Page 451 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

1

ALBY

By now, I should probably know not to set foot in the cafeteria unless I’d like to be served a heap load of bullshit along with my assigned lunch for the day. And yet I’m still unprepared when a blur of movement draws my attention too late to an unidentifiable object being launched my way.

SMACK!

For a moment, I stand motionless, tray in hand and blinking like an idiot while I try to understand what just happened and why the left side of my face is tingling and feels sticky and heavy.

One blink . . . gloopy?

Another blink . . . weighty?

A third . . . smells like . . . chocolate?

It’s only when my mind catches up to the cacophony of raucous laughter do I snap out of the embarrassing state, and I mentally curse myself as one of my hands comes up to wipe the thick brown mixture off my skin.

No doubt, it looks like someone’s shit on my face.

As if I needed any more reason for people to make fun of my appearance today.

“Hey, Twig! You’ve still got some right here!”

Cheeks burning from a blend of humiliation and anger, I turn my head to find the source of that obnoxious voice.

Troy Hurst has always been a dickhead.

Bulkier than an elephant, I sometimes wonder how he can possibly have one of the highest Scores in the entire school. You’d think with the weight of him he’d struggle to even lift a leg. As it is, the beast of a man has a Score of 89—indicating a ridiculously high skill level—and moves with enough grace to rival a ballerina. And yet I’m closer in size to, well, a twig, and can’t even muster enough finesse to run at a decent pace without tripping over my own feet.

“Thanks,” I mutter, wiping more of the dessert from my face onto the sleeve of my Avri suit. I avoid looking at anyone as I do, aware of how absolutely pathetic it is to be thanking my bully for pointing out the shit he threw at me. But with how short-tempered Troy is—and how one of his thick fingers could probably cave my skull in if he only poked me—I choose safety over preserving my pride . . . if I even had any of that left to begin with.

Gripping my tray in a white-knuckled grasp, I practically run to the corner of the room to try and prevent myself from causing any more damage, mocking laughter following me the entire way there.

My breath leaves me in a rush of relief as I find my usual table by the bin, taking a seat on the glossy black bench and setting my tray down. Picking up my bland tuna-and-cucumber sandwich, I take an unenthusiastic bite.

One good thing about being an outcast is the peace and quiet, how the majority of people leave you alone. It’s only really bullies I attract, but on a good day, when I manage to avoid them, the calm I get is exactly what I like. Being in my own company is the only time I can get that calm.

But as much as I love that feeling, there’s a part of me that wishes I had a friend. Someone I could talk to, someone who could understand me. Someone who wouldn’t judge me for being me, or turn on me when they see I’m not a strong as they are. The problem is, I don’t know where to find someone like that. I don’t know how to even begin to trust someone as much as I trusted my first friend when that very same person grew to become one of my biggest tormentors.

“Remember last year when she spread that dude’s body parts across the arena?”

I tense, pulled away from my thoughts by the words that come from my left. Sneaking a glance at the girls gossiping on the table beside mine, I perk my ears to listen in on their hushed conversation:

“That was fucking insane! She’s literally psycho!” the blonde on the left hisses with wide eyes, tucking some hair behind her ear as she leans in closer to her friend.

I watch the brunette nod, but her eyes hold more excitement than the other girl’s. “Yeah, but crazy cool too, right?”

“Cool? Kira, you need some serious fucking help if you think that—you sound like an Exot!”

“I only said it was cool!”

“Yeah, which is what one of them would say.”

“That’s not even how it works—”

Tuning out of their rapidly spiralling argument, I grab some tissues from the middle of the table to clean up the remaining mess on my suit and face while I think back on what they first said, a chill rippling down my spine as my thoughts centre on her. Everyone knows who she is.

An Exot down to every last trait, Ezla Zefron was the youngest ever Player of The Bonding Games, otherwise known as TBG, when she first competed in 4052. At just thirteen years old, she was already a ruthless killing machine, better than the majority of Players—some of whom were almost double her age—and she easily managed to avoid being bonded by an Evot or killed off. It’s extremely rare to survive and remain unbonded, with only one or two Players, if that, achieving the feat per year. So when she shocked everyone by achieving both in Game 1, continuing on to make it through to Game 6 and taking on adult Bonded groups alone, she became the world’s greatest phenomenon.