🏆 WATTPAD CREATORS PROGRAM 🏆
🏆 8CC November - December 2023 Completer 🏆
𝘛𝘏𝘙𝘌𝘌. 𝘛𝘞𝘖. 𝘖𝘕𝘌. 𝘉𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯.
Thirteen remembers one thing from the moment he woke up: live on, through whatever means necessary. When he is thrown into a society...
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His face slapped the floor, the cold stinging his cheek more than the impact did. He whirled to chide the fire girl but his eyes fell on a gigantic crevice embedded on the wall. Cracks spread from the point of impact, as if someone with a smash ball for an arm got angry and threw a fit.
What about the fire girl? He whirled to find her. She staggered to her feet, her dark blonde spilling down her shoulders. A shadow fell over her, and with wide eyes, she met a boy with sparking fingers. Together, they vanished behind a wall of slashes and combat.
It left him behind, still cowering from whoever threw the enormous energy field. That was it. He was alone, and if he was supposed to survive this, he had to think on his feet. With his black book empty upon waking up, he couldn't ensure he had one of those powers he'd seen people use. His head was the only thing he had on his shoulders, and he ought to use it.
A distinct memory flashed in his mind. The same woman smiled at him, and when her lips moved, her words echoed in the vacant chambers of his brain. I'm proud of you, wherever you go. Why? Did that woman know where he was? Why wasn't she coming to get him, knowing how they were being treated inside this place?
Questions for another time. Right now, he needed to survive. Maybe eliminate some people along the way. Section M. Section M. Look at their jackets. It was a huge symbol. How hard could it be?
Black swirled with other colors in a chrome dance, each figure lost in their mini-world of combat and proving they could be the best in this arena. He ducked under a swinging blade, swerved away from extended claws, and dashed behind people with blunt attack forces. If someone were to attack his blind spot, those people would prove to be resilient shields.
The air sparked when two opposing forces clashed. Lights twinkled over the entire hall as if the sun and some clouds decided to visit. The smell of blood and smoke thickened to the point of tasting it. He threw an arm over his head, listening to the shouts billowing through the booms and blazes. Names—so many of them—zipped in the waves, complimented by the frequent urge to hurry. They bought time by using the flashiest ability to create distractions and hopefully hurt or kill someone along the way. Were they going elsewhere? Then, why wasn't Section M trying to find each other? Why weren't they finding him?
A flash of red and blue dashed towards him, and he dove behind one of the fallen tables to avoid a confrontation. He snuck a glance from the rim, past the jagged splinters of wood which once have been the table's leg. The red and blue team—Section B and T, if he read the symbol correctly—dashed into one of the doors lining the hall, disappearing into the darkness. Escaping?
The blatant ringing bleeding from the walls hadn't really faded either. It just kept blasting through, and only the shrill shrieks of defiance from everyone engaged in combat challenged it. A headache blossomed at the base of his neck, prompting him to massage it with a hand. Which then prompted him to see the sticky blood dripping from his fingers and into his sleeves. He dared not touch his face. It was probably worse there, relying on the feeling alone. That emotion boy's traces would take an eternity to scrub off.
