Chapter 1, Part 2

A student of the future faces overwhelming odds during a life-threatening tournament.

As patiently as I could, I waited in complete silence for an explanation. Just days ago I was striving to be one of the few chosen by the government for this program, though I began to wonder if I ever had a choice... And what the point of such a vicious tournament was.

 

It's unclear how long I waited. 5 minutes, 50 minutes, 2 hours. As if determined to keep things noisy, as soon as a previous scream would die down, another student would wake up and their howls would echo down the long room. Finally, there was peace, as it appeared all of the students were awake and alive.

 

I started as a figure dressed in dark clothing seemed to appear out of nowhere. He gave a diplomatic nod to me and other random individuals he happened to make eye contact with, then purposefully strode down the aisle, studying each student for a brief moment until he stood in the very center of the giant room. All eyes fell to him.

 

“Good evening, little ones.” I instantly hated him. “Many of you are undoubtedly... curious about your current situation.” Duh. “Some of you probably wish to go home.” Ya think? “All of you will return to your families, this I can promise you.” Yeah right. “For the next three-hundred and sixty-five days, you will come to know me only as the Warden.” Nice name, Prison Guard.

 

The puffed-up peacock strutted up and down the aisle, enunciating admirably clearly. All one-thousand students in the room could hear and understand him. “The Tournament is set to its current highest level of difficulty; you will be killed every day, this I can guarantee. Unless...” He turned his cold, blue eyes on many of us, including me, before moving on. “...but it's not possible. No one can defeat and conquer the system. You are here to survive as long as you can; you are here to learn how to use your surroundings to your greatest advantage. You are here to learn how to tame the untamable.” My eyes bore into the neatly trimmed brown hair on the back of the Warden's head. Hopefully I could give him an itch.

 

“Due to technology that is, for now, a secret from the public, for it is experimental, we will revive you at the end of every day. The winner of the tournament will be determined by who stays alive the longest. Each day within the tournament will be set to twenty-four hours. Anyone who survives this long will automatically be deemed the winner. This will not happen. We will send you into the field at 1000 every morning, and you'll have precisely seven minutes before 'all hell breaks loose' at 1007. We will revive you at 1900, at 7:00 in the evening, unless other students are still in the field.”

 

It was annoying, how perfect he was. He seemed to be no older than mid-twenties, though with such frightening and new technology, it seemed anything was possible. His neatly groomed hair hung in purposeful strands around his forehead and ears. His dark eyes seemed to either look straight past you, straight through you, or straight into you. It was unnerving. And the goldish cape of his black tunic swished around his black boots like the hero of an action novel. His flawless confidence washed over every teen in the room, stealing their own. Even my confidence was dented when he gazed at me.

 

“As you have probably noticed, the field isn't in the Capital. It isn't anywhere, really. We made it, but it isn't real.” He ran his perfect fingers through his perfect hair, and gave a shrug of perfectly broad shoulders. “It is difficult to explain. To us, it is a game.” He made eye contact with me again. “But to you, it is very, very real.”

 

I scowled at him. Not if I can help it. In the process, I will smack that smug expression right off your perfect face.

 

He only smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. I hated the butterflies that bloomed in my stomach almost as much as I hated him. He must have sensed me as a particularly feisty and independent spirit, because he smiled at me longer than necessary as his eyes bore deep into my soul, as if he were probing me for something he could use. I glared at him right back, determined to prove not only to him, but to everyone else; I will not lose so easily.

 

With a wink, he turned on his heel and left. Disgust filled me as I longed for the “perfection” known as the Warden to return. Thinking of him as a manufactured, flawed product of the Tournament was comforting.

Author's Note

This is an old work of mine, written when I was fifteen, inspired by a dream that I had. I discovered the work recently and liked it, so I have decided to revisit it. I will likely do a lot of editing and may add on to the story, or I may scrap it entirely. I would love constructive criticism over every aspect that could be improved.