Page 268 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

“It’s white because it provides maximum visual clarity, allowing you to better assess any wounds you may receive during a Game or training, and, if a professional is not needed, for you to take care of them with the utmost success by yourselves.” Our escort’s voice from behind me is outrageously monotone.

“Ohhhhh! That makes sense! But please warn me next time, bro!”

Then I flounce into the room to take everything in:

There’s mostly no break in the four walls, just an uninterrupted slab of purest-white opaque taalk for each face that runs from one end of the room to the other to create a massive rectangle. On the far wall facing the door I came through, six cubby holes sit, the only things to interrupt that smoothness; there’s one for each person in our Bonded group, marked by our Player numbers in green on five of them, with the remaining one an inky crimson, the sight of which sends a bolt of excitement through me as thoughts of its owner twirl around in my head. Only that and their faint square outlines that I can hardly make out distinguish them from the rest of the wall, as well as what looks like small biometric scanners below the numerals on each.

The top of it finishing a couple feet lower than the cubby holes and slightly to the left of them, a washing machine sits, which works like the majority of those in Techta these days: using Avri commanded to remove any messes from the clothing in five to ten minutes depending on how much needs cleaning. They also stitch holes back together, which will be incredibly helpful if I ever get stabbed and survive without the regeneration serum in me and my suit needs fixing.

Avri’s really funny in the way it does random shit like that as well as aiding in both killing and healing someone on their death bed. I mean, you’re going to clean my clothes, but you’re not going to get rid of my ADHD? Not that I’d even want that—the insults I’ve received over time have on occasion made me feel a little crappy, but I’ve always liked who I am. But the point is, the energy is rude like that. Wouldn’t it be handy if it could cure depression?

I internally flip it off.

Then feel bad because Avri’s still really cool.

To my left in the centre of the room are a few shining benches that I’m afraid to breathe too close to for fear of tainting something so angelic-looking, and a matching row of three low tables, which I guess is where we’d lie down to help us look at any wounds, is in the middle of them. Left of all those, hugging the far wall, are six wide cubicles with white doors that wink in the harsh lights, and I assume they enclose toilets. Parallel to them on the other wall across the room are six shower stalls neatly lined up, and in a rare reversal, they hold the only black in the entire place with the satiny shower curtains—which are drawn until I whip one open.

“Ooooooh, fancy!” I take in the whopping showerheads fixed to the ceiling in delight.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to fuck my girl in one of them.”

Internally, I sigh.

I spin around to face Player 4— Ugh, I hate calling people numbers.

Deciding to rectify that, I ask, “Hey, what’s your name?”

He huffs as if it’s a great inconvenience to tell me but answers in that deep, beastly voice of his, “Tate.”

“Hmmm, I’m Tiger!” I say cheerily.

He narrows his eyes.

Ohh-kayyy.

Sidestepping away from that thunderstorming glower, I roam my gaze about, looking for the other one.

I find Player 17 with his helmet off, revealing damp chocolate hair as he splashes water onto his face and into his mouth from one of the taps I now notice attached to one of six sinks on the same wall as the entrance and by the toilet cubicles. “Hey, you—chocolate head!”

From the corner of my eye, I vaguely note my brother facepalming.

Player 17 pins pissed brown eyes on me, straight brows hanging low over them.

Yikes, another grumpy one.

“What’s your name?”

“Cooper,” he says shortly.

I hum.

Then my hands plop themselves on my hips. “Okay, everyone. The Powerpuff Girls isn’t gonna work anymore—”

“What?”

A loud clap of clasping hands prevents me from answering Cooper’s confused question. “Time’s up. Follow me, please,” the Neutral man says from the doorway.

He starts walking without checking to make sure we actually listen to him.