Day Three: Early Morning

[Zangya]

The mangled form of the Ader lay limp against the side of the hospital building. She looked up and saw the large, glowing red cross the stood atop the rather high overhang, and it immediately occurred to her that the building she was near was the one she needed. She knew that suitable medical supplies would not be found here—but at least, perhaps, she could find a bed that she could rest in.

Comfort had become a blessing to the jade woman over the past two days—she had learned the price of living in the wild, something she hadn’t experienced for too long during her last trip here, to this island. This experience… it was something totally different, something totally unfamiliar. After only two days—after only forty-eight hours, perhaps one or two more—she had come to think of this place as a home away from home, as a place that she could use to better herself; the planet Dante, while brutal and full of many methods of torturing its inhabitants, could be kind at times.

Of course, this kindness was given rarely, and whom it was given to happened to be based purely upon luck, much like the rest of the competition. The woman limped miserably into the infirmary, climbing the steps up to the upper levels, after looking at a sign that directed her up to the residential area of the hospital. The facility was desolate, and had been abandoned for some time; no trace of an evacuation could be found, though. It seemed as though the prestige of the place had just dissolved over time, leaving it an empty shell.

It was the only building in the city left unscathed by whatever battle had rocked the rest of the once glorious metropolis.

She walked lamely into one of the vacant hospital rooms, and quickly collapsed down onto the bed, letting the blood from her wounds soak into the rumpled sheets of the comfortable hospital bed. It was not long until she had soaked them almost fully with the crimson liquid, and was bathing in a pool of her own blood. Perhaps that is an exaggeration, but it seemed like it to her. Her head injury from before combined with this new curse just made her senses die on her.

Her vision blurred, and slowly, she drifted in and out of consciousness; it felt strange, the feeling that death was suddenly overwhelming her. “I suppose I’ll be joining you soon, Celipa,” Zangya muttered, curling up inside the blankets. Her mind was beginning to fail her, and her body felt limper than before—she could feel the aura of death coming closer, and slowly, she reached out towards the window she somehow knew he would enter from, and called out to him blindly in the dark rooms of the hospital.

“KILL ME!” she cried, reaching out and clasping her fingers together into a fist, “TAKE ME AWAY!” she said, leaping from the bed and climbing to the window. She lunged forward, sending half of her body outwards, reaching into the sky. “I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE!” she called out, but her cries fell on deaf ears. “I WANT TO DIE!”

This last scream pierced the ears of all of the island’s inhabitants. She knew that Karl Jak heard. She knew the viewers heard. She knew Aero and Kirano, wherever they were, heard. She knew Celipa heard. She knew Seventeen heard. She knew Violet and Bardock heard. And Raditzu and Eighteen and Reijin and Minoshia and Bojack and Bubb Rubb and Petunia and Jack Sparrow and Retane and Tapion and Vazko and Ruhiel and Raspberry and Warako and Lethe and Mowgli and Paragus and Talys and Uno and Orion and Bujin and Burter and Hellfighter Seventeen has heard. And she knew that Gokua had heard.

Her voice was lost. Her cries had fallen on deaf ears, and now she died with a passion… a passion that would be embodied in her for years to come after this competition was over. She slipped from her perch, and fell down the side of the building, attempting to catch herself on some form of windowsill of something—but no help came, no assistance, no divine providence came to save her.

She was falling into death’s door. She knew it. She could feel it, and then suddenly, it stopped. She stopped. In mid-air, Zangya floated—her mind felt lofty, her senses slowly rushing into her head. She stood upright on the seemingly solid ground that happened to be invisible below her, and looked at herself. She was healed, she was okay. A blue aura erupted around her, signifying that she was just being empowered by her recent failures.

And then suddenly, she had returned to the hospital bed, her expression changed from one of despair to one of strength. The warmth had rushed back into her features, and she sat down. She was not healed—she was still cut, she was still bruised, and she was still broken, but these wounds were only physical and cosmetic—they only appeared on the outside.

On the inside, Zangya felt strong.