The Tournament is about to begin, who is ready?
As my brain becomes alert, I’m aware of the unpleasant pounding in my skull and the disgusting feeling of cottonmouth. I slowly sit up and try to move my tongue around hoping to get some saliva to appear and revive the dry state of my mouth that could give the Sahara a run for its money. While trying to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth I take in the lavish room I have woken up in. It’s even more exquisite than my room last year. Deep red satin king-size bed with a gold ornate bed frame. Royal blue walls with deeper blue velvet curtains. Opulent seating and an open closet, stunning silver-grey walls with gold detailing that compliment that stunning gold ornamental ceiling with expertly detailed cornices. I guess this is the treatment winners get. Works for me. I notice a glass of water by the bed and two pills, as expected. Same routine every year. Drugs to knock you out and then drugs to help with the after-effects. I quickly down the pills with the water and get up stret
Suddenly the chatter around us becomes silent as the sound of someone tapping against a glass gets our attention. I look towards the staircase to see our host for this shit show. To competitors and guests, he is known only as the Master of Ceremonies. I only became privy to his name – unsure if it’s real or not – after my third win. I guess surviving death so many times entitles you to certain benefits, such as being able to address the Master of Ceremonies as Hexton when in private. Though I have no proof, I have a strong suspicion his name really is Hexton. With the money and power at his disposal, I highly doubt he fears any of us coming for him in our off-season. To try would be suicide. Hexton is 6’2” looking to be in his late fifties with a deep olive complexion, with a sexy yet diabolical subtle smile permanently plastered on his face. He has thick, but short salt-and-pepper hair with salt-and-pepper stubble. He’s dressed in a charcoal grey three-piece suit with a black button
I just finished my lunch, and as I place the tray on the bedside table there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find a box placed in front of my door. There’s no note or instructions, so guess they think I’m seasoned enough to not need it. I take the box inside, place it on the bed and open it to find a full lycra spandex bodysuit with my codename printed on the back. The traditional uniform of The Tournament. Every competitor is required to wear these. We are completely covered from head to toe, concealing our identities from spectators. The only part of us that is visible are our eyes, and that’s only so we can see what we’re doing. I strip down to my bra and panties, tie my hair up in a bun and slip into the bodysuit. Once I have it pulled over my head, I reach behind me and zip myself in. I’ve considered investing in one of these for some of my jobs, but I just hate the way my head is covered, and I wouldn’t mind a pair of shoes. If you’re not used to it, this can be rather suffo
Sensory deprivation has been used as a torture technique for thousands of years. Most people require not only human interactions but the stimulation of their senses in order to function. Prolonged sensory deprivation has been known to lead to hallucinations, psychosis and in extreme cases, death. Temporary exposure can just cause disorientation, which is the whole point of us being put in these cells. I’m currently sitting in a 10x10 cell, painted red with a red light and just a simple cot also in the colour red. Another psychological tactic. Scientific studies show red stimulates the adrenal gland and neurons. While the colour is commonly associated with love and considered an invigorating colour, prolonged or extreme exposure to it has been known to cause stress, frustration, and provoke anger. It’s also known to stimulate the heartbeat and breathing. So locking us in solitary confinement in a soundproof room doused in a colour designed to trigger stress and anger, is all part of t
Never have I been so grateful for all my parent's tedious training sessions. As quick as I can, I take the grip of the gun, feel for the hammer along the top, and push it flat as I slide the square peg into the square hole as the muzzle softly clicks into place. I then slide the bolt back in and while I hold the bolt in place, I slide the pin back up until it clicks into the bolt. Now comes the tricky part, and boy am I glad I had my dad teach me this. Before I completely lock the pin back into the grip, I face the gun upwards, load the magazine in, hold the trigger down and then push the rest of the lever of the pin up into the grip. I then release the trigger, drop the magazine, and click the lever fully into place. I release the bolt and it snaps right back into place. Now with the gun assembled, I load the bullets into the magazine and load it into the gun. The second it’s in and ready to go the blindfold is pulled off of my head using the fishing wire. I take the gun and point a
I’ve just finished putting on a fresh, clean lycra suit when I start to hear a strange, low hissing sound. I look around and notice some kind of gas being pumped into my room. I let out a deep sigh and scrub my hands down my covered face. Really? I mean, really? Well, I’m not about to pass out and give myself a concussion when I hit the floor, so I climb on the bed and lay down. If they want me unconscious then I’m doing so on a comfortable surface. I cough as I begin to breathe in the gas that leaves a terrible taste in my mouth like I just ate something that’s gone rancid. As I continue to cough, my head starts to spin, and my limbs begin to feel foreign to me. I close my eyes and just let this drug do what it has to do and soon enough, I feel myself drifting off. *** As my senses become alert but before I can open my eyes, I can feel a horrendous pounding in my skull and every muscle in my body aching like I just got hit by a truck. You know, I can live with the symptoms of a han
Time is ticking down fast, and so far the only thing that’s been accomplished is the thinning of the herd. With everyone too afraid to move, I can’t wait around to use them as pawns, so I have to start moving around myself. I walk over to the staircase and slowly make my way up the stairs being cautious of each step as I go up. “Where do you think you’re going?” Whiro hisses. “Narnia,” I say curtly. I hate stupid questions. Once I make it to the top of the stairs with my only injury being the still throbbing gashes in my hands, I make my way carefully down the hallway. The ominous sound of thunder and flashes of lightning while certainly set the mood, do nothing for my nerves. As I approach each door, I press myself against the wall and reach to the side to open the door just in case some axe or something wants to come and split me in two. The first two rooms seem pretty benign, which I’m sure means death lurks in every cranny, but I’m still not seeing a way out yet. I come to the
I watch the nurse as she carefully injects the local anaesthetic into my hand. Her touch is so gentle and nurturing that it makes me wonder how someone with such a caring touch ended up patching up killers. She doesn’t speak or look at me as she begins sewing the gash in my right hand. She works meticulously, focusing intently on the task. She looks like she’s in her own little bubble, probably doing her best to try and forget where she is and who she is helping. I have nothing against hospitals. Been in and out of them enough times that they start to feel like taking a trip to the grocery store, but the clinic set up by The Tournament is one I loathe. It’s not the sterile environment or the bright lights that bother me, and unlike most clinics, it’s actually incredibly well-furnished with soothing whites, greens, and yellows. It looks rather cheerful, which is something I hate. They put us through absolute hell then bring us here to get patched up so they can continue to put us thr