14
ALBY
“We have to bond her.”
“WHAT?!” Tiger shrieks like a banshee over the continuous chanting and resounding shouting of the audience.
“Yes,” Scotty replies evenly, as if this is a completely acceptable and achievable idea.
“Have you lost your damn mind?! You—you must be insane! We’ll die!”
I’d have to agree with Tiger; his older brother has lost his mind.
There’s no way on earth we’ll attempt to bond the Champion and survive.
She’s lethal, merciless. Not to mention, we all know we would have been mutilated during our earlier encounter if it weren’t for some grace of the universe pushing Ezla to play with us before crushing us beneath her boots . . . or wheels, I should say.
“And we’ll die for sure if we don’t.” Scotty’s voice is a little harder now.
“Look at that.” His finger points to the large white numbers on the black box in the stands.
“We have ten minutes. Ten minutes . . . before that countdown reaches zero. And then we’re dead. Every other damn Exot is bonded.”
Looking around, I realise he’s right: Bonded groups and pairs are now what make up the arena. No longer green against red, everyone is battling anyone trying to harm them or one of their Bonds.
It’s complete madness.
I pick out Troy and Aider in the mix, and through all the chaos, I realise they must have been too occupied themselves to actually attempt to destroy me in this Game like they’d silently—yet not so subtly in Troy’s case—promised.
Tiger’s expression sobers, yet I could swear there’s something eager in his eyes warring with the fear. “So our only chance at living to see tomorrow is bonding Ezla. Of . . . beating her.”
A nod.
“Impossible . . .” I breathe, ribcage rattling with the beats of my heart.
“No—this is how we win. We do this, and we’ll have the Champion on our side for the next seven weeks. We’ll live.” Scotty pauses. “This will decide everything.”
My body flushes hot and cold, my ears fuzzy, muffling his words.
Bond or die.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I give a sharp, determined dip of my chin as those words sink in. “We . . . we can do this. We can bond her.”
A resolute nod in return. “We can.”
“Hell yeah!” Tiger pipes up, his solemness from a moment ago replaced by the same resolve within me, along with a dollop of sunrays. “We can do this!” His hand whips out before him, palm facing the ground, arm extended. “Hands on top!”
Scotty shakes his head subtly but does as his brother says, slapping a hand down on the back of his. Mine follows a moment later, the appendage quivering.
Then Tiger tosses our hands up. “Powerpuff Girls for life!”
***
“Mine!”
Scotty hisses as he narrowly dodges the curved green blade coming from Player 4’s armoury stick. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Do you think he has any other words in his vocabulary?”
“I don’t fucking know, Tiger, and that’s not really my concern right now.”
“She’s mine, motherfuckers! Mine to love! Mine to fuck! Mine to keep—”
Tiger beams. “Oh, look—he does!”
Vroom!
Player 4’s head spins around faster than lightning, eyes following Ezla like a dog his favourite treat.
I choose that moment to snatch up one of my armoury sticks from my upper back, manifesting the energy in it into a spluttering curved blade, my other hand strangling the handlebar on the left side of my bike.
Focus, Alby! Command!
I do, and it results in my Avri solidifying into a steady weapon of death, which, with a battle cry I didn’t know I had in me, I stab down in a wide arc for Player 4’s arm—
Then promptly squeal like a little girl as he shifts fast enough for the blade to miss him completely, his bared teeth and manic eyes now drilling into me.
“I’m sorry!” I squeak like a complete buffoon.
The only response I receive is a deranged snarl.
“Shit!”
The curse from my right saves me from extreme bodily harm as we both turn to watch a familiar man duck to escape a fatal blow from the Champion’s Avri dagger, the two of them zipping around each other on their tribikes much like me, Tiger, Scotty, and Player 4 are doing.
The huge man in front of me moans. “Go on, baby, slice him up!”
I splutter, gaping at him incredulously.
“Jesus fuck!”
Tiger’s awed exclamation brings my attention back to Ezla, and I watch as, as if in slow motion, she launches herself off her bike, her crimson energy vacuuming back up into her Avri pads as she flips upside down.
Toned arms extend, hands latching onto her prey’s broad shoulders, before dragging him off his own bike and with her onto the ground, leaving her landing in a practiced crouch, one gloved palm pressed to the taalk, while Player 17 ends up slamming onto his back a foot away with a pained “oomph”, his Avri vanishing as well.
