TGT 2: Let the Game Rage

►| three

The finger on the trigger quivered. Thirteen tamped his smirk deep, deep down. Let them think he was simply pointing out the facts and not fraying their bonds on purpose. "What makes you think anyone here has your back?" he asked. His hands have unwound the bandage and exposed his healing arm. "We all have things to do outside of this place, people to win the Game for. Do you think Eight cares about what you have to lose?"

Thirteen leveled his gaze at Fourteen. He fished another chip from his pocket. His fingers felt the grooves. He had studied them enough to know this was Karrel's. The first stroke of luck in a long line of misfortunes. "Forget chivalry and camaraderie," he continued, babbling the time away. Even he couldn't comprehend the words he spouted if he tried. "Only one of us can get out, and if these people had to choose, do you think they'd choose you? Over themselves?"

He fished out Four's chip and slotted Karrel's in. The bloody, outgoing chip made it inside his pocket. The clean-up would take longer in the dark, but he'd take it. "Come on. No one is that noble." He made a show of shaking his head in disbelief. Then, he smiled at Fourteen as if her point was the most absurd thing he heard. "We're all mad here."

The wind howled. Eight's scream ripped through the expanse, geared towards him. Thirteen waited for the rush of warmth from his wrists. Karrel's chip always took a little longer to activate. He focused on Eight's body zipping across the sky. In a few seconds, she would slam into him. Maybe a punch of two in the gut. But not if he knocked her out first.

Karrel's ability allowed him to trace points of blue light rippling across a person's body. No wonder she knew about the chips. She could literally see them. With the abilities functioning as a miscellaneous system in the human body, they had their own paths, sort of like nerves or bones. They have their own cycles, their own rhythms. Thirteen glared at Eight, using his ability to squeeze some of those paths shut. Like a blocked artery, an ability would cease working properly should the cycle be disrupted.

He sidestepped in time for Eight to crash-land. She lost control of her winds, the stray breezes flitting between the flaps of his trousers and ruffling his curls. Before he could turn and run, Fourteen fired. One. Two. Seven bullets left. Tch. Smoke curled between his boots. His flesh remained untouched. Why?

Fourteen blew a breath, the gun in her hand shaking. "So it's true," she said. When Thirteen focused on her, her gaze turned uncertain. As if she couldn't decide where and who to shoot. Was her absolute aim malfunctioning as well? "You really are a thieving snake."

Eight groaned and propped herself on an arm. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Shoot him!"

"I can't!" Fourteen said. "My aim is off!"

Eight's eyes widened. "You—"

Thirteen reached Fourteen and plucked the gun from her hand. He flicked the safety on and moved to tuck it on his waistband. Fourteen's fist lashed into his periphery. It caught him by the jaw. He stumbled, crashing to the ground again. Eight's dark strands flew in the air as she rushed towards him and pinned him to the ground.

Both of the abilities were off, so Karrel's chip was useless. Another way to switch—

A foot slammed into his gut, sending him rolling across the grass. Air strained against his throat, his lungs fighting to catch up. He hacked, the rust in his lips intensifying into a greater degree. They were fast. Of course. Only the best survived the Game's first half, and he was the one at fault for that. If only he knew it would turn out like this, he would have schemed to eliminate all the stronger ones first.

The watchers got him on that one.

Someone grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. Fourteen's shaggy hair rippled at the edge of his vision as she drove another fist into his face. He spat blood into the grass. It would be hell tomorrow. Certainly.