Grid Seekers (Grid Seekers Book One) (8 page)

They illuminated the room, though not so much to be a nuisance. I looked up at the ceiling, seeing the gold reflect the shine from the screen as thoughts of my talk with Liam still lingered in my mind.

Here I was, lying back in a fluffy, comfortable bed, having the most luxurious time of my life, and I was alone. I could get a single, chilled grape delivered to my room and my mother and sister were likely eating stale bread and some cheap beans and rice every night for dinner. I was in the lap of luxury and they were struggling just to get by. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve this.

I brought my left wrist up, my bracelet dangling in the air as I touched it, my fingers traipsing across the metal, a rustle in my ear. This was my only physical reminder of them, and I needed to make sure it stayed with me, no matter what.

As the minutes quickly went by, my mind started to settle down, the hyperactivity and thoughts of things I couldn’t control finally whittling away to nothing as the clock struck down, each minute going by another minute of sleep I would miss out on before another full day of excruciatingly long training. I had no idea what we had in store, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy, and that I’d need my rest if I were to get through it in one piece.

I rolled onto my right side, pulling the comforter up to block the little rays of light that the screen produced, before I took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and I felt the nerves and anxiety melt away from my body.

I might not have all of the answers right now, but maybe I would soon. For now, though, I just needed to rest.

Chapter Eight

There
was a chirping wake-up call every morning that wasn’t kind, to say the least. It rang through my room, my eyes quickly opening, as I looked around frantically, wondering if there was some kind of evacuation, before quickly realizing it was just the alarm for us to get up. It went on for about twenty seconds, me pushing my pillow around my head, covering my ears, as I wished I were dreaming.

I reluctantly got up and walked to my closet, the same boring clothes in a row kind of a depressing sight; I wished they would allow us some kind of variety. I didn’t have the nicest clothes in my own closet at home, but at least they were all different, and not a bunch of shirts with a purple number six and black pants that always rode up a little in the worst places. It wasn’t exactly a fun time every morning.

The only good part was the shower, which was always as warm as I wanted it, unlike back home, where the warm water was sparse and didn’t last long, especially if you went after someone else. There had been far too many times when I awoke to get ready for work, only to bathe in ice water that left me with a runny nose and covered with goose bumps for the rest of the day. That was one good thing about being here, even if there were a thousand other reasons that were horrible.

The towels were white and fluffy, like I was rubbing myself against the softest fur, the soft, fluffy cotton threads absorbing all of the water from my head like magic. I didn’t do much to get ready. The staff left me, and presumably all of the other girls, a full set of makeup in case we wanted to get ourselves dolled up. I didn’t care too much about makeup anyway, let alone here, but I did put on a little mascara and the tiniest smudge of eyeliner, just in case Chet came back and shoved a camera in my face, which I knew he would at some point.

They had some breakfast waiting for us in the lobby area, a wide array of breads, pastries, fruits, cereals, and even some meat, which wasn’t always on the menu back home because of the price. In fact, I didn’t eat many fruits either, their deliciously sugary nectar too rich for our blood. I took full advantage here, though, piling strawberries, blueberries, pineapple, and watermelon on my plate, other competitors doing the same. The food always seemed to be fully stocked, even when we clawed and heaped piles of it for ourselves. This must be how the ultra rich ate their breakfast every morning.

“I hope you’re all filling up. You’re in for a rough time today,” Christian said, startling me as a piece of strawberry fell out of my mouth.

I looked at him, all of us looking at him, as we continued eating, stuffing our faces like a bunch of starved children who hadn’t been fed in days. Christian smiled, looking at his digiboard, before he opened his mouth again.

“You guys will start your
actual
training today. You will be graded after each phase, and if you pass, you will get one card choice for the competition,” Christian said.

“What’s the phase we’re training in today?” someone asked.

“Self-defense and attack with Borgis. We’ll see what you all have, so finish up your meals, because I’ll be coming back in fifteen minutes to pick you up,” Christian said, before walking away, a guard whispering something to him as he walked.

