"Wake up. Aidren, wake up." The words echoed in my head. I sat up, momentarily confused from the dream, or was it a memory? I must have fallen asleep while I was waiting. I didn't know if it was a dream or a memory, but I did know that it had plagued me consistently for the four years that I’ve been in camp. "The first fight is over, Jace won, of course," said the boy standing in the hallway leading to the gym. "Of course," I replied, looking over to him. It was John, who was the same age as me, seventeen and he was one of the kids I grew up with at this camp. John’s skin was the same dark cordovan like tanned leather that he always had. At seventeen, like me, his lanky frame was just as skinny as it had been on our first day, but it was mostly hidden by a too-large camouflage patterned uniform. On his face sat thick glasses to help his eyesight. Unfortunately, they didn't do much since they were old and he had them for the entire four years we had lived there. His build and style of clothing were exactly like everyone else in the camp, and that included me. I stood up and shook the sleep out of my limbs. It was time for my match. I walked out of the locker room with John trailing behind me. I walked down a short hallway and into the gym. Lining what were once side-by-side basketball courts was a waist-high, green mesh fence that was used as the limits of the arena. To one side of the make-shift arena and sitting against the wall were three sets of bleachers. This was a small gym, and the grey aluminum bleachers only went up about five rows. Two of the bleachers were filled with kids that were rooting for my opponent. Their clothes were no different from mine, but they all had grayish-silver armbands wrapped around their left bicep. On the farthest edge of the last bleacher was a small smattering of kids who were rooting for me or at least were supposed to be rooting for me. Besides the difference of armbands, theirs and mine were a sickly green, the moods between the bleacher groups were completely the opposite. Our two groups didn't get along so well, most of the kids with grey armbands considered us inferior to them, and they treated us that way. The cadre seemed to mimic this sentiment, but I often thought it was the other way around. In total, a couple hundred kids were sitting in the bleachers, and that was the limit of our camp. Unless there was a detail that had to be completed, attendance to the matches was mandatory. I turned my attention away from the bleachers and focused on my battlespace and opponent. On either side of the court were piles of material that my opponent or I could use. One pile consisted of scrap metal, and the other was wood of different shapes and sizes. I was able to choose the wood I wanted, so I knew all the pieces my pile contained, and as I got closer to it, I spotted the piece I wanted. A short distance from my pile, there was a green square made with tape, and I stepped inside of it and turned to face my opponent. He was already standing in a similar box near to the pile of metal and facing me with a cocky grin on his face. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and prepared to wipe that smile off his face. "Fight!" One of the cadre members yelled, a beefy man with dark skin and a constant scowl on his face. He's a squad leader for one of the metal type groups, and just like the majority of the Metalheads, he was a bully and liked yelling at us cadets in the Carpenter group a lot. I wouldn't mind so much if it weren't for Sergeant Michel not really doing anything about it. Sergeant Michel said he would talk to the other cadre members and scolded us for being so "thin-skinned" that our feelings would get hurt by it, but nothing ever changed after that either. At the declaration to start, I took off running for my pile of wood as my opponent ran to his pile of metal. The heaps of material, placed about thirty meters away from each other on opposite sides of the gym, are there for us to use and manipulate any way we can during the match. I reached my pile a split second before my opponent reached his. I grabbed four sticks of wood and looked over to my opponent to see what he was doing. As I suspected, he was using the metal to form armor around his body, which meant he would be stationary for another minute or so. He was smaller than me, but I knew that he was a little older, and as a Metalhead, or Welder as the cadre liked to call them, he was much tougher. He hadn't done so poorly in his fights, but he still hadn't managed to win. That was the real reason that his rank was so low and he was fighting me, the only wood type in the contest. Sergeant Michel taught us that sometimes winning a fight is just luck. I don't plan to win with luck though, because after watching some of the other matches, I've come up with a plan to beat him. He might just be slow at manipulation, but my opponent, Brad, if I recall, doesn't seem to be rushing or even too concerned about me since I'm a wood type, if he only knew the truth, maybe his battlefield awareness would be better. I started fusing two