Eighteen sputtered, her body crashing to the ground. Thirteen lurched and grabbed the gun. Before she could wrench it from his grip, he sent it skittering across the floor. His nails clawed against the dust as he staggered up. Eighteen rolled to her side, groaning. She pushed her glasses up, bracing the table's rim.

"How did you—" she started. "Oh."

Thirteen inched away, peering at her through the sweaty curls over his forehead. "We both know I don't rely on my ability. I don't even have one," he said.

The only reason the jammer affected him was because of Karrel's chip in his system. Alternating between several Founding Chips gave his body enough time to get used to the absence more than the ability's presence. He was an anomaly for a reason, and it was to stop tyrants like Eighteen from stopping people from surviving.

The girl smirked, peeling away from the table and facing him fully. "I don't have an ability either," she said. "And now, it all comes to this."

Before Thirteen could figure out what she meant, her form blurred. A shadow shrouded with blue sheen zipped towards him with such speed. Her fist hurtled towards his jaw. He raised a hand to block it. Her leg whipped up, her steel-tipped boots aimed to his neck. Wind rushed across his face as he spun out of the way, putting distance between them.

Eighteen chuckled. "Scared?" she said. "I don't have an ability, but I am not powerless."

She didn't say, unlike you, but Thirteen felt it laced around her tone and words nevertheless. He stalked away from the wall, coming close to where Seven writhed. The boy had all but fallen unconscious due to the pain. He spied FIve squirming against the withdrawal, but even she wouldn't survive for long. It was either the pain or Thirteen's failure that would kill them. The odds were stacked, and they weren't for those who didn't want to play the Game.

A stabbing blow pierced through his side, throwing her to the ground. He rolled to the side just as Eighteen's fist barreled towards his nose. His leg swung in a wide arc, uncalculated and totally random. Thinking wasn't favorable in these drills.

Her hand closed around his ankle, and she dragged him towards her. She switched her hold to his sleeve then to his collar. She drew her arm back, knuckles turned against him. He whipped up, then side to side, knocking his heels against her knees. Her weight crashed all over him. He shoved her away, scrambling to get away. Eighteen could take on Five even without an ability. What chance did Thirteen have? He was as flimsy as a moldy plank.

He almost made it to the door when a weight slammed against his back. His shoulder hit the metal, and a hand grabbed fistfuls of his hair. The world, no matter how dark and blue, swirled as she yanked back then shoved him forward. His temple struck the concrete. Pain streaked across his head. More, when she went for it again. Black spots ate the screens' stark glow, the whites burning his retinas. He clawed at Eighteen's hands, but her grip remained strong. She slammed him against the wall again. Brittle shards of paint rained on both of them, staining his scalp.

Something dark and hot trickled down the side of his head. He braced himself for yet another impact, but when it came, a loud ringing exploded in his ears. A sore gasp flitted out of his lips as strength seeped out of his limbs. He collapsed, hands flying to his head. The bluish glow turned white hot, chasing the dark blobs away. Skin and bone pulsed. Ached. He curled into a ball as the light bored into his eyes, and later, his mind.

When he raised his eyes, Eighteen and his fallen comrades were gone. The room transformed into a bland one, with incandescent filaments creaking in the background. His failing vision registered a bed, layers of blankets, and a poor imitation of him lost under the folds. Beeping sounds. A lot of them, one over another.

Not now. Not this memory again. He...

The woman sat on the side, on the same stool he saw in his altered memory. He braced his knees to get up. Surprisingly, his body followed without much drag. This was a dream. It was certain now. He strode towards the boy's bedside and attempted to put a hand on the woman's shoulder. His hand passed right through, as if he was a ghost who shouldn't be there.

The boy stirred, eyes opening to slits. Reminiscent of the dream again. A hand rested on his chest, as if knowing what was going to happen next. The woman raised her head, brown locks parting to reveal...her face. Thirteen's breath filtered out of his lips, looking at the warmest brown eyes he had ever seen. She stared at the boy on the bed with distraught lines marring her face, the corners of her lips turned down in dismay, worry, fear, or all combined.

But, she had a face. Thirteen could see her face, both as an apparition on standby and as a sickly boy strapped to a mattress. She was beautiful, but his presence seemed to have compressed her features into a messy artwork.

"Mijo, what is it?" the woman said, shooting up when the boy squirmed against the covers. "What do you need?"

The boy didn't speak. He couldn't, with all the tubes stuck into his mouth and throat. More beeping. They seemed to be going faster every second. What...

His chest closed up, forcing him to his knees. The boy on the bed must have it worse. Weak hands pierced with looping tubes clawed at the bland white gown, desperate for something the universe freely gave to others but not to him. Thirteen forced himself up, to look at himself before the inevitable happened.

