Rules of Survival | afi

4

I crumble underneath the weight
Pressures of a new place roll my way
Jumpsuit, Jumpsuit
Cover me

-Twenty One Pilots, Jumpsuit

•••

The loud beeping of the custom alarm rouses me from my deep sleep, and I shoot up in bed, still partly in military mode. It only takes a couple of seconds for me to realize that I'm in LA, not deployed, and I relax.

"Breakfast is in ten." An unfamiliar voice rings out, and I groggily rub at my eyes. Ashton's standing across the room, slipping on a muscle tee shirt.

Wait a second. Did he just talk?

"He speaks!" I exclaim, sliding out of bed. "About time."

He doesn't look at me, instead he focuses on tucking in the bottom part of his shirt into the top of his pants. "Please get dressed."

Oh, right. I forget nudity isn't something normal people are used to. In the marines, everyone showers together, so nobody is bothered by others natural states. But Ashton isn't a marine.

"Yeah, sorry." I mutter, yawning and stretching out my arms. I get out of bed and head to my suitcase, pulling on some cargo pants and a black tank top. No need to get into fighting gear yet. That's tomorrow morning. "What made your vocal chords decide to work?"

He doesn't answer, just shrugs. He has this permanent expression of distasteful concentration on his face, like he's trying to fix something and it's not working.

"Well, we should probably train together today. Get a good sense of each other's fighting skills. That doesn't require much talking, and I guess talking just isn't your thing."

Ashton shoves his hands in his pockets, and meets my eyes. I hold his gaze. He nods, and turns away.

He's wearing a black, fitted workout shirt and track pants. His biceps bulge under the flimsy sleeves. As he goes to open the door to our room, I notice the flash of a ring on his finger, and frown. Is he married? No, surely not. Nobody ever enters this competition when they have a spouse or living family. It must be something else.

Ashton holds the door open, looking at me expectantly. I realize now that I've been staring. "You ready, Eliza?"

It's the first time he's called me by name.

I shake myself out of the mini daze I was in. "Yeah. Let's go." I say, and follow him out into the hall.

***

Every Battle Royale has the same schedule. You arrive at the main complex the first day, eat dinner, and stay the night. The second day is for training, providing valuable learning time for those who haven't had much experience with weapons. (Which, if you ask me, entering this competition without previous experience is suicide anyway). The third day, everyone is flown to the island, and the battle begins.

The training dome is huge. Instead of trying to fit 600 people into one area, they've split us up into groups of 100, sending us off to different sections. Fifty groups of 2, one massive training ground. This should be fun.

I head straight for the manual weapons, because the chance of getting a machete or sword is way higher than getting my hands on a gun. Besides, I'm already trained in firearms. This time, Ashton follows me. I hope it's not already crowded.

Luckily, only the instructor is there. He's a young guy, mid twenties, with fluffy black hair and dark eyes. Tattoos poke out from the sleeves of his uniform. I don't recognize him, so he must be new. The complex hires dozens of new instructors and employees every year to keep up with the competition.