Propmt: A Wikipedia page. Mine was the plot for Battle Royale.

My palms are sweating even though I wipe them against my slacks every five seconds. Soon the fabric is saturated with sweat, the material coarse against my damp palms.  Khaki pants, a sweater vest with a tie tucked in, what was mom thinking?

Everyone besides me is dressed for war. Cog smirks and runs a hand through his spiked hair, which surely leaves a mess of grease on his palms, and Brakken has gone so far to wear combat boots and camouflage pants. Not everyone is ready for this, though. I see a few girls trembling at their posts, knees knocking together under their ridiculous skirts. 

Marcel makes everyone look like a coward, though. She's posted next to me, hands clenching and unclenching in a sinister grasping gesture that shows she's ready to drain the life out of us. Her knee-high boots are flecked with mud and a red substance I don't want to guess at, wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut away to reveal brawny arm muscles that would put any guy to shame. A flash of light catches on something in her hair and I realize she's tied her hair with wire. 

All the better to strangle you with, my dear.

She catches me watching and flashes me a smile, revealing crooked tombstone teeth. "What'cha starin' at, pretty boy?"

I mutter something incomprehensible and turn away, but Marcel isn't done yet. She bares a grimace-like smile, not unlike a predator stalking its prey.

"What, not ready for this yet? The game's easy."

"The game's deadly." I snap back, and Marcel simply shrugs, like life and death are inconsequential to her.

"Natural  selection, baby. The weak don't survive." She smirks, pointing  a finger at a girl in the distance who's visibly trembling. I see a crescent moon of dirt and grime under her nail as she gestures. "See Pedal over there? Little worm-infested low-rez trash digger won't last a second."

Marcel would probably spit out a few more oaths, but a bell gongs above us and the crows gets on its feet, roaring and screaming. I'm blinded by the onslaught of light from the camera flashes and the floodlights trained on us. A bloodred light pours down on me and my vision sparkles in a haze of crimson. 

"Welcome to the Purge, ladies and gentlemen!" An anonymous announcer roars, voice filling the stadium until my legs tremble with each waver of his timbre. "You know the rules, but I'm gonna tell 'em again, because I wanna!"

A few people groan and Marcel shifts from foot to foot, beady eyes trained at the crowd. I wipe my hands on my pants again, aware that I"m staining the fabric, but I don't care. My nerves are frazzled and I have to force my hands to keep still.

"We want the best to stick around here. Marz is just small, baby! If you can stick around, you can stick around, if you know what I mean. And you losers down there, remember the rules, 'kay? No intentional killin', maimin', cheatin', and most of all... get out there and show us who's boss!"

The walls around our small arena rise up at least a hundred feet, solid stone and impassive. Ringing the arena are grandstands packed with people of every sort, stature and build all clamoring and waving their meaty fists in the air.

All clamoring for blood.

The day isn't especially warm, but the heat of thousands of citizens packed together in one tight area brings the air to a sweltering boil. If I crane my neck back far enough I can see the rippling air above the crowd and realize it must be unbearable up in the stands.

Marcel clears her throat and I turn to her, tensing, but instead she just cocks her head to the side and smiles at me. "I've taken a liking to you, Axle." She smirks. "Don't make me want to kill you, okay?"

I nod swiftly, quickly focusing back on the center of the arena, a fixed point to focus on so I don't puke my guts all over my nice slacks.

A low rumbling echoes through the arena and a large slab of the wall rises a few feet. From the gap walks a small collection of servants, each wearing the stiff white collars that designate their lower class. Prisoners of war, I assume, or children of lawbreakers. Either way, I can't help sympathizing for them, seeing as they hold the key to whether I live or die.

Slowly they work their way around the scores of students that line the arena, handing out a paper slip to each. Everyone reacts differently when they see it -- some burst into tears, some pump their fists in the air, eleated, one some simply let their hands hang by their sides, solemn. I don't think the servants could be any slower, each second elongating into an infinity as they move steadily closer.

Marcel shares my irritation, tapping her foot and letting out a low growl. The servant on my left is faster than the one on my right, and I hear her arguing with another student.

"Please, let me pick another one, please!" The boy sobs, clinging the the servant's wrists. She politely shrugs him off, shaking her head. I don't think I've ever seen anyone with a face so blank, so inexpressive. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot." She replies, bowing her head.

"You've got to understand me, I'll die with this! I can't use a nail to defend myself!" He begs, but she's already moved on to the next student.

Before the Purge each student is given an item to defend themselves with in the arena. The usefulness of these items varies from nails to swords or other weapons of destruction. The mere thought of it makes me even more nervous and I feel the sheen of sweat appear on my hands again. Two more people to go and it'll be my turn.

Marcel growls again and tightens her ponytail, causing the wire to flash again. I watch as she picks at a dirty nail. "When will they get to us, huh?"

Finally the servant girl steps in front of me and I can get a closer look at her features. Hair pulled back in a tight bun, eyes lined in the slightest semblance of makeup, a face so plain I forget what she looks like every time I blink. She reaches into a pocket of her apron-like smock and holds out a single slip of paper to me, hand steady and unwavering compared to my trembling one. 