What he saw was the woman leaning down over the boy, muttering under her breath as she whispered an unknown prayer to more unknown gods. "Don't go, mijo," she pleaded, even though it was all the boy could do. It was all Thirteen could do at that moment. "Please. A little more time, please. Not yet."

A little more time. Please.

More time.

The boy reached out, a single sliver of thought running across his mind and through Thirteen's. He remembered it now. What that little boy who never knew life but now faced death thought only of one thing—I don't want to go. More time. I need more time.

I don't want to go.

More time.

But the boy gave his last breath, plunging the entire room into a dark landscape. Thirteen expected the underground room to reappear. He has been gone too long. Instead, a set of footsteps echoed in the chambers of his mind. In the void, someone approached them. The voices were muffled, but he was certain one of them was of the woman. The other was deeper. Calmer. It wasn't the woman's husband. If he was sane, he wouldn't speak like a trader after a child had just died.

Thirteen urged his mind to filter the words better. I...from Primeva Securities. My condolences...consent ...funeral expenses...transfer the body...undergoing trials...help us greatly...you will be compensated...do not worry.

His eyes flew open with a gasp. Everything ached to the last bone, but he pushed himself up. That was the last memory of what remained of his life before the Game. He died, and The Corrector brought him back. And he wasn't the only one. The others...did everyone have lives that ended before they could live them?

More time. It was all the boy could ask for in his final moments. Even if Thirteen didn't feel like he was the same person as that, he realized he wanted the same thing. He wanted time. The seconds stolen from him by the sickness, the trials, and now, the Game—he wanted it all back.

Thirteen's fingers curled as he heaved one shaky breath after another. Blood dripped from his head to his hands, restoring some of the reality he thought he departed. The blue glow seeped through the darkness, clearing enough to let him see the hem of Eighteen's sleeve hanging above an unmoving lump. Silver glinted against the screen's light. The gun. She found it. And she was going to shoot.

No.

His legs pumped, launching him towards the armed girl. Time. He needed more of it so he could save the most people from this hell. A streak of warmth rushed from the depths of his gut and pricked the back of his eyes. The world slowed, but he never did. He slammed into Eighteen, throwing her off-balance as her finger clicked the trigger. A bullet zipped out of the muzzle, but he saw where it headed. He pushed off Eighteen, sending her careening sideways, and bulldozed over Five's unconscious form. Together, they skidded across the dust. The warmth snuffed out. Metal embedded into the concrete floor, cracks webbing from the point of impact.

Eighteen hit the ground with her rear, the gun skittering towards Thirteen's boot. He swiped it off the ground, pointed it towards the girl, and fired. She dodged, the bullet hitting the edge of the table with a thwack. One shot left. He gripped the side of his head, forcing his buzzing vision to merge into a coherent reality instead of two.

He clicked the trigger. A bullet rushed out. Eighteen closed the distance between them, the bullet punching through the flaps of her jacket sleeve. Shit. Her hands closed around his throat, nails digging into his skin. Her entire weight pressed into him as they fell down.

"How many times do I have to kill you?!" Eighteen screamed in his face, her eyes manic. The screens' blue glow didn't make them any better.

Thirteen scraped against her hold, but her fingers wouldn't budge. The weight tripled, closing his throat off. Was this how he was going to die the second time? Couldn't the universe be more original? He gasped and choked, giving up getting her off. Instead, with the last of the oxygen spreading down his arms, he reached up, feeling a boot. A shin. Five. This was Five. Which meant...

His consciousness started slipping, his movements easing. Not yet. Time. He needed more time...

Cold metal knocked against his fingers. With a quick yank, he flipped the dagger in his hand and swung it in the widest arc he could. A loud gasp reached his ears. The hold on his throat loosened a bit. With a scream, he pulled the dagger out and stabbed down. Again and again. Blood stained his arms, his face, and his legs. Blond hair turned wine red, but he couldn't bring himself to stop.

It was when his rattled chest couldn't handle his erratic breaths anymore did he push Eighteen's limp body away and threw FIve's dagger away. Blood dripped down his curls more than sweat did, and most of it wasn't from the open wound on his scalp and hairline. He clutched his chest. He didn't know if he should inhale or let go of a thousand worries. Tried doing both at once. He only collapsed to his side, gasping like a fish out of water. He shook, tucking himself to a tight ball. Calm. He had to calm himself down. No one would do it for him. The smell of rust permeated in the air. It didn't help. Nothing would.

He closed his eyes, recalling the boy on the bed which once had been him. They became the same person again when his head lolled to one side. This time, he didn't fight, letting go of everything himself.

And damn, it never felt so good.