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Initiation

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“Well, do you want to or not?” An evil glow filled her grey eyes, her long pointy nose casting a shadow across her face, her dark black hair messily lying over her vampire-pale shoulders.
The room was dark, only eerie light coming from a street lamp through a shattered old window. It gave the abandoned hotel a disturbingly creepy vibe. I felt like we were the only two people there; it was so quiet and lonely. Yet I could sense the other people, I could sense the darkness coursing through their veins. They were here to hurt me…but that was not going to happen.


She glared at me through the ice of her eyes. I nodded my head, signaling yes.


“Do you know how to talk?!” She screamed, annoyance flashed over her face.


“Yes,” I replied as calmly as I could muster, “but only if I have to.”


“When talking to me—ever—you must always reply. Unless I tell you not to.” Hatred gleamed in her eyes. A witch-like smile spread across her face as she stared me down. “You know what to do. Don’t die, win the fight, oh,” she turned to leave, “you better be as good as you say, because if you’re not, then you do have to die.” She sat on a moth eaten red velvet couch, crossed her right leg over her left; black combat boots fading in the shadows, it looked as though she had no feet. Her torn skirt fell over her legs. She crossed her arms over her black and dark grey striped shirt and stared at me. “Go.” She said simply and the air filled with screams.


People were coming at me from all directions, weapons of all kinds in hand. They wanted to see blood but it wasn’t going to be mine. I knew how to fight; they stood no chance against me. If they wanted blood, it was going to have to come from their own flesh.


A tall boy, about fifteen swung a punch at me; I quickly sidestepped it and gave him a sharp kick to the stomach. He fell back, the air knocked out of him. It was around fifty to one, but I could take a punch. A girl, only about eight, wildly jumped atop of me. I grabbed the girl’s arms and flipped her over my head. She landed on the ground, out cold. I felt sorry for her being so young in a very powerful and ruthless gang. A knife was hurled at me, cutting my shirt sleeve down the length of my arm, almost cutting into me.
Someone slipped my radar and punched me in the stomach; I fell to the ground; people came from all directions; knocking the air out of me, beating me to the blood. I could barley breathe; there were white spots in my vision. I was going to pass out. No. I thought, I won’t, I will show how powerful I am; they can’t see that I have a weakness. I bounced up, going dizzy for only seconds. Soon enough I was back into a groove, I kicked, flipped, punched, and ran; all so many times. I knocked bodies on top of bodies that lay on the floor; a grimy, blood stained, what used to be a white, carpet. I was winning so far. I heard a loud thud as a table leg was ripped off the collapsing table. A girl came at me with it…somehow I managed to get it out of her hand and hit her on top of the head, hard enough to knock her out; I wasn’t going to be a killer. Suddenly a beefy, firm, powerful arm wrapped around my neck, lifting me into the air. I gasped for breath, but none came. I clawed at his skin, drawing blood…the grip would not loosen. The white spots came back, clouding my vision; soon, I could see nothing. I was slowly dying.
I started flailing my arms and legs, doing anything I could to hit my attacker; I felt my fist smack against something. He fell to the ground. I was on my knees, gasping for air; my sun-kissed hair covering my pale face. I was vulnerable to anything, yet the remaining people did not lunge at me, they didn’t come running to make the final blow. They just stood there, staring as if in a daze, at me and my fallen opponent. I heard a faint clap. Turning to find the person who made the sound, I saw all the damage that I had caused. At least twenty-five bodies lay fallen on the bloody floor. I looked up from the devastation to see her, unmoved from the spot she last sat down, applauding.


“I underestimated you, Bat,” she called me by my gang-name. “You are a good fighter. You took out our best.” She pointed to the person who attacked me with a long, pointy, claw like finger. He had extremely short buzzed cut blonde hair, pale skin with a long scar running across his face. His figure was built completely of muscle; he must’ve been at least nineteen years old and eleven inches taller than me. It was a miracle that I survived his attack. “Bone! Get up!” She yelled; it was no use, he was knocked out. She stared at me, a gruesome grin spreading across her face. “Well Bat…welcome to Black Bullet. You can call me Trigger, I’m the leader.” She stalked away, out of the pain and injury in the abandoned lobby, as if it was nothing more than a bruise.


That was how I first got into Black Bullet, how I entered a new family and home. How I entered violence and pain, even death. But I didn’t know that, not until that dreadful night months ago.




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