of the sticks I grabbed together side-by-side and end-to-end to make it longer and thicker. I then condensed it to make it more durable. A couple other kids did something similar once, and it was a good idea, but they just used it wrong afterward by attempting to swing it like a bat at their opponent. While I was making a staff, I began to run away from my opponent. I looked back to make sure that he saw me running, and just as I expected, he wasn't taking me seriously. He pointed and laughed at me before turning to yell at his friends on the sideline, I'm not sure what he was saying, but it was probably something derisive. We'll see who is laughing after this, I thought. After Brad finished his apparently hilarious joke, he went back to making his armor for protection. He really wasn't taking me seriously, and it was annoying me, but it was for a good reason. No Carpenter had won a fight against a Welder or won a fight at all. I kept condensing the staff to make it as sturdy as possible since I needed it to not break. With all the metal coating their bodies, Welders could get heavy. As I was condensing the staff, I changed the course of my run and started to circle around. I was hoping that Brad wouldn't bother with me until he was done, but if he did look to see where I was, I wanted to make it as difficult as possible. The problem with the other kids in my group when fighting was that they tried to do it like the Welders. They saw them make armor and swords and bats, and they tried to do the same thing. So when they continued to fight like the metal types and started bashing each other, there was no contest. I didn't bother with armor, as it would have just slowed me down. Also, since I'm not as tough, getting hit while wearing armor wouldn't help that much. I didn't need to worry about him looking up, he definitely didn't think I was a threat. When I was directly behind him, I turned sharply and began sprinting toward him. I could hear his buddies start to yell at him to watch out, but it was too late. Trying to keep as much momentum as I could, I stuck the staff in between his legs and continued to run. His knee buckled on one side, and the staff pushed back on the other, forcing him to fall backward. His naturally dense constitution and added weight from the metal caused him to hit the ground like a toppled refrigerator. I pivoted and pounced on top of him. I quickly made my staff grow points on the tip, which I pressed to his still exposed throat. "Yield," I said between large pants of breath. He gave up, and all the Carpenters who were there erupted in yells of excitement, while all the Metalheads were either struck dumb or had begun to boo. I didn't care. I offered my hand to my opponent, but he slapped it away. He let all the metal fall away as he got up, and he glared daggers at me. It didn't matter because that night I went back to a champion's reception. I didn't mind the poor sportsmanship; we all have a chip on our shoulders since being confined to the camp and told about our sickness. Plus, his loss wouldn't make him very popular within his own group. His popularity was the least of my concerns though. I threw the staff I made back into the pile and walked back to the locker room to cool off. John was waiting for me just at the entrance and he looked like his head was going to explode with excitement. As soon as I passed, he turned to follow me in. “Oh man, those Metalheads are so pissed right now. I can’t believe you beat that guy so quickly, the whole fight was only like thirty seconds. I don’t think I’ve seen a fight end that quickly, not even any of Jace’s fights.” It didn’t even sound as if he was breathing in between sentences. “Well, you know what Sergeant Michel says, prior planning prevents poor performance.” “Yeah, well-” “Thanks for being in my corner, by the way.” I interrupted and sat down hard on a small wooden bench. Even though the fight didn’t last very long, I was breathing hard and even shaking a little from the adrenaline still coursing through me.” “Yeah, sure, anything for the group,” he said a little hesitantly, “So did you think they will give you a ranking now?” “I’m a Carpenter, so I doubt it,” I shrugged. “But they usually wait for at least two wins, that’s what they do for the Welders, so I'll probably have to wait.” Then, I added inside my head, with a few more wins, I should be able to get into a squad for missions outside. “Anyway, I’m going to hit the shower real quick, then I’ll meet you in the room.” I really did appreciate John being in my corner, and that was one of the requirements for the fight. I wasn’t what anyone would call a people person and I usually kept to myself, but John was always friendly, maybe a little too chatty for me, but if it wasn’t for him, I would probably never talk to anyone. I felt a bit bad for dismissing him the way I did, but I couldn’t waste time on that now. I had to focus on my next fights and making the rank I needed to go out on perimeter guard and hopefully other missions. Then, I thought smiling to myself, I could begin the next phase of my plan.