Timshel

i - Room Eleven

warnings: graphic depictions of violence, murder, and brainwashing

***

"147, 162 has accused you of stealing her rations, what do you have to say for yourself?"

You stare up at Nadia. You don't blink, your facial expression doesn't change as you answer her.

"She's a liar."

162 flinches at the harsh tap of Nadia's heels against the ground but you're unphased.

"An honor match. Boxing ring. 18:00," she stares straight ahead between you and 162.

162's mouth drops open and she stammers, "but I didn't, I don't,"

"Whoever is more honorable wins," she walks between you too, her shoulders brushing against both of yours and 162 shivers. You're both aware what an honor match entails.

You let a smirk twitch past your lips before turning on your heel and following Nadia out of her office back to the sparring room.

You let your mind get lost as you hit the punching bag. Left, right, right.

You knew 162 was lying. You wouldn't do anything to break Nadia's rules. 162 wanted to see you in trouble. Now she would pay. You knew what an honor match would lead to. You were prepared. With only 10 of you left and graduation day swiftly approaching, you wondered how many of you would make it.

You had three hours until the match. You were going to spend every second of it preparing. You knew 162 was weak, weaker than you, but you were not going to risk it. You were allowed to go into a fight confident but never cocky. You could never allow arrogance to be your downfall. It happened once, the scar above your left eyebrow and bullet wound in your thigh there to prove it.

***

"You thought you were better than 151, now you have to face your consequences," Nadia turns away on her heels as you struggle against the rope binding your hands to a hook on the ceiling, "you taunt her during your fight. Now it's her turn."

You know better than to say anything, than to let Nadia's words get the better of you. You work on putting all of your focus on getting free from the ropes. You feel the burn radiating from your wrists up your arm as you pull the rope back and forth, hoping to cut through it using your sheer strength and the edge of the hook. The hook forced you onto your tiptoes, so your body swayed back and forth as you grunted with effort.

"151, go ahead, take your pick of weapon," Nadia says nonchalantly before locking both you and 151 in the target room.

You watch as she looks at the table in front of her, an array of weapons enticing her. Knives, some dull, small, some larger and sharper. Guns, several to choose from, some with silencers, others would echo and reverberate against the walls as they were shot. A terrifying mace with daunting spikes. You redouble your efforts, feeling the rope start to give way.

As 151 picks up the small knife and draws it back you hear a small, "I'm sorry," from her lips as the knife flies through the air. Your arms rip down from the ceiling, taking some of it with you as the knife grazes across your forehead, right above your brow. You crumble to the ground, tossing the rope to the side before wiping the blood that starts to trickle down your face.

"Why're you sorry?" You ask, tilting your head.

"You're my target," she mumbles, picking up a gun as you charge towards her. In the split second that it pierced the skin of your thigh as you jump you're running towards her, ignoring as numbness spreads through your thigh.