hail trials + 5sos

three

this chapter is basically introductions. if you spot yourself, hurray 

      TERESA HAS NEVER BEEN a fan of closed spaces. So when she wakes up, a dull pain on the inside of her wrist and a feeling of suffocation clouding her senses, she panics. In her state of distress, she bangs against the glass. Shouts. Screams and wails. And then she feels a hand being pressed against her mouth, and she almost screams again because it's her hand. Attached to her body.

      She can't seem to absorb the fact that everywhere she looks, all she she sees is herself.

     "Are you out of your fúcking mind?" The person in front of her hisses, their eyebrows furrowed and eyes distraught. Teresa can't help but notice that her eyebrows look perfect. "Can I take my hand off now," they continue, "or are you going to cry for mommy again?"

     When Teresa nods and the hand comes off, she says, " I don't know who you are, but I can assure you, you're a major asshole. The person in front of Teresa raises their eyebrows. They shove their wrist into her face. Clean black lines spell the initials MGC.

    "Michael Clifford. I would tell you that you're a wimpy bitch, but I don't give a fúck."

     Teresa looks down at her wrist to see a stained bandage, which she immediately rips off. The same bold font spells TV, and Teresa curses the universe for making her name sound like television.

    "Teresa," she answers, and almost laughs because Michael, a boy who clearly tries way too hard to be manly, is wearing a skirt and a blouse, "and you should keep that tone to yourself. You don't know shit about me."

    "Oh, that's rich coming from someone who abuses a person within two seconds of meeting them."

    "Are you two done," Calum asks in amusement, "or should I get some popcorn?"

     Teresa and Michael's heads turn into the direction of the person's voice, and they raise their eyebrows in synchronisation.

    "Calum Thomas Hood," Calum offers as he walks forward, "football captain. You should know who I am."

    "There's thousands of people in this University," Teresa responds, pushing herself up and slamming the glass again, "nobody has the time to remember names of egoistic jerks."

    "Hypocrite." Michael mutters, and Teresa turns to glare at him. And it feels weird, so fúcking odd to give yourself a death stare.

    "You might not know me, Teresa, but I know of you. Spoiled brat. Actor's daughter. Probably gave a lot of funds to get into this college. Slu-"

    "Don't you fúcking continue, Hood, or I swear-"

    "Wow, first world problems." Michael chuckles, and sobers it up into a cough when he receives a glare from Teresa and Calum. He turns his attention towards the glass that separates them from whatever the fúck lies on the other side and slams his shoulder against it. His does this again, and several other times, until he realises that it's attached to the wall with cement, some of which is still wet.

     A movement in his peripheral vision catches his eye, and he sees another himself stirring in their slumber, probably feeling as lost as he is. He conveniently zones out Calum and Teresa, who are now arguing about the Civil War movie.

    When the person wakes up, their eyes drowsy and hair messy, they scream.

    Michael screams back.

    The person shuts up.

    They look at him questioningly, head cocked and eyes drawn into slits.

   "Am I on marijuana? Why am I seeing myself?"

   "I think you missed the part where the guy that sounded like Satan himself announced the rules," Michael replies, walking towards the person and holding his hand outwards. His clone clings on it to it and stands up, brushing their butt after doing so.

    "Guy? It was a girl for me," Teresa interrrupts, walking towards the perplexed girl. Her messy hair is not doing justice to Teresa's outfit and face.  As she says this, she pretends to be calm, but she knows for a fact that her heart is about to burst at any given time.

    "You're a dimwit. If everyone looks like us and talks like us, they sound like us too.  Rocket science?" Calum laughs again, and Teresa wants to lunge at him and rip his head off.

    "What is going on?" The person responds, a look of clear confusion pasted on their features. Calum walks forward, grabs their hand and rips the bandage off. The letters say AMK, and Calum is not sure what to make of it.

    "Who are you?" He asks.

    "Ale," the person responds, "Ale Martin."

     "What's your gender?" He asks again, racking his brain to match the name to a face.

      "I'm a girl, but can't you see that?" She asks, and Teresa wants to slam Ale's face against the glass because she hasn't caught up yet.

     "Yep, definitely missed the Satanic part," Michael confirms, "you're from the University of Foirta, right?"

     The lines in Ale's forehead deepen, and she opens and closes her mouth several times before saying, "I'm in High School."

    "Please tell me I am not talking to a Freshman." Calum groans, because the last thing he needs is to 'trust' a bunch of fourteen year olds.

    "Senior, but what's happening?"

    "What is the last thing you remember?"

    "Driving to downtown Kale?"

    "Why?"

    "To my dad," Ale starts, hand raising up to tame her wild mane. And then her eyes widen, as if she's suddenly struck with lightning. She whispers, "He works in UOF."

    "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Teresa whispers, a pinch of sympathy rushing through her heart and then disappearing as soon as it came, because they didn't deserve it either.

    "Look, Ale, a bunch of maniacs are having this trial. Everyone looks like you and does exactly what you do. The only way you can get out, to make them look like themselves is to trust them. Alright?" Calum says calmly, because he thinks Ale might cry with the way her face is twisted.

    "Shouldn't there be more people?" Teresa inquires, because she doesn't think she'll be able to handle more questions from someone who clearly skipped the briefing. She doesn't know what's going on, but she knows that they are in deep shit.

    "Your wish is our command," a voice interrupts again, and Michael's head snaps to the side again as he takes in three more people that, as far as he can comprehend, came out of the fúcking shadows.

     That's some Hades shít right there.

    "Inês Ferrer," the person introduces, crossing their arms over their chest, "Khadeeja Jain," they continue, pointing to the left, "and Jack Issa, but that isn't what matters. What matters is that we have to find our way out. That we need to find our way out. If all of you are done chatting, we can get to work. Does anyone have anything in mind?"