Cleo's Game

1. Awakening

The atmosphere was filled with indistinguishable chatter around the busy, makeshift barracks. These metal buildings were rudimentary at best, but served their role in housing a large number of soldiers and new recruits. They lined the edges of a medium-sized, crucial camp located at the eastern part of the border.

A remote island with a red line engraved across the centre, Exdritch was a horrible warzone. Life hadn't been normal for the last twelve years, and Cleo was just one of many that grew up knowing no different. At only sixteen years of age, she had been sucked into the militaristic black hole, training with the South Exdritch Army and calling the Northeast Glades home.

It was a typical pitch-black night, far away from any artificial lighting. Instead, the orange glow of campfires illuminated the sparse forest in which the camp was located. The atmosphere was filled with indistinguishable chatter from socialising soldiers after their tough day of training. The central cafeteria was serving hot soup that night, a near-flavourless broth that got the job done and little else.

After queueing up for and receiving her bowl, Cleo wandered over to the closest campfire to join one of the benches. While heading there, she bumped into a boy who was carrying his own bowl of soup. It was too dark to see clearly, so it was obviously accidental, though that didn't mitigate the altercation that ensued.

"Aye, what the fuck, fam?" he yelled in anger. "My bad," Cleo replied matter-of-factly. "This bitch spilled soup on me, what the fuck, man." He was the same age as her, slightly smaller in stature. "Chill, dude, you can quit freaking out and go wipe it off," she responded, standing straight. "Oh nah, why you squaring up to me?" he escalated, possibly feeling threatened.

"Quit talking like that, Mince, you look like a clown. I'm not squaring up." At this point, Mince had drawn lots of attention and was trying to find a way out of the situation without looking like he was intimidated. "Yeah, you really shouldn't be, and that's for your own good." Cleo started to become quite irritated with his confrontational nature and, similar to him, was playing up for the crowd. "Get the fuck out of my way," she stated, stepping forward.

"Aye, hold up for a second, don't forget who I am," he warned. "Yeah, you have powers, so do a lot of people, including me." "Yeah, but mine actually work," he taunted, before starting a flashy series of gestures with his left hand. Soon materialised a translucent dagger made of air, as the powers Mince was born with are wind-based. "You can pipe down or I'm going to shove that thing up your ass," Cleo threatened. There was now somewhat of a crowd watching, due to the mutual attempts to draw attention.

At the first sign of movement, Cleo preemptively swung for him, and before the fight became anything more than that, Drew swooped into the middle of it. "Kids, kids. Behave. It's not that hard," he ordered, in a comical tone. The crowd, along with Mince, dispersed not soon after. The respect that his presence commanded was reserved for no one else but the leader of the Northeast Glades.

Soon, nobody was around but Drew and Cleo, who stayed. "Alright, Cleo, we had a talk about this literally last week." "He definitely fucking started that," Cleo interjected. "I seriously do not care. Can you stop fucking around and making me regret letting you enlist? At least while I'm in the running for a promotion. I don't want to be the guy with an embarrassing little sister."

"Why shouldn't I have enlisted? I'm a good fighter and I have powers, and besides, wouldn't you have stood up for yourself?" "Cleo, we have had many conversations about your powers. Maybe they'll come back one day, nobody knows how that world really works, but for now we should just forget about them. Grab some food if you're hungry and get to bed."

Drew was visibly irate, so Cleo didn't bother arguing further. It was easy for her to understand why he was so tense; he's the only teenager among officers of the same rank. In the South Exdritch Army, one must venture from rank 8—or rank 9, if born without any powers—and consistently prove their worth and capability to be promoted to Drew's rank of corporal, otherwise called rank 3.

Cleo lied in her bed for a long while, staring up towards the ceiling. She had experienced her power on multiple occasions, though none intentionally. She looked up to Drew, who had mastered his rock-based powers to supplement an infamous defensive fighting style, and wondered what her potential could really be. It matters for nothing if she has a high-potential power that she can't tap into.

She shifted out of the covers and sat on the side of the bed for a moment. It had dawned on her already that being able to control a power isn't something that anyone else is able to teach. Mince's hand gestures work for him, but aren't likely to fit another. The room was too dark to really know, but Cleo assumed that everyone else was asleep.

She crept outside in the dark into the cool breeze. All the campfires were out, so anything not illuminated by the great moon was eaten by shadow. At the edge of camp was a training area with weights, punching bags, and the like. Her vision was shaky as she stumbled towards the training bag.

Physical training was always her outlet, with the hope that she could make herself useful regardless of whether her power one day comes back. Cleo was lying to herself, that would never be enough. Cold dread creeps through her body at the thought of never being in control. Something that bites away at her constantly and always will.

Within touching distance of the bag, she was holding back tears of frustration with gritted teeth. With one hard, impassioned swing at the bag, she felt as if her energy was drained from her body. Starting from the point of impact, crystals of ice began to creep out until it covered the face of the bag significantly and it became a frigid block.