Page 248 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

“Good.”

Scotty doesn’t say any more than that, clearly too on edge.

My attention slides to Player 4 across from me.

With a long dark brown crew cut, two eyebrow piercings beside a slit, and storm-grey eyes burning with a borderline manic intensity, he looks ready to destroy an entire continent harder than he destroyed that guy’s face five days ago. I don’t have a clue who his girlfriend is—I’ve never seen him with anyone but himself—but she must be a force of nature to be able to handle a brute like him.

I do wonder what it would be like to be so possessive of someone . . . or have someone be that possessive over me. But I’ve never really thought about romance or any type of intimacy in that context. And now’s definitely not the time to start.

Player 4’s crazed eyes connect with mine.

His slow smirk makes me wonder if he’s a demon in human form.

The tremble in my limbs intensifies at the thought of accidentally getting in his way during the Game.

BZZZZZT!

That sound again, the one I haven’t heard since Name Generation Day just over a week ago now, fills the room, quieting all conversations in the process. Then a feminine-sounding robotic voice pierces the silence:

“Players, congratulations on making it to the first Game.”

My eyes almost pop out of my head. So we were allowed to kill each other during the week of training if we wanted. It’s just never happened before.

The voice continues. “Game 1 will begin in ten minutes. You will now be allowed to view your opponents. You will be able to view all Exots competing, their Player numbers, their names, and their Scores. Choose wisely, and good luck in your first Bonding Game!”

Silence envelopes the room.

Then a large screen rolls over the previously empty black wall to the left, displaying the list as it was described: The display is split in two, holding twenty-five Exots on the left-hand side, and the other twenty-five on the right. Each Exot has their picture first, then the rest of their information horizontally, starting with their first and last name, followed by their Player number, and lastly by their Score.

My eyes run over every single picture with a near-frenetic energy, taking in a couple of boys no older than sixteen, to women and men who have to be almost a decade older—Players who must be turning twenty-six before the next Bonding Games but weren’t able to escape this one, just like Iggy from my third school.

“The boys,” Scotty mutters quietly. “Player 59 and 63.”

“You think we can get both?” Tiger asks, expression twisted with a rare look of disgust as he takes the boys in. We’re only nineteen ourselves, but having sixteen-year-olds fight in these Games is just diabolical.

“We could try?” I put my own opinion in. “Their Scores say 77 and 74. I know mine’s still quite a bit lower than theirs, but you guys are in the 80s—you’d be able to catch them, right?”

Scotty dips his head. “Should do. And you can help too, Alby—don’t forget that. You’ve been able to manifest your Avri tribike a few times now without any faults. And you ride well.”

My cheeks heat at the praise. “Yeah . . . yeah, I can. I just hope my mind doesn’t go blank—it happens a lot when I’m under high pressure.” My stomach ties itself into knots as the thought infects any confidence I might’ve just gained.

Glancing back at the big screen, my eyes find the very first line on the top left.

A helmeted head, the taalk of the visor an opaque black on the outside unlike any other, crushing any chances of her face sneaking through, followed by her name, ‘Player 100’, and the unfathomable Score of 99 no other has beaten.

I have a far scarier thing than my own mind, or even Aider, Troy, or Player 4, to deal with in that arena.

“Don’t doubt yourself. Confidence is key here. Just remember how easy is felt when you manifested your bike to get to Tiger the other day.”

“Fuck yeah!” the man himself enthusiastically interjects then. “That was so fucking cool, dude! You were all like, ‘I’m a pro now, Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, and you and your master can’t touch me anymore!’ ”

The two in question overhear—which isn’t hard with Tiger’s volume—and glower over at us.

Tiger flashes his pearly whites in return.

Purple stains their faces.

Troy and Aider actually haven’t done much of their usual bullshit this week—other than glaring at me every chance they get and attempting to go after Tiger the other day. It’s either because they’re too focused on training or because Scotty’s threat actually sunk into Troy’s thick head that first day. But now, with the malicious looks they’re throwing our way and how Troy’s large thumb draws across his throat like a villain from a children’s TV show, I don’t think they’ll be holding back anymore.