.
Sable splotches crowd my vision, my breaths starting to become uncontrolled, hectic even.
My panic attack only halts mid-motion when the Showmaster’s words act more effectively than a bucket of ice water would:
“Let the Game begin!”
Mouth dropping open in horror, I wonder how I missed so much of what he said.
Until I recognise how enraptured I’d been by a certain goddess of death.
A goddess of death who’s charging right at me.
I’m sure the unmasked terror that must be splashed over every millimetre of my face would be comical in any other situation.
But as it is, every Evot is too busy scrambling out the way to laugh at my expense, parting just like the Exots had to make way for Ezla Zefron as she manifests her Avri tribike beneath her, not at all above flattening one of us with the thing.
In fact, she seems like she hopes to crush at least one person along the way.
A harsh tug on my neck has me flying backwards into a solid wall just before her front wheel speeds by the exact spot my head had just been in.
“Focus, Alby!”
Scotty.
“Bikes! Now!”
Blinking hard in utter shock, I whip my head around in every direction, struggling to process everything that’s just happened and everything that’s still happening. Everyone’s already whizzing by on their bikes!
Why is everything happening so fast?! Oh my god, I’m going to die—
“Alby, let’s move!”
Tiger.
Fuck! Move, Alby!
Scotty’s already manifested his tribike, and his brother isn’t far behind. And I . . .
I will not be a liability.
Shoving air back into my lungs, I move.
Bolting across the taalk under my feet, I picture the lime-green tribike in my mind, each and every tiny detail, and I command.
TAKE SHAPE NOW!
And it obeys.