“Guess we’re moving this to the ground!” Tiger leaps off of his own tribike, speeding right towards the danger without thought; Avri demanifesting, he lands in an effortless roll before springing up to his feet, and he’s .
. . he’s beaming. I know he’s terrified of the Champion just like I am, but he’s also appearing more and more excited by her by the second.
“Fuck’s sake, Tiger!” Scotty curses, immediately following, his gaze both worried and angry as it tracks his brother’s reckless movements.
“No one touches my girl!” Player 4 seethes, the next one to toss himself into the fray.
Oh, gods . . . this really is utter bedlam.
I fling myself after the lot of them.
Now with both hands free, I immediately grab my second armoury stick, luckily so desperate, and my mental order so violent with that desperation, that my Avri obeys without any faults this time, resulting in me brandishing two green-glowing daggers that illuminate the glossy floor beneath me.
But then I realise I don’t even know where to start to make sure I’m a help rather than a hindrance:
Further back, Tiger’s leg arcs low, attempting to kick Ezla’s out from under her while he’s close to the ground, but she swiftly leaps up, using the height and momentum to slam her boot into the side of his head with a whack!
before her body twists inconceivably in the air until she’s facing Player 17, where her leg hooks around the side of his neck in another impossible move and takes him to the ground.
Closer, not six feet from me, Player 4 grapples with Scotty on the taalk, and they roll around like animals, the former not even bothering with his armoury sticks as he smashes large fists wherever he can reach, forcing the leaner man to go on the defence as the weapon he’d had manifested is knocked from his hand in the tumultuous tussle; it zaps back inside the ebony baton as he loses focus on it, and his second one isn’t readily available to grab when it’s attached to the back he’s stuck on.
Shit, shit, shit . . .
Starting forwards, I’m about to go to Scotty, deciding his situation is currently the most perilous—when that dreaded robotic voice stops me dead in my tracks, freezing my blood solid.
“Five minutes remaining.”
And that’s when it happens.
Everything changes.
The two men who’d been brawling’s movements come to a crashing halt, and I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it with my own two eyes, but a mutual agreement, a silent understanding, passes between them in a flash.
They both know there’s absolutely no more time to waste.
And even though it’s for different reasons, bonding is the only goal left, the only thing they have time for if they want to become a Bonded rather than ashes. And then—
“Help me,” Player 4 growls, his wild grey eyes holding a hint of vulnerability, of a panic and desperation he can’t hide.
Because he gets it, too. He comprehends that there’s no time to attempt to outmatch Ezla on his own, even if he could. The only way to have a solid chance at succeeding is to work together.
And Scotty nods.
***
“Four minutes remaining.”
All the air leaves my body with one bone-cracking boot to my stomach.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I crash to the ground, only able to get back up when Tiger lifts my entire weight and dumps me back on my feet.
I’m in the most horrific pain I’ve ever experienced for a handful of precious seconds, even if it does feel duller than I’d expect it to when I’m certain one or two bones are broken—until an odd tingling sensation that has my stomach twisting writhes through the aching bones inside of me.
And then I’m as good as new.
I don’t have time to linger on the phenomenon or wonder what percentage I’m now on as I force myself back into the mayhem before me, my thinner and weaker body nowhere near enough to damage our opponent, and only half as effective when I throw punches or slash my daggers compared to the other four men I’ve found myself working with.
A few times, I think I see the Champion stumble where she moves her body at the speed of light between us, but I don’t know if that’s because we’ve made progress or because of something else.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it all, and it’s wishful thinking, begging her to just falter long enough to give us a true chance as living.
“Three minutes remaining.”
“Dammit, Havoc! Stop playing hard to get! You’re mine!”
Player 4 loses four fingers for that.
“Oh—! You naughty, naughty girl . . .”
He’s definitely insane, but at least he’s on our side.
For now.
“I am going to kill you all,” Ezla hisses, and that robotic-like voice as much as the words have a petrified whimper getting lodged in my throat.
“I’m going to spank you when my fingers grow back, baby. And you’ll love it—”
Smack! Smack!
The two hard punches in quick succession have him close to falling on his ass even though he’s so much bigger than her.
In the same second, she’s spinning to block the sword Scotty’s manifested, her red energy clashing with his green, sparks flying. The unique buzz and high clang of the collision rings in my ears.
“Someone just bloody grab her!” Player 17 shouts.