Sector-33 | ✓

zuandro_ codename: silverfinger

Breakfast was a horrible affair this morning. Mum was being picky and fussy around me, and she rang up her boyfriend for an hour and I could hear her venting about something to him in the other room. I do hope she didn't say anything bad about me if she mentioned me.

I hope I wasn't even a part of the conversation. I don't want mum trying to get her frustrations and  a whole load of extra stress out to her boyfriend because it was I who gave her that stress. It'll make me feel outright awful - and I don't want that. I don't need that. I felt squeamish as I tried to eat my cheerios. By the time mum was back, I'd only had a spoonful, Sara was gone, and my cereal had gone all soggy and unappetising from having soaked in the milk too long.

There's not a single day in my life that I can remember where I've left home on an empty stomach without being grumpy. I'm not a big eater, though I do need breakfast - usually because I'm too tired in the mornings to function without it. Today, though, I'm hyperactive despite my lack of sleep, and I'm too nervous to be irritated. I can't possibly show up to my mission without any self confidence, I'm going to need some if I want to stand on both of my feet.

It's been decided.

I refuse to play the damsel in distress - even if my assigned mission partner is hot.

They don't allow mixed duo pairings - for obvious reasons. Luckily for me, boys who like boys and girls who like girls aren't separated, because nobody writes their sexuality on their foreheads with a permanent marker. Everyone's just labelled as straight. I assume it's for efficiency, even though I find it rude - but this is society, after all. What can you expect?

The drill is the usual. I stand in front of the red roster with my four-digit code-number and wait for it to be called out. My nerves heighten as I wait, and I wait, and all the people that have been called out exit the room at various intervals to go join what lies beyond the door in this grey room. Christina goes, Jak goes, so does his twin brother Zak, and Seehan goes too, Jace goes - all of them just go. They disappear. And there I am, holding the metal coupon with my number on it, clutching it so tightly between thumb and forefinger because I an afraid it will slip from my sweaty fingers.

But I'm called out in the end, thank god - and I am put into the coliseum with a person I have never seen in my life.

I'd wanted hot. But guess what? They'd given me hot - but, as always, there were catches to hot guys such as this one.

***

Dear _____ ,

Mum made me go to the doctor's yesterday. I expect she'd seen me eyeing the knives in the kitchen yesterday- she'd forgotten to lock them up, and when she came in to find me dicing up a hunk of onion, everything in her flipped, I imagine. After the doctor's, I went go see my therapist, Ella. Mum really thinks I'm in constant danger. I don't think that's healthy for her.

All I was doing was unpacking an onion in a different way. I wanted to peel the layers off in another way - I thought it might help me look at myself differently. The doctor once told me I was like an onion - that I'm his favourite patient because there's always something new to unpack. I tell him all these stories that make him laugh. I'm glad they do, even though I don't think they're funny.

But now, back to my partner.

I've got to tell you, he's good-looking. He's got platinum-white hair, the kind I always wanted back when I fifteen. My parents were against it, so my hair's always stayed its natural chocolate colour, but I just want to run my fingers through those white strands.

They don't even make him look old.

I suppose that because old people don't have white hair, it's gray. Silvery. Whatever.

Anyways, it makes him look hot, and I know he knows that.

Every Sunday, Zuandro goes to church and says his prayers and recites hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, and every Sunday he murmurs an amen after his prayers. And every Monday, he kills a person. Well, that's what he told me, anyways.

That's what he told me as an introduction, before hauling me to my feet. He then proceeded to beat me up. I was almost crying by the end of it. I thought we were supposed to be partners, in every sense of the word - as in we do things for each other and work together and fight the outsiders together. Apparently not.

I got a highly-trained guy whose teaching methods were about as blunt as some of the things I say to random people. Which is, by definition, very blunt.

My only major problem with him is his egotism, which is most likely so fragile that a poke from me will be all it takes to wound his highly-strung pride. Thankfully, and I say this in my favour, I haven't dented his precious ego yet. I honestly don't know how we're going to get along.

The first impression he gave me was intimidating, and as today wore on, that didn't change. I can't wait until he hands me a phone and I can finally prove to him that Im not just some kid that's now a burden to him, that I'm not a useless, weedy boy that can only say strange things.

Love from your always-faithful friend,

Felix

***

That Evening

Dear _____ ,

I couldn't get to sleep. Zuandro and I were assigned bunks in an empty dormitory - they'd walled off a section of the old dorm, I could tell by the way the room had been constructed, and how the new walls looked so much cleaner than the old ones of the original complex. Zuandro told me about everything - we have training for a week, and then it's the open field.

I'm still scared, and I feel weak for it.

I want to be strong, for once in my life, I want to feel strong.

Conclusion: I want to be like Zuandro - good-looking, smart, confident- although minus the ego. I hope I get close to that before we're sent out.

Love,

Felix