These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

Chapter 1: Dark But Just A Game

You fell to the ground. Lying on your back, you noticed the clouds above you scatter, allowing sunlight to warm your body. You could hear the guards walking around you, boots crunching on the cold dirt and gravel. Putting the body in the wooden box. Carrying the box away. In the following silence, you noticed the knife in your shaky hand, sticky with blood. Looking down your arm you became overwhelmed with nausea and threw the knife to the side in disgust.

You sat up and hid your face in your knees. The weight of the past six games came crashing down on you, threatening to tear you apart from the inside. You tried taking deep breaths but started hyperventilating. Searing tears flowed down your face. You couldn't stop your mind from reliving what just happened.

The final game. It was you and Player 128 left. A man seemingly similar to your age, though you never attempted to get to know anyone here. He was clearly stronger than you, but you had the speed and agility to dodge his attacks. Time and time again he punched and kicked you down but never got you with the knife. His cocky attitude grew as he knew you were getting tired, yet it kept him from anticipating your final attack. As you were rolling away from another blow, you kicked his legs out from under him, causing him to fall right next to you. You swiftly stabbed him in the neck. He looked at you with anger and fear in his eyes, and you hated it. You hated it so much you continued to stab him until you couldn't see anymore through the blood and tears on your face.

"Player 024."

You were pulled from your thoughts with the sound of a low, modulated voice standing before you. You looked up and saw a man in a long, dark gray coat with a hood pulled over his head and a black geometric mask covering his face. A few guards stood behind him. "Come with me," he said in a monotone voice and turned around, walking towards a door.

The guards followed him but you stayed put. Nothing mattered anymore. Who cares if they shot you? You felt dead already. The masked man looked back at you and visibly sighed. As he started walking back towards you, the guards followed with their guns raised. He lifted his hand up towards them, signaling them to stop and lower their guns. He stopped a few feet away from you.

"We don't have all day."

You scoffed. "Would you just give me a fucking minute please?" You wiped the tears and blood from your face. The warmth of the sun felt good on your skin, yet it sickened you to feel something good after what you experienced.

The man stepped toward you and you flinched, but he just held his hand out to help you up. You scoffed again. "I don't need your fucking help," you said as you stood up on shaky legs. He quickly dropped his hand and walked towards the door again.

You followed the man and the guards to a room with your regular clothes neatly folded on a plain black couch. "Get dressed. We'll be back soon." The man left the room and closed the door. You changed clothes quickly, barely noticing the dirt and blood covering your body, the bruises and scrapes stinging all over. You sat on the couch and leaned your head back, closing your eyes. You actually made it. You fucking won. But it felt like the complete opposite.

It felt like you had lost everything.

~~~

You awoke suddenly in a moving car, unable to move or see due to being blindfolded and tied up. It barely phased you. You sighed and leaned back, numb to everything. You should be more concerned but you simply didn't have the energy for it. Nothing could be worse than what you just went through.

After a few moments, you heard someone near you, opening what sounded like a bottle of champagne and pouring it. "Congratulations. You played well."

It was the masked man, but this time his voice wasn't modified from the mask. You heard him take a sip of the drink. The absurdity of it all made you chuckle.