In one swift motion I take my slip of paper and turn it over, eyes blurring as I watch the type fade in and out of my vision, flickering through the red-tinted haze. After blinking rapidly the words take form and hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable.

A rotting board. A maggot. Maybe even nothing.

As I scrutinize the single word every fraction of doubt drains from me, replaced with sweet relief.

Pistol. 

Marcel lets out a low groan next to me when she reads her own paper, then turns to me with frowns furrowed. Her hands are shaking with rage, which certainly isn't a good sign. I'll have to be sure to run away from her when the gong rings again.

"Cell phone." She seethes, then tosses the paper at her feet, crushing it under the sole of her boot. "I'll just strangle them with my bare hands." Her eyes take on a dangerous light and I look away sharply, praying I won't be her first victim. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her unwind the wire from her ponytail slowly, coiling the wire around her hands and snapping it out again. As subtly as I can I edge to the left away from the girl. 

The servant girls return, much faster this time and with a large box in each of their arms. Although I can only assume the load they bear is heavy the girls don't appear to strain under the weight. Quickly they hand out the tools to each student. The cold handle of the pistol is crammed into my grasp, my sweat pooling on the metal. 

I don't know how to fire a gun, since I've never had to before, but quickly I cock back the top of the weapon and feel the satisfied click that the gun is ready to fire. Marcel snarls next to me and glowers at the small bit of plastic in her hand, and I wonder for a moment if she'll smash it under her heel as well.

Once every student has collected their weapons the servants dart away, students readying themselves, preparing for the gong to sound. A low whir draws my attention and I see Marcel spinning her wire around her hands, eyes narrowed to slits. The words of the announcer buzz through my head and suddenly his voice is split by the peal of a gong -- the signal for us to begin. 

With a cry I dart away from Marcel, sprinting to the side where the least number of people are gathered. Already the signs of agony echo through the arena, the crack of a gunshot, the scream of a girl, high and shrill. A slam into a wiry boy and we tumble to the ground, grappling at each other to stand. He rises first and brandishes his pocketknife, but I raise my pistol and point it between his eyes.

"Don't make me kill you." I hiss, and the kid gets the message and runs off.

As I watch packs of students band together, skirting around students and holding their tools forward, ranging from an impressive spear to an index card. I guess the worst wounds the latter can inflict are papercuts.

Someone tackles me from behind and a hand lashes across my face, the burn of pain crackling across my body as I crash to the sandy arena floor. Lunging out with one leg, I kick my attacker in the teeth, forcing him or her away from me. When I look up I see a wily girl grinning at me with a bloodied smile. Blood pumps from her nose, but she doesn't seem to mind as she raises her knife and preparest o gut me, but before she can I raise my gun and fire. My aim is slightly off and the bullet punctures her shoulder, knocking her back onto the ground, and I scurry away from her as fast as possible, her insane gaze boring into me as I hurry away. 

"A new victim!" One of the members of a pack screeches, and I sprint away before they can come at me. The section of the arena I run into is filled with scattered fights and scared screaming students. Some press their backs against the wall, holding their tools forward to defend themselves with, while others try to take better weapons from their fellow students, throwing punches and snapping teeth. 

I know the Purge will end when the timer runs out, which is approximately ten minutes. How much time has passed now? I stand next to an equally scared-looking boy, whose hair hangs over his eyebrows, and hold my pistol forward, a sign that he hopefully interprets as a gesture that I don't want to hurt him.

"Name's Axle. You?" I ask through panting breaths, and his terrified eyes flash to me and then to my gun. He holds out his own tool, a Taser, although he keeps it deactivated.

"Chain. I do't want to die." He adds, almost as an afterthought, and in an insane moment I laugh. 

"Me either. How long have we been in here?" I ask, and Chain takes a moment to glance at his watch. It's giant, covered in frilly gold and mother-of-pearl inlay. The very sight of the watch would make any half-sane kid in the arena kill him for it.

"Seven minutes." He mutters, and I let out a slow breath. "You look rough, mate."

I raise a hand to my face, the one not holding my pistol, and feel wet blood spread over my fingers, trickling towards my collar. The flashes of the spotlights and the cameras suddenly make me feel woozy and I lean against the wall, breathing hard, the air suddenly very scarce.

"Hey, hey. Stay calm, okay? Them servin' ladies will fix us up after we prove ourselves or some bullshit." Chain shivers, eyes again darting to me. "Hey, stick it out, okay? We'll last it out. Look out!"

A spear shatters the stone of the wall above our heads, haphazardly thrown from who knows where. The fragments of stone dust my collar and I brush them off weakly, the world spinning in and out of focus. 

"Get up, get up! If they see you're weak they'll come for you and paint the walls with your guts." 

Carefully I stand, each second humming in my head, waiting for the gong, Chain's words running through my mind over the buzz of pain and exhaustion. A see a shape approach, wielding some sort of weapon, and I mindlessly fire. 

The gong sounds, its bell peal rich and high in my ears, and I slump to the ground, feeling the sand sink into my face, mingle with the blood, the grit getting into my eyes and mixing with fresh tears. A hand grabs my arm and lifts me up, and a wave of pain racks my body before I slip into an unconscious oblivion. 

To be continued...