Chapter 3, Part 1

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

With a start, we all awoke to the crackle of the unseen speakers, and a man clearing his throat. “Rise and shine, students. The time is now 0800. You will have breakfast for the next hour, and the following forty-five minutes will be free time. At 0945, you will line up for the Tournament.”

 

Some of the other teens relaxed and laid back down, yawning, moaning, stretching, going back to sleep. Not me. I got up, made my bed, then found that clothes had been laid out on the nightstand next to my bed. Without much thought, as I was still half asleep, I opened the dormitory door and walked down the hallway to the bathrooms. After making a pit stop, I pulled on the new clothes, took the hair band that was around my wrist like a bracelet, thoroughly combed through my hair with my fingertips, then shoved the unruly strands of my lion's mane known as hair into a high ponytail. Breathing a sigh, I rubbed my eyes, washed my face, cleaned my teeth. After a couple of minutes I began to actually wake up, and I took in the new clothes.

 

It was a black one-piece made of bathing suit-like material that stretched out over all of my body like a wetsuit. Dual gold stripes went down the sides of my suit, from my armpits to my ankles, from my shoulders to my wrists. I fully zipped it up in the back, and looked down at my small and wide feet, waggling my toes. The suit even had built-in tip-less gloves and shoes, the kind with the toes to make running easier on the feet.

 

I opened the door of the bathroom, brushed past another student who was coming in, and strode down a couple more halls to the public dining room. As if done by routine, I served myself a hearty breakfast, then sat at a table by myself. There were only about twenty students in the room already, and I finished my meal by the time any more came in. I stretched, and yawned, and popped my knuckles, my back, my neck.

 

When I finished eating I dropped my plate into one of the many sinks lining one of the walls, rinsed it out, and turned to stride out of the room. Accidentally, I made eye contact with the Warden. He smiled and waved, and I diplomatically and deliberately stiffly returned the greeting before worming my way out the door as fast as I could. While I was exploring last night, I had seen a gym through the window of one of the many doors, and sought it out.

 

My still drowsy mind fumbled with the belt around my hips as I shouldered my way through the door, and after buckling it up, I stretched a little, then jogged in ovals around the football-field-sized room. Briefly, I entertained the thought of what it would be like to be able to shape-shift. It would be so fun to lean forward, for my arms to grow, to run as fast as I could as a quadruped. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, this was currently impossible, and I settled for my petite bipedal legs to carry me around the gym.

 

Maybe half an hour of jogging passed before I moved to a punching bag hanging in the far corner of the room, wrapped my knuckles in bandages and then slid on small gloves, and tapped the bag with my knuckles. Tap, tap, tap. Left tap, right tap, left tap, right tap, left jab, left jab, right uppercut, left punch, right punch, left jab, left jab, left jab, right hook, left hook, right hook, right hook, and then I unleashed a flurry of full-powered punches straight at the middle of the two-hundred-pound heavy bag, making it sway ferociously from where it hung.

 

I pulled away after a couple of solid minutes, panting, grinning wildly. I loved practicing fighting. I had only actually brawled a couple of times, and both times ended it with a simple, go-to Judo move; using the opponent's energy against them. My opponents had been poorly trained. I hopped up and down, shaking out my fists, warming my legs back up. I locked my hands behind the middle of the bag in a Muay Thai Plum, brought the bag to my body, and gave it several hefty right knees. I pulled away, punched and elbowed a couple of times, right roundhouse kick, knee, elbow, hooks... I tuned out my thoughts and mental functions, slipping into a “mode” of combat. Pulling away, panting, sweating, I wiped the slickness from my forehead with the back of my forearm.

 

“You put on quite the show.” Interrupted a male voice from behind me.

 

I turned around with a start, instantly assessing the intentions of the individual who spoke. He laughed and I paled, then blushed fiercely, as I realized it was the Warden. “Good morning.” I spoke without emotion, turning around again. Within an instant I found myself on my back on the mat near the punching bag, and I shouted, punching and kicking, fearing he had taken me down for sexual intent.

 

But no; he wasn't moving, only pinning me there. My chest heaved and my troubled heart fluttered as I lay struggling beneath him. “What are you doing?!” I hissed aggressively, bearing my teeth in an animalistic and childish snarl. He only smiled, then climbed off of me, offering his hand to help me up. I scowled, growling, stood up by myself, and brushed myself off with false dignity. My pride felt very wounded, as did my shoulder.

 

“Confirming my own suspicions.” He replied with an uncaring shrug. “After watching you for several minutes, I noticed you know a wide variety of martial arts, of close-contact fighting. I didn't think you knew anything about taking the fight to the ground, and I was right. The second your back hit the mat, I could've killed you... Or something else.” He waggled his handsome eyebrows suggestively. I shot him an unamused glare, which made him cackle.

 

“So what?” I rolled my shoulders in false posturing, hoped I wasn't blushing too fiercely, then struck the punching bag with a hefty right-handed Superman. The bag hit its stand and it fell over with a clang that reverberated throughout the gym. I panted, hard. Minerva may have perfected the outside of my body, but my heart still had the same troubles that I was born with. I felt woozy, as my heart beat irregularly like a barking dog within my ribcage. “You're right, I don't know a single thing about taking the fight to the ground. I don't need to. In real life, nothing could take me to the ground. I'll kill it before it does.”

 

The Warden folded his arms across his broad chest, resting his back into the wall. “If you say so.” He gave a nonchalant wave of his hand, and though he wasn't smiling, his dark blue eyes were twinkling with laughter. “Please, continue, I won't stop you this time.”

 

I resisted the urge to kick the bag on the ground with my foot instead of the bottom of my shin, and I struggled to right the stand and the bag while he watched, a smile tugging at his perfect lips. As soon as it was upright, I struck the bag with a faint left elbow. The fight had left me. I needed to sit down... and collapsed onto the mat, panting. Bile bubbled up into my mouth, and I quickly swallowed it, refusing to retch. My face contorted in misery. It tasted disgusting.

 

The Warden sat on the mat next to me. “What's wrong?” He asked with what I believed to be falsified concern.

 

I quickly sat up and turned my back to him, panting, swallowing. “Nothing worth complaining about.” I stood up, shook off my gloves, though kept the bandages around my knuckles on. They felt swollen and raw, I wasn't going to reveal this weakness. The mat squished beneath my feet as I strode towards the door. “Goodbye.”

 

“See ya.” He coolly replied.

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.