Chapter 33: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Thirty-Three

Suddenly, the chatter around us becomes silent as the sound of someone tapping against a glass gets our attention. I look towards the staircase to see our host for this shit show. To competitors and guests, he is known only as the Master of Ceremonies. I only became privy to his name – unsure if it’s real or not – after my third win. I guess surviving death so many times entitles you to certain benefits, such as being able to address the Master of Ceremonies as Hexton when in private. Though I have no proof, I have a strong suspicion his name really is Hexton. With the money and power at his disposal, I highly doubt he fears any of us coming for him in our off-season. To try would be suicide.

Hexton is 6’2”, looking to be in his late fifties with a deep olive complexion, and  a sexy, yet diabolically subtle smile permanently plastered on his face. He has thick but short salt-and-pepper hair with salt-and-pepper stubble. He’s dressed in a charcoal grey, three-piece suit with a black, button-down shirt and black loafers. His posture is perfectly straight, exuding power and authority, but it’s his confidence topped off with an aloof demeanour that screams danger.

“Welcome one and all to the fifty-sixth Annual Tournament,” Hexton announces in an accent I still, to this day, can’t pinpoint, as we all clap in response. “It is a true delight to see so many old and new faces as we celebrate another year of this truly auspicious event. Each year brings with it new and exciting challenges that will push you in ways you’ve never been pushed before as a crowd watches on, cheering for either your victory or your demise,” he says with a playful smile.

If you’re thinking this is some underground fight that turns out guests no bigger than an underground parking lot, guess again. The Tournament is the largest, secret, illegal competitive game in the world, turning out tens of thousands of guests each year. While you can only gain an invite at the Master of Ceremony’s discretion, guests still pay an entry fee. People fork out millions to watch people die for entertainment. One might call it barbaric or inhumane, but I think it’s safe to say, Hexton was a little too inspired by the gladiators of ancient Rome. Scratch that, Hexton’s father; he’s the one who created the Tournament fifty-six years ago and then he passed the torch onto his son roughly fifteen years ago. I lose track. All I can say is, Hunger Games, eat your heart out.

“Tonight we are, of course, honoured to have our guest of honour grace us with her presence this evening. Our first and only three-time winning champion, the lovely and deadly, Blackheart,” he says proudly, gesturing to me while the room claps.

I nod graciously to Hexton and the room of people who are calculating all the ways to kill me.

“We shall see if the remarkable Miss Blackheart can be the first to claim a fourth victory. What do you think my dear?” he asks me.

“Depends on what challenges you have in store for us,” I say nonchalantly.

He chuckles. “An excellent response. Yes, this year we have worked hard to create our most exciting and nail-biting Tournament to date. The first round will begin tomorrow, so eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow may be your last,” he says far too cheerfully. “As per our usual protocol, please remain calm while these gentlemen come to prepare you for tomorrow’s festivities,” he says warmly as a group of men in suits make their way to each of us carrying large trays lined with large syringe guns.

One such man walks up to me. “Miss, if you could just move your hair aside,” he instructs. I move my hair to the side, exposing my neck as the man pushes the syringe into my neck just below my ear and presses the gun on it with a click. I feel a sharp sting and then it’s all over. He withdraws the syringe and hands me a cotton ball which I quickly place over the small wound. Tracking chips. So they can monitor us throughout The Tournament. They also explode, so, if we break the rules or step out of line, then all it will take is the push of a button and we’re taking permanent cat naps.

Once the men have completed their task, they leave and the party resumes. I often wonder if we should be studied by professionals. We’re all gathered in this room, laughing, drinking and conversing as we, in perfect symbiosis, promote the illusion that we are here by choice and are having a wonderful time. What we really are are lab rats in a maze and tomorrow we will each have to begin the long, arduous process of fighting each other to the death to make it to the end of the maze. We don’t even get a nice piece of cheese at the end. Chances are, a quarter of the people in this room will be dead tomorrow, but none of us are acting like it. We play our roles, and we play them well because what other option do we have?

That’s not even the most frightening part. What’s truly disturbing is how conditioned we’ve all become to see this as normal. We don’t fight it, we don’t question it, we know attempts to do so will not end in our favour, so we accept it and go along with it. Even if there wasn’t a threat of death looming over our heads, could we still complain? Every single one of us chose this life, and for all the perks that come with it, we too must face the consequences. I just don’t think anyone could have imagined the consequences would be so nefarious.

I’m in the middle of ordering a cocktail from the bar when I feel a soft hand gently brush against the healing wound on my shoulder.

