🏆 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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Thirteen stumbled sideways when a weight pressed against him. He crashed to the ground. Another figure dropped beside him, writhing and groaning in pain. Through his tunneling vision, he spied Three's light brown hair splattered over his face. The boy's mousy frame curled in, cradling a blossoming stain on his chest.
"Three, hang on." Thirteen gripped the boy's shoulders, shaking him awake. "Can you heal yourself? Activate your ability...?"
The only answer was a rumbling cough. Thirteen cursed, fumbling from the knot he made on his arm. Nothing would happen if Three's too out of it. His fingers picked on the bundle of black cloth which started dripping with his blood. It was that soaked. He couldn't care less, though. How in heaven's ass did he tie this so tightly?
Three's eyes fluttered, dragging him in and out of consciousness. "Hang on," Thirteen muttered to himself more than the injured. He retrieved Five's dagger which he stuck into his boots, and cut an incision on Three's wrist. If he had the latter's ability, both of them would be alright. Questions would be asked later. Answers would be provided later. He fished out Three's chip which had started pulsing blue. No, no, no. Not yet.
Thirteen pored through his own wrist and drew a bloody chip out. He shoved it inside his pocket before inserting the new one. Throwing a glance at the part of his sleeve now a sopping mess of blood and dirt by his feet, he shook his head. A new one. Using Five's dagger, he ripped another sleeve and secured his wound.
Okay. Should he wait a minute? Three didn't have thirty seconds. At least, Thirteen thought so. What to do...
He was vaguely aware of footsteps and ragged breathing surrounding him. Did they see him rip out Three's chip and transfer it into his own? What would they think about that? Moreover, why wasn't the ability kicking in? Come on...
His eyelids squeezed shut. He muttered meaningless prayers under his breath, rocking back and forth. Let the ability work. This was a Founding Chip for a reason. Come on. Give him the ability. He has to heal Three.
A light brush against his arm wrenched his eyes open. He looked down to find Three looking up at him. A small smile pulled his thin lips up. The boy seemed to be mouthing something, but the blood coating his lips and teeth and the fact that it was no louder than a gust of wind didn't help. Thirteen laid a hand on the boy's chest, attempting to block more blood from spilling out. Maybe he could close it up or something. No. He had to take the bullet out.
"Thirteen, let it go," a stern but soft voice said behind him. A hand clamped on his shoulder, reminding him they weren't alone. Somewhere to his left, Karrel and the others banged on the door of the warehouse, apparently locked in. On his periphery, he saw Seventeen bow theatrically in front of the metal doors, kicking what could only be the key across the sparse layer of grass. Where were they? His portable screen was there. The primary line of comms was there.
He looked down at his hands, his fingers dripping with blood—both his and someone else's. Beyond them, Three lay motionless. Not even a flutter of eyelid. Not a rise and fall of the chest. The boy was gone.