I wasn’t too thrilled, dreading having to do the self-defense and attack phase, as I knew it wasn’t one I was really going to use. I could use strategy and survival, as those would be necessary tools inside the grid, but I didn’t plan on attacking anyone, and I knew Liam wasn’t going to either, unless it was imperative for our survival or would keep us in the game. He promised me he would only do it in self-defense and
only
if his life or mine were on the line.

I soon stopped eating breakfast, my stomach starting to stick out as I felt more full than I had ever been before, which might backfire with this kind of physical training. I didn’t think I’d get a card for throwing up my breakfast on the middle of the stage. I might even
lose
a card for something like that. They didn’t play around here.

True to his word, Christian came back fifteen minutes later on the dot, rounding us all up, a guy from Chicago continuing to stuff his mouth even as we were walking away. A woman, also from Chicago, slapped him and gave him a mean look, like he was embarrassing her. He must be the husband from the married couple. It looked like he was happy to be away from her cooking.

We walked into a room that was different, yet the same as the one from yesterday. The floor was comprised of black mats, the walls where white and sterile, and there was a stage up front, with Borgis, our instructor, standing atop of it with his hands behind his back. Weapons were all laid out on racks in front of him, tons of them. He looked at us all come in, watching us, before pulling his hand to his front and stroking his chin as we piled in, standing in front of him in groups of two.

“Good morning, and welcome to my training session. This is your first of five sessions, and if you pass today and master your skills, you will move on and get a card to use during the competition. If you should not pass, you won’t get another chance to make it up, so you better hope you do well,” Borgis said.

Borgis walked down the steps on the side of the stage, walking out in front of the weapons rack, before grabbing a staff from the rack and slamming the butt of it on the ground, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed it tightly. He gave us all a stern look, like he was trying to intimidate us, though I couldn’t say it worked on me. He looked more constipated than anything.

“As you will see, I have a variety of weapons for you to try out. While there will be three weapons depots scattered around the map. Some of you might have a weapon just as you start out, should you get a card for a specific weapon. There are blasters, rifles, staffs, swords, daggers, and more all here at your disposal. Today, though, we will only be testing out blasters and rifles, with a possibility of doing some others if we should have time. Some of you are probably wondering where we are going to test these out, but I feel like showing you instead of telling you,” Borgis said.

Borgis walked over to the wall, a keypad coming forward, before he punched in a bunch of numbers that I couldn’t see. The floor opened up as he got finished, and he stepped backwards, letting the tiles separate. Three giant shooting ranges came up from under the floor, each one enclosed so that you couldn’t hit someone else, as Borgis looked on, smiling, like a kid on Christmas morning. When the shooting ranges stopped moving upwards, stands came up from all sides, securing them in place, before they lit up, and we could see dummies inside swirling around.

As Borgis walked back towards us, he put the rifle on his shoulder, the barrel facing the shooting range, and he fired, a blue bolt of energy shooting out and hitting a target directly on, shattering it into a thousand little digital pieces. He had a straight look on his face, like he knew he was going to hit it, like there wasn’t even an ounce of trepidation or self-wonder in him. He put the rifle back down, hanging it from his hand, the barrel almost dragging on the floor.

“That’s your objective. You won’t need to try it the way I did, but you need to get through three different stages of the trial, each one harder than the last. Pass all three and get a card choice before the competition. Fail one of them, and you fail your weapons training and don’t get a thing. Now, I want you guys to get into three lines, single-file, and wait for your turn in the trials. You’ll pick here either a blaster or a rifle, and when you’re ready, stand in front of the range, arm yourself, and hit the red button underneath your booth,” Borgis said.

I was lucky enough to be in the middle of the crowd already, and easily got into the middle of the first line, while Liam was in the middle of the second line, though a row behind me. I wished we could do it together, since only one of us needed to pass, and I knew he would likely be half-decent at it and I would probably completely blow this place up by accident. It always seemed to be my luck that way.

The first waves of competitors grabbed weapons, two guys grabbing rifles while the woman grabbed a blaster pistol, which admittedly did seem easier to handle and maneuver, even if the rifle was more powerful. They walked up to the ranges, and I peeked out the side of my line, watching the woman who was from my line. Borgis was nearby, watching them carefully.

