Chapter 39: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Thirty-Nine
I watch the nurse as she carefully injects a local anaesthetic into my hand. Her touch is so gentle and nurturing that it makes me wonder how someone with such a caring touch ended up patching up killers. She doesn’t speak or look at me as she begins sewing the gash in my right hand. She works meticulously, focusing intently on her task. She looks like she’s in her own little bubble, probably doing her best to try and forget where she is and who she is helping.
I have nothing against hospitals. Been in and out of them enough times that they start to feel like taking a trip to the grocery store, but the clinic set up by The Tournament is one I loathe. It’s not the sterile environment or the bright lights that bother me, and unlike most clinics, it’s actually incredibly well-furnished with soothing whites, greens, and yellows. It looks rather cheerful.
They put us through absolute hell then bring us here to get patched up so they can continue to put us through hell. It’s effective torture. Keeping us alive so they can inflict more pain on us. If injuries are too severe then you’re eliminated from the competition. However, if they’re something they can temporarily fix, then in their eyes, you’re still healthy enough to suffer some more.
“Answer my fucking question, will I be able to walk or not?” I hear Whiro demand. I look over at him lying on the hospital bed, flat on his stomach as the doctor examines the very impressive stab wound that went clean through his calf. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.
“There doesn’t appear to be any nerve damage. You’ll have difficulty with movement for a few weeks, but once it’s healed you should have full mobility back,” the doctor explains in a professional manner.
“Just do what you can so I can continue through this competition,” he huffs, causing me to roll my eyes. “What the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps in my direction.
“Nothing interesting,” I shrug.
“You may have won this round, cunt, but you’ll slip up soon enough,” he gloats.
“Can you please knock him out or sew his mouth shut so we don’t have to listen to him anymore?” Mamba says to the doctor tending to Whiro. I snigger while some of the other competitors getting patched up laugh.
“Do you think if you suck up to her it’ll get you through this thing?” Whiro sneers at Mamba.
“Funny how you assume he’s sucking up to me because, in your mind, it’s impossible for us all to simply find you infuriatingly annoying and just want you to shut the fuck up,” I say nonchalantly as I watch the nurse finish tending to my right hand and start working on my left.
“You really think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he says as he glares at me.
“I don’t think about you at all,” I say in a bored tone.
Not sure whether this is fortunate or not, but Whiro’s little bitch fit is interrupted as Hexton saunters into the clinic clapping proudly, looking like the cat that got the cream.
“Well done to all of you for that thrilling performance. Unfortunate about those who didn’t make it, but that’s just how it goes. But a special congratulations are in order for our reigning champ who has once again proven victorious,” Hexton cheers, smiling wide at me with dollar signs in his eyes.
“Don’t pop open the champagne just yet,” I say dismissively.
“Don’t be so modest,” he admonishes as he walks over to me.
I stare up at him with a blank expression, “Have you met me?”
He laughs and claps me on the back, “The crowd loved your performance. They love your aloof demeanour and your confidence. Many people putting their money on you to win four years in a row,” he gleams, “If you survive, we must have you next year. We’ve had our best turnouts the years you’ve competed, and even more since your first win,” he informs me.
I ignore him and continue to focus on the way the nurse applies each stitch to my hand. Such careful yet automatic movements that she could probably do blindfolded.
“The audience are morons then. She didn’t even fucking do anything!” Whiro spits in indignation trying to get up.
“Mr. Whiro, please remain still so I can sew you up properly,” the doctor says sternly. Whiro glowers at him and rests back down.
Hexton slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks and slowly walks over to Whiro; each step announcing his authority as his shiny loafers tap against the tiled floor.
“Blackheart was calculating and patient. She let many of you put yourselves in danger and then very brilliantly got herself to safety. You spent fifteen minutes fighting with a door and nearly lost a leg for your efforts. If you were in the crowd, who would you be rooting for? The smart competitor who plays the game well or the clown who stumbles his way to victory on sheer dumb luck?” he asks, staring Whiro down with a hard and callous look in his eyes. I swear Whiro almost gulps.
“How many of us are left?” Kislota asks, cutting through the silence.
“You are now down to nine,” Hexton announces, “It would be ten but sadly, one of your competitors lost his leg making him unable to continue. So, get patched up, get some rest, and we shall see how many of you survive tomorrow's fun,” he says with a smile as he leaves the clinic.
