29 #3
With one hand on the man’s shoulder and my other holding an armoury stick that I manifest into a blade after the Avri sucked back into my batons a beat earlier with my loss of concentration through the shock, I think fast with my brain kicking back into gear, using my body weight to roll us over and get myself on top.
Of course he fights me, and it ends up with us in a wild grapple before he pants out when I’m about to finally fucking pin him and get a clear shot at him, “Stop! Fuck, stop!”
I falter, but he’s the one that ran at me full force, as if he was trying to catch me off guard. I don’t attack unless it’s necessary, but this guy, who I note from the number on his suit is Player 2, seemed set on killing me. Or so I’d thought.
“Please! Shit! I didn’t mean to run into you!” Wide hazel eyes that remind me of my quietest brother stare up at me, petrified. “I was running from someone! Fucking Player 22 and one of his Exots!”
I freeze completely now.
Panting, I keep a forearm pressed to his throat as a precaution, studying his face to see if he’s being honest. I’ve always been good at reading people, and this guy’s telling the truth.
Loosening my hold, I start to pull back—
“Why aren’t you wearing your helmet?” My attention flicks over his golden-brown hair as I only just process that fact. Frowning, I tell him, “There was another who wasn’t wearing hers either. It got her an arrow straight to the head.”
Face paling, he doesn’t question how I know that, whether I did the killing myself or someone from my Bonded group did and Ezla told me, only answers shakily, voice lowering, “There’s something wrong with the helmets.”
Now my insides still, too. “What?”
“There— Shit, I don’t know. Haven’t you caught the snippets of conversation in the Training Centre?”
No. Me and the rest of my Bonded group keep completely to ourselves, even more so when all our focus has been trained on the Game Master and so much stress and grief surrounding Ezla recently.
“Since Game 3, a couple people have been taking their helmets off for Games because the air’s no longer fresh,” he says, and my brows dip.
“It’s like we’re being fed something other than clean oxygen.
It’s not just that it’s stuffy, but . . .
I didn’t believe Iggy when he told me at first—that’s Player 21, if you didn’t know; he’s spoken to me a bit since I lost my Bonded.
” His voice wavers on the last part. “As far as I know, he was the first to experience it before Game 3, so he didn’t wear his helmet for that one.
But before this Game, I was finding it hard to think clearly, to breathe clearly.
I can’t explain it, it’s just like . . . chemicals.”
His voice has lowered more and more until I’ve had to strain my ears to hear him.
In response, my voice is almost a whisper.
This seems like sensitive information—though I have a feeling this is something the Techtis Council would announce once we’ve all figured it out, like some sort of sick game they’ve invented for this particular year to play out in the background of the main event—so I don’t want the cameras that are no doubt on us and displaying this scene to the audience outside on one of the numerous erected screens in the arena’s stands to catch my words and have a target placed on my back by The Council for exposing this before any grand reveal. “You think they’re poisoning us?”
More fear leaks into his person, stuffing the air full of it.
His head shakes. “I don’t know what else it could be.
Just—just tell the Champion and the other Evots in your group to take their helmets off.
It’s not a trick, I swear. I think some people are keeping theirs on even though I’m pretty sure Iggy’s let them know, but even if you can’t smell or feel anything yet, it’s better to be safe. ”
Swallowing, I whisper more to myself, “They want us dead.”
His quiet laugh is almost hysterical, tears building in his eyes.
“No fucking shit. We’ve known that from the start.
We just happen to be the lucky Players who receive The Council’s increased efforts this year.
” Trembling intensifying, he says, “Now please let me the fuck go. I don’t know how 22’s not here already. ”
I don’t hesitate, taking my body weight off him. Pushing myself up to my feet, my gloved hand not wrapped around my armoury stick reaches down to help him up.
He eyes that hand warily for a moment, and I don’t blame him for it. After a moment, he takes it with a, “Thanks.”
“I should be the one thanking you. That information—”
“Well, well, what’s this?”
