Mating Season, A Sequel

Chapter Seven

"Each participant will be placed in a separate, soundproof room and made to wait. As soon as they give up, they are let free and allowed to fight in the arena. The final member still in the room will have the greatest chance of winning the challenge. No attack is to be made on any still within their waiting rooms. Doing so will result in an automatic elimination." The announcer explained.

It made sense.

If someone were to be the first to give up, they'd have to fight every single person afterwards.

It was a game of wills.

Erza wished she had gone first. She would have been so much better than Natsu. The man's powers matched his fiery temper.

"You were right, WenWen," Chelia whispered, giving her girlfriend a grin. Wendy met the expression.

"They always give the one about patience to the first competitors. It's kind of ironic. If they were more patient they could do better, but they might not compete."

Chelia shook her head at Wendy's words.

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Natsu looked around the plain white walled room and tapped his foot impatiently.

There were only two things in the room with him. A clock on one wall and a chair in the center of it.

It was about five paces by five paces in length.

Natsu sat down on the chair and looked at the clock.

It wasn't an analogue, nor a digital one. It counted up and had started the moment he had walked into the room.

Two minutes.

Two minutes of pure, unbridled torture if you asked Natsu.

What kind of game was this?! He wasn't even fighting! He was just sitting there! Doing nothing!

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Gajeel bounced his leg.

He wondered if Natsu had already given up.

Probably.

He couldn't hear anything outside of the room, but he could still swear he heard fighting.

He glanced at the count-up timer.

Five minutes.

Five terrible, excruciating minutes of nothing.

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Sting wished he'd let Rogue go first.

Rogue was always so good at being patient. Always had been.

Sting wished he could be more like Rogue sometimes.

It made him sigh as he looked over at the timer on the wall in front of him.

Seven. Minutes.

Seven. Horrible. Minutes.

Sting watched as the seconds ticked by.

It was the only sound in the room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It was the worst sound he could imagine.

Sting wished nothing more than to throw the clock off the wall.

He didn't.

Instead he imagined what Rogue would do.

He'd sit here calmly and quietly, waiting without a single change in his expression.

Rogue was just like that.