𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 || ℝ𝔼𝕎ℝ𝕀𝕋𝕋𝔼ℕ

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑

𝕋ℍ𝔼 ℂ𝕆𝕄𝕄𝔸ℕ𝔻𝔼ℝ

 ✃✃✃✃✃✃✃✃✃

William lay still, trapped in the narrow gap between his bed and the wall, unable to move from his waking nightmares. He could hear the soldiers moving freely around the rows behind him. They were keeping an eye on him; he was sure. The reason was still unknown. As far as he had theorised, it would have to do with the soldiers' predisposition to wariness. He wouldn't be the one to judge them for it. Hours ago, he hadn't been much different either.

"It's time." Mae walked in quietly, her voice hardly over a whisper. "Do you have the bandages?"

"They're under Henry's mattress," replied Flor in the same low tone. "Can't we leave the birdie here, Mae? You read his tattoo—defective—what if that means he doesn't know how to protect himself?"

"Then he dies," said Mae calmly. "Remember the rules; everyone for themselves. If the birdie can't keep himself alive, there's no need for him. Better give him a clean death out there than a miserable life in here."

"Yeah, the good old rules." Flor let out a quick breath. "Guess I'll go wake up Rowan and Bea."

Despite William's greatest efforts to listen beyond the mumbles of those waking up and the few refusing to get up, he couldn't hear another word from Mae or Flor. He lost himself in their words. The tattoo itching in his arm gaining a brand new meaning that he hadn't once contemplated. What if he didn't know how to fight?

A hand grabbed his shoulder, its hold quick and strong. Without a clear thought over what he was doing, William turned around to jab the person in the ribs and rushed to stand over them. His sense of reason dissipated at the touch of the cold floor. He could not spare a moment for tricks or threats. His numb mind had reduced his options to two; kill or be killed. Instinct chose kill.

"Alright, that's enough." Somehow, someway, Mae's orders brought back his sense of reason, allowing William to let go of the person's neck, whom turned out to be Henry. "We've got an eager birdie."

George slid down the ladder of his top bunk with a smug grin. "Such a shame. I wanted to watch Henry getting his ass kicked for once."

"Yeah." Henry hummed along, a worrying addition to his side smirk. "I'd like to see if the birdie can make that happen."

Whatever had brought them to that point, William wasn't certain. There was only one thing he knew for sure; he hated wrestling. Five minutes of senseless fighting with Henry had left him being pinned down against the tilled floor with no prospects of getting back up to his feet. Contrary to him, Henry clearly enjoyed toying with the 'birdie'; his tiresome mocking grin did nothing but grow as time went on. The arm against William's throat didn't ease. The longer he allowed Henry to sit over his stomach, grinning widely in triumph, the lesser air that got to his lungs. If Henry didn't want to end his existence right there and then, he was making a brilliant job at hiding it.

No soldier came to William's aid. They all watched idly, while a couple of them even preferred to accompany the show with some smuggled food from their clearly illegal hoard. His life was solely his to defend, and they were making the point come across quite painfully. He lashed out at Henry's hand, managing, for a split second, to get the force pressing his airwaves to waver. When Henry regained enough composition to crush William's neck once more, it was too late. William gripped onto Henry's hand, digging his nails into the boy's flesh without constraint, and squirmed away until he could kick Henry's side with such desperate strength that it made both slump back to the ground. Devoid of any strength in his arms, William placed all his might on his safest bet. He sat right under Henry's stomach, keeping the boy's arms under his legs while pressing a fork that he had knocked out of Leen's hand to Henry's throat.