At the sound of that familiar drawling voice, my head snaps to the right, Player 2’s whipping in the same direction.
“Aider.”
The tone of my voice has the Evot at my side glancing at me warily.
Rage like no other crashes through me.
What Aider and his Bonds did to my brothers, the motherfucking love of my life, in the last Game . . . This is the third time I’ve seen him and one of his Exots since Air Battles, but this time, there’s nothing to stop me from exacting justice.
It’s Player 87 beside Aider now in fact, the one of his two Bonded that I’m most eager to rid the world of as memories of his blade sunk through Ezla’s stomach bombard me, and I glance at Player 2 for a brief moment, a silent question in my eyes.
“You don’t have to stay and help. You’ve done more than enough already. ”
Clenching his jaw, he glances between me and Aider and his Exot. Then his head shakes, and I prepare to do this alone, not at all judging him for his choice, when he says, “I’m not that type of person. I’m not fucking leaving you—especially not when you just spared my life.”
Throat working, I nod my head in thanks, and I’m about to speak when Aider claps. “Touching.” His voice is deadpan.
His oddly tidy brown hair is on full display, but I’m pretty sure he went into the arena with his helmet on, so I’m guessing he’s—unfortunately—experienced what other Players have and has tossed his helmet somewhere in the maze, the same as Player 87, it seems. It reminds me of the urgency of that, and I unlock my visor before lifting my own helmet off and tossing it away while I send down the bond, I’m with Player 2, 87, and Aider.
None of them have their helmets on, and I’ve just taken mine off, too.
Player 2 told me some of the other Evots and Exots have been experiencing odd shit with their helmets, like the air they’re giving Players isn’t fresh anymore and it’s messing with people’s heads. Anyone experienced any of that?
Just now I thought I caught a chemical scent, but I just brushed it off because I thought—
Take your helmet off right now, Cooper! Ezla hisses, and I almost jump out of my skin before warmth spills through me, filling my chest even in this moment.
I have not experienced this, but I will take mine off, too.
It is ridiculous that I did not notice this sooner, but I have been preoccupied with everything lately—
Don’t apologise, Ezzy! I’ve just found Tate, by the way! We’re taking our helmets off now!
Very good. Alby?
Silence.
A hailstorm of fear and unfettered wrath slams into me. Where is my shy boy? I will annihilate everyone—
I’m here! I’m here, sorry! Alby’s frantic voice comes through. My own pounding heart slows a fraction before it kicks back up to a sprint when he carries on. I’m so sorry! I couldn’t . . . The bond was a bit hazy. I think there’s something wrong with my helmet—
Take it off! Ezla barks.
It is! It is off! I just threw it away! he rushes out, his own panic spiralling through to me in response to Ezla’s threaded through her fury. Fury not at us, but at the situation, we all know.
And you feel okay—
Ezla and my brothers keep speaking, but I’m pulled violently from the conversation as Player 2 shakes my shoulder.
“Sorry,” he quickly says when I startle, and I understand his urgency when a glance to my right shows Aider and Player 87 advancing on us. Shit. I clearly missed a bit. “You told your Bonded?” he guesses, eyes scanning over my face.
I nod. “Yeah. She and my brothers have all taken their helmets off. They’re all okay.”
“Fuck, that’s good.” And he sounds like he means that, too.
Player 2’s one of the good ones, and yet he’s been dealt a worse fate than ever, promised to die this year or repeat this all again the next.
“I’m Elijah, by the way—Elijah Tenner,” he shares, and I can recall the name from Name Generation Day now.
“Just thought it would be nice to know who you’re fighting with.
” He gives a half-hearted smile, because there’s no place for any true joy in the midst of a Game.
My chin dips again while he draws his armoury sticks, the energy in them manifesting into two curved dark green blades. “Scotty,” I offer.
“I know. You and your group are kind of celebrities. You know, with the Champion and all.” His smirk is a little more genuine this time, and my own lips twitch in response.
But neither of us get to do much more than that, because in the next second, Aider and his Exot are on us.