DMA, NO MAN'S ISLAND
Azrael was escorted back to his cubicle by a few wardens but it gave off the feeling of an Emperor taking a stroll in the garden with his eunuchs maintaining a respectable distance.
The reason? It was really simple, Azrael is one bloodthirsty teenager and maintaining three feet away from him especially after a death match as his bloodlust was higher than normal during this period of time. Anyone who thinks it's bull s**t can ask the previous referee in charge of the weekly ultimate death match who insisted on raising Azrael's hand to pronounce him champion. Oh, that's right, he was killed on the spot. Then you could try asking the warden who tried to shove him into his cubicle, aish, also dead.
Of course, the people working at the Death Match Arena hate his guts and have tried torturing him into obedience on several occasions but found that they couldn't break him no matter how hard they tried or maybe they succeeded but had no idea they did. Besides, his matches always attracted the VIP's, booking all the private rooms in DMA as the bet placed was not based on his survival or the death of his opponents rather it was based on how many moves it will take for him to finish off his opponent, earning the Death Match Arena massive profits.
Azrael slowed down to a stop startling the wardens as they reached out to touch their weapons for assurance.
"Calm your fragile hearts. I just need a bath", he said as he turned towards the corridor leading to the bathroom and resumed walking.
"Stop right there, you brat. You just won sixty matches in a row and now you think you are a big shot. You are heading to your cell and that's that", a warden who couldn't take it anymore ordered.
Since when did a slave sold to the Death Match Arena start bossing him around. Though the hierarchy of power was a little bit unstable in No Man's Island, for instance, the Lord who is in charge of this place is above some VIP's and subservient to a few, for the people that worked here were, the wardens were above the ordinary audience unlike the managers and servers but one thing was clear, slaves sold to the Death Match Arena were beneath everyone but this punk doesn't seem to get that into his thick skull.
"Make me", Azrael uttered as he kept on moving, neither increasing nor reducing his pace.
The warden who spoke earlier, No. 16 was enraged by his authority being challenged, so much so he pulled out his gun and walked forward. A bullet wound should instill subordination into him.
"Stand down, No. 16", a warden tagged No. 11 commanded.
"But boss, that slave...", No. 16 words were interrupted when No. 11 glared at him.
"Do you need a beginner's lesson on hierarchy No. 16, I can be your personal tutor", No. 11 growled.
"No boss", No. 16 replied with his head bowed.
"Your gun, hand it over", No. 11 ordered.
No. 16 complied and walked back to his previous position awaiting Azrael's return.
He could hear his colleagues' stifled laughter. He was being mocked all because of that slave. As for No. 11, what right does he have to scold him in front of everyone? Due to the fact he was five numbers ahead of him? Didn't he see how arrogant that slave was? And when he stepped up to do what they were all too cowardly to do, they embarrassed him. He will fight his way to the top for a higher rank during this year's annual ranking match and show them all, especially Azrael whose life and death will be in his hands then.
Azrael came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he threw a glance at No. 16 before resuming his trip to his cell room. No. 16 shivered, that glance just now felt like numerous blades slicing at his skin. When they arrived in front of Azrael's cell, he walked forward to open it, that was his duty as he was the least ranked warden in this group.
Something flashed in Azrael's eyes, he grabbed No. 16's baton placed it on his neck and twisted. Snap! No. 16 slid to the floor dead, not understanding what happened even in his last moment.
Ding! The bracelet scanned by No. 16 before his death got verified and the electric door slid open. Azrael stepped in and it closed automatically.
"Get rid of his body", No. 11 sighed, he knew this was going to happen when No. 16 referred to Azrael as a slave so he confiscated his gun, if he hadn't, it would have been bloody. Less work for the cleaners.
Azrael felt the sharpness of the blade.
'It should be good enough', he thought.
He had 'borrowed' it from No. 16, that warden was truly stupid. Did he think the prohibition on unassigned weapons were just a joke? Well, thanks to the dead man, this would definitely be useful later on.
From the CCTV camera Azrael could be seen sitting calmly with his eyes closed but a raging war was going on in his mind; Lucian wanted to be let out.
"Stay in there, little bunny. What's about to happen is not something a softie like you can withstand", Azrael argued as he fought to regain control of his, or should I say their body.
It's already been a year since he was brought to this hell hole, three hundred and sixty five days, fighting to survive every single day. At first, Lucian hoped that he would be saved by his mother or the father he never met, anyone, but reality proved him wrong and then Azrael was created in order to ensure their survival. Today, he was going to get out of here, dead or alive.
Azrael's door slid open revealing a warden tagged No. 7.
"Follow me", he commanded.
Azrael smirked, 'It's showtime'.