26
EZLA
Unimpressed, I stand with my puppets with my arms folded over my chest. Hurry up so I can get to the killing, Peter.
“This one always gave me the heebie-jeebies when I watched on TV,” the one who crawled to me yesterday comments with an unnecessarily exaggerated shiver as the Showmaster keeps blabbing on in a voice he thinks is marvellous with words he thinks are moving, but they are only extremely irritating.
I liked that—when he crawled to me. A lot more than I should have.
And then they all kneeled at my feet. Right where they belong.
What a sight that was.
Inhaling, I take in the fresh, cleansed air within the confines of my helmet as if I could suck up that feeling of power all over again . . . and another feeling I refuse to name which was so inconsequential that it was discarded within a matter of seconds in any case.
“Same . . .”
I flick my focus to the shy one on my left at the hardly audible breath of a word, taking in his ever-large hazel eyes as they anxiously study the arena and the mammoth contraption within, and the long raven lashes framing them behind his transparent visor.
“You will all be fine,” I say shortly. “Simply kill them.”
They all blink at me.
Other than Player 4, who licks his lips like he is planning to eat me, even though I have made it quite clear plenty of times that I am not on the menu.
“What if I drop into the room when my opponent has got there first and I’m impaled on an Avri sword they had held up just waiting for me to fall onto it?
!” Player 35 has his usual hyper-and-wild look about him amplified a hundred times over, and his voice has almost risen to a screech that tries to slice up my poor eardrums by the end of his question.
“Then you are dead,” I point out dispassionately.
He gapes at me. “But—”
“So I’d advise you not to do that because it will reflect very poorly on me, and I will not be happy.”
“When are you ever?”
My head whips around to face Player 17. “What was that, Player?” I hiss, daring him to repeat himself.
The one who is convinced he loves me threateningly steps towards him and growls, “Watch your tone with my Bonded.”
“Our Bonded,” Player 35 corrects with a passionate, angry pout aimed at Player 17 too.
The grumpy one raises his hands beside his head, palms out. “Fucking hell, I’m sorry, okay?”
38 opens his mouth to add his own input, but then those heavenly words bless my ears:
“Let the Game begin!”
“Oh no! I can’t do it!”
“You got this, Bestie! Come on!”
“Wait—!”
“Fuck yes. Let’s go, Havoc.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
Rolling my eyes, I reach over my shoulders as I begin to stride towards the gargantuan rectangular structure standing in the middle of The Dome’s arena floor, knowing they will follow like good soldiers when they see their queen on the move.
I must say, I am incredibly proud of how easily I made them bow before me. Not that they needed any convincing.
Other than Player 17.
He is risky in quite a few ways, that one. But I will tame him.
Forearms crossing over each other so that my left hand grips the armoury stick on my right shoulder blade whilst my right hand clenches around the one on my left, I then whip them out either side of me, arms coming down to my sides in wide arcs in my signature move as I manifest the Avri within the ebony batons into my preferred curved blades with ease, the blackish-crimson glow whispering the sweet promise of death as they glide through the air.
“Oh hells—I can feel my dick leaking for you, baby!”
Completely dismissing Player 4’s bellow that has attracted half the Evots and Exots’ attention who are running along in the same direction as me—as well as the disgraceful tingling heat that snakes low within my stomach—I leap into the air, Avri platforms forming beneath each of my boots.
Using them to push off of, I leap higher and higher, until I launch myself from the last one and onto the flat top of the huge structure of clear taalk containing many rooms beneath, each of whose walls form different shapes: squares, hexagons, triangles, pentagons . . .
The roof of the contraption opens up beneath my feet when I reach one of the triangular ones, vanishing as if it were never there, and I drop straight through, gracefully spinning in the air until I land in a roll.
Springing back up to my feet, my body whirls around in a flash to face the horde of Players just as they start to pass above my room, and my keen eyes watch the green and red Avri pads on their undersoles pressing against the commanded energy used up there: It is instructed to look and act like taalk to match the rest of the structure for every single moment other than when one of the two Players allocated to the specific space below steps onto it, then the Avri will allow them to fall through, locking the Players inside when they have both arrived until one of them is dead.