“Whenever you’re ready, press the red button just down below. Shoot as many of the flying discs as you can. Once the round is complete, you’ll press the button again to start the next round. You’ll do this three times,” Borgis said.

Nervously, all three of them pressed the button at what seemed like the same time, or close to it, before raising their weapons and aiming them as best as they could. I could tell none of them were well versed with a weapon, especially blasters and rifles like these, as their form seemed off and the woman was oddly bent forward. The targets came up, slowly moving about the area at a leisurely pace, bouncing off of the walls as they almost waited and wanted to be hit.

The woman hit a couple targets early on. A timer appeared in the back after she had hit her button, counting down the seconds she had to go for this round. Even when some targets were hit, others popped up in their place, though still moving at the turtle’s pace that the previous ones had. As I watched I saw the men and woman starting to show an air of confidence, all three of them hitting their targets fairly easily, before their timers hit zero and the targets immediately disappeared.

“Good job, everyone. Now, when you’re ready, hit the button to start your next round,” Borgis said.

The next round was slightly harder, a few of the targets not being hit as they moved faster around the area, bouncing off the walls with such force that it seemed as if they’d sped up even faster, and the blue bolts of energy fired from the blasters wasn’t even close to the same speed. Still, though, they all hit targets, not as many, but a good amount, before the timer ended. It was shorter than the first round. Their blasters went down as the woman and one man stretched, the last man running his hand through his hair and exhaling a massive sigh.

“Good, but not great. You all have passed so far, but there’s one final round left before we let a new group of three come up and try their luck. If you don’t pass this final round, you won’t be eligible for a card drawing, so remember that. Good luck, and once again, press the button when you’re ready,” Borgis said.

The final round was hard to watch, the blue blaster bolts shooting all over the place, like they were trying to spray the area with shots in hopes of hitting some targets. The targets moved at an absurd pace, almost hyperactive, as they bounced around and around, never seeming to stop or slow down, taunting the competitors. I didn’t have much hope that they would pass.

The timers ended and the competitors put away their weapons, before moving off to the side as Borgis extended his hand, guiding them there. He looked at a digiboard that a worker handed him and went over their scores, rubbing his chin with his thumb and index finger.

“You and you,” he said, pointing to the woman and the man in the middle.

They lit up, looking at Borgis, the woman perking up some as she rubbed her hands together.

“You two didn’t pass. You, on the other hand, skimmed by a percent above what you needed. You’ll get a card, but the others won’t. I’m sorry,” Borgis said.

The woman hung her head, mumbling to herself, as Borgis motioned for the next set of competitors, three guys, who all chose rifles instead of pistols. There were two more rows still ahead of me, but I watched closely, seeing what they did, what they did wrong, and how to better myself. I was studying all of them, using their faults to my advantage, using a strategy that I knew Quinn would be proud of if she were here now. They finished, the group behind them went, and the group in front of me went before it was my turn. A few of the people didn’t pass the training, none of them earning a card, which I knew was going to be of the utmost importance to me, to us. I planned on getting all five cards, and I was going to start with this one.

“Next group, please,” Borgis said, as he motioned for us while looking at his digiboard.

I grabbed a rifle, taking a chance, as I noticed all of the people who passed had that in common. It was a little large; none of the other women so far had chosen one, though I knew when I put it up to my shoulder it would grant me the stability I needed for accurate shots. At least I hoped so.

As I walked up I noticed the two other people with me. One was that husband from Chicago, the one who’d stuffed his face, but the other was the one person here I couldn’t stand. The guy from Los Angeles—Jason. He smirked at me, like he knew he was going to show me up again, though I just looked forward, feeling the anger bubble and boil inside of me, trying to focus myself and imagine his smug face on the targets as they whizzed by. I’d love to shoot those.

“Whenever you’re ready, you may begin,” Borgis instructed.

Reaching down, I put my fingers against the cold button, my hand putting just a little bit of pressure on it, before I pushed it in all of the way, quickly bringing my hand up and reaffixing it to my rifle. I held my cheek close to the rifle, the same way I saw in a movie once, as my right index finger sat at the ready just in front of the trigger. I didn’t pay any attention to the people next to me, which was good, because Jason was sure to play mind games if he noticed me staring at him or his shooting range.