Nine competitors left. I have no idea what’s in store for us tomorrow, but I’m certain it’ll put a dent in that number. Whiro’s obsessed with winning, but I think most of us just can’t wait for this to be over and be able to walk away with our lives.
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If it weren’t for the painkillers, I wouldn’t have slept a wink last night. As good as I am at blocking out pain, it’s a little difficult to do when you continue to move and use the parts of you that are injured. Even eating dinner last night hurt like a bitch. I’ve gotten lucky that these are the worst injuries I have sustained so far, but I have a strong feeling my luck is about to run out.
I get dressed in yet another bodysuit, covered head to toe and wait to be escorted to the arena. I kill time by fantasizing about all the ways I could try and escape but even in my fantasies, each attempt ends in my death. It is an effective way out of The Tournament, but not one I’m particularly keen on.
When I hear the familiar knock at the door, I get up, shake off the thoughts and get myself in the zone. I focus on my breathing and heart rate as I’m escorted to the competitor’s lounge instead of solitary. I take a seat and wait as one by one the other eight competitors arrive. I’m grateful for the soundproofing of this room so I don’t have to hear the excited crowd just beyond the doors. If I had the money and manpower, I swear I would burn this entire Tournament to the ground. Maybe someone will one day, but it’s clearly not today.
“Blackheart?” I hear someone call my name. I look over as one of the competitors walks over to me. I can’t see her name on her back, but from the voice, it sounds like Haditha.
Haditha is a Middle Eastern woman in her forties known for making her crimes look like accidents. She looks at her work as an art form, and she’s so skilled at it that not a single one of her crimes has ever caught the attention of the authorities. The ways she thinks to kill people sometimes are so insane, they’re genius. She once killed someone by making it look like they were stupid enough to put their lava lamp on a stove to activate it and were killed by the exploding glass. It was so believable it made it into the newspapers. She’s creative, no doubt about that.
“Something I can do for you?” I ask.
She sits down next to me and scoots close as she quickly glances around the room. “There’s not many of us left, and we don’t know what’s coming next. I think it would be in our best interest to team up; work together to get each other through this,” she whispers. I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. “Are you going to say something?”
“I was just trying to decide whether you’re stupid enough to try and form an alliance or if you’re that brilliant and manipulative,” I say casually.
“You think I’m manipulating you?” she asks, neither surprised nor offended by my accusation.
“This isn’t your first time, so you know that people who work together don’t live to talk about it. Since I know how smart you are, the only logical theory is that you want me to believe we’re in an alliance either so the Master of Ceremonies kills me or so you can stab me in the back. Whichever it is, I’ll pass, but thank you for the consideration.”
She stares at me in silence, her expression completely concealed by her mask, but soon I see crinkling around the edges of her eyes, and I can tell she’s smiling, “Can’t blame a girl for trying, can you?” she asks jovially.
“Actually, I can. I just can’t be bothered,” I say dismissively.
“It’s nothing personal. Like you, I’m simply trying to survive,” she says, sitting back and crossing her legs. I’m so sick of us all in these matching bodysuits. Remind me to go shopping when this is all over.
“And then there are some of us who are trying to do more than survive,” I say as I glance over at Whiro across the room as he proceeds to stretch and try to warm himself up, though he continues favouring his right leg. We all look beyond ridiculous in these outfits, but the men look even worse. Sure, they hide our identities, down to any physical characteristics, but they also strip away any sense of danger. Whiro is built like a tank and is a very skilled assassin, but seeing him in that outfit, and clearly not wearing underwear,, just makes me want to roll around laughing.
“He certainly isn’t discreet in his want of your head on a pike,” she muses.
“No, he’s not. Not sure what I did to piss him off. Don’t care, to be honest.”
“He’s a man, all you had to do was be better than him at something. Men have very fragile egos, and even trained killers are guilty of hubris. A significant amount of it in his case. You’re the first person in the history of The Tournament to win three times; he can’t live with that fact,” she says, her words echoing the wisdom of her years not only on this earth but in this business.
“Then maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll die with that fact instead,” I say pleasantly.
She chuckles, “Someone is dying one way or another.” Truer words have never been spoken.