And if neither ends up killing the other after the countdown—which is only fifteen minutes for this Game—reaches all zeroes, a toxic gas will fill the room and end them both.
It is so clever. I love it.
The triangle is typically the worst shape any Player can get unless they know how to use it to their advantage considering it is easiest to corner an opponent, and therefore be cornered yourself, when there are three narrow points able to aid in boxing you in.
However, this poses no issue for me, of course.
I am simply impatient for whatever unskilled idiot has been paired with me to get the fuck down here so I can have my fun.
I have many unwanted emotions accumulated within me that it is crucial I expel before they can sink their roots into me properly.
All because of them.
It is only more proof that all men do is seek to destroy you.
Player 29 crashes onto the floor of the room beside mine.
My brows lower.
I did not like that at all. Nor the way he winces, rolling onto his side and coughing out a wheezed breath.
His sounds of pain are muffled through the taalk wall that separates us, but not enough to keep them from me when I have learned to be so attuned to all of my senses.
Not enough to stop the slight . . . twist in my stomach.
I. Despise. Him.
Growling as he struggles to his feet, I whirl away from him.
Just in time for my opponent to come at me full force as they drop down into my room with a luminous green axe in their hand aiming right for my neck.
This is exactly what I mean—one of those men almost got me killed right then.
No matter how skilled I am, if I am not focused, I can lose my head just like any other Player.
A fact my father wishes were not so.
At the thought of that vile waste of space, I let out a vicious snarl, and one of my daggers flies from my hand with enough force to knock the stupid axe straight out of the Evot’s hand.
I do not know his name, and I do not care.
All I see is the large emerald ‘3’ on the neck of his suit, and I spin for momentum with a leg out to arc high, my boot meeting that number with a satisfying whack!
, which paired with the man’s choked cry creates a beautiful melody to this glorious scene.
At least, it will be glorious when I am hearing more pained sounds and more hits connecting.
So I get to work.
He puts up a decent fight, but he is no match for me. No one is.
My father made sure of that.
I want his jaw to break.
So I make it happen with a lunge out of his way when he tries to slice me through with his second Avri axe, a gloved hand flicking out and smacking into the locking mechanism of his helmet before slamming his visor up without mercy.
Then a twirl of my body and a crack! of my baton into his face as I throw my arm back gives me what I desired.
He yells out, and that euphoric buzz fills my veins.
I want his arm disfigured.
So I bend myself backwards as he charges at me again, dodging his swinging arm and that chunky axe I hate that comes with it with so little effort it is laughable anyone would think to try such a move on me. But they all do anyway.
Next, with my advantageous position behind him, I grab his other unsuspecting arm in a flash.
Yanking it down, his body unceremoniously flies backwards while the limb snaps on my knee at the elbow like a twig.
He goes down like a sack of bricks, his scream topping me up with glee as I swiftly step back to avoid collision.
He has had pure horror in his eyes the entire time he has been in here despite his unrelenting attempts to take me down, but now I can tell his fate is really hitting him, and a malicious grin forms behind my visor as he looks up at me with wide eyes overcrowded with both terror and pleading.
As if I would ever offer mercy.
Furthermore, it is entirely insulting that he would rather us both die than me kill him. He evidently does not respect me as he should if he would not be honoured to die by my hand.
“P-please . . .” he whimpers.
I want blood to splash across the walls, painting them a beautiful red.
So I make it happen.
***
“Player 3: Eliminated.”
Walls dripping with my favourite colour, I effortlessly catch what little breath I wasted on the Player as I toss the last of his limbs aside, the arm flopping onto the mess of organs by the right wall with a squelch.
Hmm . . . that was not quite as regenerating as normal, although I enjoyed myself immensely.
Usually, I am wonderfully cleansed after these Games. Numb. And yet at the end of both so far this year, that has been far from the case.
Odious.
Fucking.
Men.
I know it is those five deplorable Evots’ faults.
It is a fact that this room smells deliciously coppery with the tang of blood, but unfortunately, with the air inside my helmet filtered to optimum freshness, all I can scent is cleanliness. A complete contrast to the entire contraption right now.
“Player 25: Eliminated.”
25 . . .
Slowly, I turn around.