“You should be more careful, Miss Blackheart. Such beautiful skin should never be tainted,” says Hexton in a low voice as he leans against the bar. If we were anywhere else I would gladly cut off his hand and wear it as a necklace.

“Isn’t that a little redundant? I’m sure by the end of this little event, my skin will be tainted in more ways than one. If you’re so concerned with the well-being of my complexion, perhaps you should send me home,” I say, taking my drink from the bartender and taking a long sip.

Hexton laughs heartily, “I have missed that sharp tongue of yours,” he says as he brushes my hair from my shoulder. Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, don’t kill him.

“Enjoy it while you can.”

“Come now, not even a small smile for me? We’re such good friends,” he smiles, but there’s a sinisterness in his eyes that reveals more than his words ever could. I look at him apathetically as I continue sipping my drink. “Same old Blackheart,” he says shaking his head in amusement. “How are you liking your room?”

“It’s very beautiful, thank you for the accommodations. Not that I asked for them.”

“Nothing but the best for my favourite champion,” he says, brushing his thumb against my cheek. For a split second, I fantasize about how good it would feel to break off his thumb and watch him choke on it before I come back to reality. He moves closer and slides his arm around my waist bringing his body flush against mine. I am really sick of people at this party getting into my personal space. “I hope to see you in the winner’s circle. Perhaps we could even have a private party, just the two of us,” he says suggestively.

In all the years I’ve competed, Hexton has never flirted with me. I wonder if there is an angle he’s playing or if he's just sexually frustrated.

“You know what they say about business and pleasure.”

He chuckles, “To every rule, there is an exception. Besides, can you blame me given how ravishing you look tonight?” he whispers low against my ear, letting his lips skim my earlobe, “I’d love to see just how bad you can be.”

“I don’t think your heart could take it,” I say in a bored tone.

He smiles against my ear, “You certainly know how to drive a man crazy. I’ve been looking forward to your arrival for weeks.”

I look up into his eyes, “Careful, Hexton, wouldn’t want to show favouritism. Everyone here might think you’re letting me win, and then you’d have a mutiny on your hands,” I warn slyly as I adjust his tie.

“Now, you’re just teasing me,” he says with delight.

I lean up towards his ear, “I’m not a saint, but I could make you pray,” I say as I lean back giving him a sultry smile, “Now I’m teasing you.” With our eyes locked, his pupils dilate. I take my drink and walk away, leaving the man who has a noose around my neck to his deviant thoughts. I can only imagine the depraved things he’d want to do to me. I shudder to think.

I lean against a wall, sipping my drink in silence as I look around the room observing my competition. Some will be easy to beat, others will prove a challenge. Like I said, I’m not here to win, I’m just here to survive. The sounds of arguing catch my attention as I see two men of average build begin shoving each other. One is a competitor I’ve seen in previous years, but the other I’ve not seen before, which tells me this is his first year and looks like it’s about to be his last.

Their argument grows more violent as the two begin trading blows, neither looking to injure, but looking to kill as they go hit for hit. I continue to watch in silence as many in the room gather to cheer on the fight. Morons. I glance over at Hexton who is also observing the altercation silently. Hexton makes a small gesture with his hand to no one in particular and at that same moment, two guns drop from the ceiling. Before anyone has a chance to blink, both men drop to the ground with fresh bullet holes in their heads. Just as quickly as they appeared, the guns retract back into the ceiling. Many onlookers jump back in terror, but I merely finish my drink and place my glass on a nearby surface. Looks like my odds just improved.

Rules of The Tournament state that no fights or altercations are to take place unless in the arena. Violation of any of the rules results in death. I told you, none of us has a choice in what goes on here. You could just not show up, but you wouldn’t get far before Hexton sent his men to kill you for disrespecting his authority. You can’t run from The Tournament, and once you’re here, you play the game and follow the rules or end up like those two idiots over there.

Hexton gestures for some of his men to begin disposing of the bodies as he walks to the centre of the room, “Ladies and gentlemen, let this be a reminder to all of you of what happens when you break house rules. Rules give us order in chaos. Break those rules and you must suffer the consequences. Let’s try to keep the deaths to a minimum before the first round, shall we? I think that’s enough excitement for one evening. All of you, please adjourn to your rooms and sleep well. You’ll be needing it,” he says, bringing the party to an end.

Slowly everyone silently disperses, making their way up the grand staircase as a foreboding cloud looms over their heads, but I continue to stay in place, watching the two lifeless bodies being dragged away, a trail of blood left behind them.

Let the games begin.