The Wanderer's Tournament

1990, Three Months Before The Tournament: (Ground Zero, New Zealand)

"KYAAGH!" I gasped out violently, drawing in as much air as I can, before it was ripped away from me again. It was then the cold, glove covered hands reached out and grabbed my arm, calling out to one another. It was hard to make out what they were saying. The ringing in my ears from earlier was still prevalent. Ontop of that, their voices were also muffled to me due to the ridiculous full body suits they were wearing, which completely shielded off every part of their body.

"Hazmat suits..? Why would they..." suddenly the realization struck me like lightning from whatever cruel God did this to me. "The explosion..! It was a... Oh God... No no no..." I began to visibly shake and struggle out of the grasp of the men around me. There was still some debris and rubble around my lower half, despite the terrifying spikes of pain flowing all through, I forced myself out and past the hazmat wearing team. The sun nearly blinded me. Within seconds of my vision adjusting, I almost wish it did.

There was nothing left standing. No one other than myself and the people recovering me out of the destroyed train station. Moments prior; I was about to head to my platform before that awful noise ripped and shattered through the sound barrier, bringing me to my knees. Then every thing else was black for a while. Until now. The movies and books couldn't even begin to describe the wasteland I found myself surrounded by. If it wasn't ash and dust around the gaping crater that was visible even from so far away, it was rubble and death as far as the eye could see. An ominous green filter felt like it had obscured my vision and all forms of light made me see white and purple spots floating around immediately after seeing them. Especially the sun, which felt like it was melting my skin off.

Panicking I took a look at myself. The adrenaline and denial of what had just happened began to waver as fear and pain grasped all around, bringing me down to the broken surface. "My home... Everyone... It's all...-"

"Sir! Nash, quickly! Get the paramedics back on the line, there's another one!" One of the voices was shouting behind me. I didn't care much for what they were saying. Whether from sorrow or the agony, I couldn't focus either way. I didn't even notice when I was picked off the ground and put into an ambulance, until the blinding light of the a hospital lamp was turned on right above my face.

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If it wasn't for the television they left on, I wouldn't know that I had been here for almost two days now. The only doctor that came to visit just took some blood and gave me a cast for my right wrist, which was completely shattered. Still couldn't feel it though, especially not compared to the overwhelming nausea that had been plaguing me ever since I woke up again. I'm not even sure where this hospital is. I assume one of the citites outside the radius of Wellington. But for all I knew, what I saw could be the worst of what was now the entirety of my home.

I was perplexed and angered at how I survived. Out of the thousands and hundreds of thousands that all were exterminated in a flash of flame, why did I live? I was a twenty year old, college drop out. Not only that, but I was employed to a fucking sociopath of a boss who worked at the recruitment center for New Zealand's official contestants in the Wanderer's Tournament. I and a few others were on our way to hang up flyers to the other towns when the bomb went off. Yet I still stand. My clothes utterly torn and some of the fabric burned onto me, my flesh itching and unable to keep itself together, my muscles in constant distress, and my bones felt on the verge of breaking. But still, I walk.

"Sir?" A soft voice peaked from behind me. I turned to see a nurse in a traditional light pink attire that drapped down to her knees. The look on her face upon seeing me was nothing but pity. Maybe it was sympathy, but I wasn't feeling very optimistic about anything right now.

"It's B-Benjamin..." I coughed up the words, the pain in my throat not letting up as I struggled to speak. "... My name is Benjamin Rogers." I was surprised I was able to finish speaking without immediately hacking up blood. All I had been doing for the past two days was that and thinking about what had happened. The news channel that was left on didn't offer much information on what caused the blast. Just the death count and memorial being planned.