A/N Why hello... It's been a long time, hasn't it? Welcome to No Signal! This is a story told in three POVs, just so you don't get surprised when the POV switches next chapter. Enjoy!

Serena

The floor is hard.

I, Serena Taylors, do not sleep on hard floors. Ever.

But apparently, hard floors aren't that bad because all I want to do is roll over and sleep for another hour until my mind clears up…

Never mind. Rolling on a hard floor is way too uncomfortable. Maybe I'll get up.

My mind suddenly clears—even before I open my eyes, I can tell that something is definitely wrong. I'm not in my room. I'm on a concrete floor. The only light source is a flickering lightbulb dangling from the low ceiling, so dim it barely helps at all with lighting.

I have to stifle a scream when I notice the bodies lying all around me. Are they dead? No, I hear breathing, even snoring. As disgusting as that is, it's better than a room of corpses. Where am I?

I slide my phone out of the secret flap in my right boot and open 4UM to see how many likes I got on my latest photo. As the only daughter of President Taylors of the United States of America, I'm guaranteed internet popularity—and I take full advantage of it.

The loading sign keeps its spinning until the error message pops up: "No Signal." That's strange; I'm supposed to have high-speed 6G data no matter where I go in the country. Then… could that mean that I'm not in America? I'm pretty sure I was still in D.C. last I checked.

The body a few feet to my left stirs, and the guy sits up, rubbing his eyes

"Hey," I whisper, tapping him on the shoulder, "Where am I?"

He jumps slightly. "Cavolo! Chi sei?" Though I can't see very clearly, I'm pretty sure it's fear that zips across his face as he looks around the horrible room.

"Um… Where am I?"

He turns to me. "I'm… not sure," he whispers back, with a distinct accent. It sounds like somewhere in Europe. "I don't like how this looks…"

I click open my phone again, but he reaches for it and I slap his hand. "What are you doing?"

He rubs his hand. "I'm sorry about that. But seriously, you should hide your phone."

I sigh. There's no signal anyway. "Is this… Europe?"

He shrugs. "For all I know, we're in America."

"Well," I say, "I'm from America, and I'm pretty sure this isn't it."

"That's funny. I'm from Italy, and I'm sure I'm not home either."

I groan. We're getting nowhere. We might as well get to know each other. "I'm Serena Taylors, daughter of the President of the United States."

"Really?"

He doesn't recognize me? "Of course! And who are you?"

"I'm Damiano Acardi, son of the Italian Prime Minister. This is really bad."

We must've been too loud because more of the people around us are stirring. I slide my phone back into its secure place. A female scream comes from the other side of the room. A male voice comforts her. It doesn't matter, though; everyone is awake now. It's an awkward silence—other than the two on the other side of the room, no one seems to know anyone.

There's a sudden cranking noise that silences the few conversations that had barely managed to start, and a crack opens in the wall, which turns out to be a huge metal gate. It opens up into a dingy, windowless warehouse, brighter than the room we're in but just as insufficient in any measure. A few descript picnic tables are clustered in a circle on the far end of the disgusting concrete floor, but they do nothing to make the room any nicer. Clearly, no one here has any kind of eye for beauty.

At least there's enough light for us to see each other better. It seems like a pretty diverse group, with people from around the world. No one looks young enough to be in middle school, and Damiano looks the oldest—twenty-two, at most. Since I'm on the topic of Damiano… Dang. If I were in charge of casting for 15 Fires, I'd cast him as the main love interest. Of course, if I were in charge of casting, I'd be the protagonist, but that'll never happen and all I can do is fantasize about it on my 4UM account… It is what it is.

A girl with wild, deep-brown hair gets off the ground and creeps towards the open gate, her eyes darting everywhere at once. She turns around for a second to see the rest of us, frozen in place.

"The rest of you too afraid to move?" she says, a scornful smile on her face despite clearly being afraid herself. Excuse you. When no one answers her, she laughs lightly and pokes her head into the warehouse. "Hello?"

The only answer she receives is the haunting echo of her voice, but before she takes another step, someone else protests.

"Stop!" a girl says. Since she's hidden in the back corner, the shadows hide most of her except for her wavy blonde hair. Like everyone else I've heard here, her accent also marks her as not from America. "It might be a trap!"

The wild-haired girl shrugs. "True, but it doesn't seem like any of us know anything. Might as well try, right?"

The other girl hesitates. "I don't know… I just have a very bad feeling."

The first girl cocks her head. "You seem like you know something the rest of us don't."

"No— I'm just as confused as you are."

"Then why would you immediately suspect a trap?"

"Well… it's just a feeling."

"I'm still going to try. We can't stay in this concrete closet forever." She takes a careful step into the warehouse, and then another. Other than her footsteps ringing and bouncing around the place, nothing happens. "It seems okay."

I look to Damiano, who shrugs and gets up himself. "I guess we go?"

"Sure." I follow, brushing the nasty dust off my jeans. "Ugh. This place is so dirty!"

Damiano smiles. "Not clean enough for you, princess?"

I glare at him, but he's already entering the warehouse. Here in the light, I can see the footprints my shoes leave in the dust. "It looks like this hasn't been cleaned in ages…"

The rest of the people follow us out. I'd say there's about twenty about us, with a roughly equal number of girls and guys.

"Man, this feels like a reality show," a black guy says. Wait… can it be? No way…

"Marcus Hendricks?" I blurt out. "The Marcus Hendricks?" This is a dream come true—this has to be some kind of reaction video for his channel! Oh. My. Gosh. We're breathing the same air!

His eyes light up. "You recognize me?"

"Of course!" I say, "I've watched every single video!" That's actually an understatement. I've watched every video, shared every post on 4UM, and tried every brand he's recommended.

"You know, this would make a really interesting video."

So... this isn't a video? Nah, he's got to be faking it. But this doesn't feel like a video... everything's too crazy for it. And any cameras in this warehouse wouldn't have a good shot of any of our faces. But if this isn't a video, then what is it?

The blonde crosses her arms. "How can you be thinking about videos right now? We're all going to die."

Wild hair wheels around from whatever she was doing. "You know something."

"I didn't say anything."

"But you're the only person that seems to have any clue what's going on."

The blonde just stares back, refusing to utter a single word.

Another whirring suddenly fills the air and the wall on the opposite side of the room opens, much like the gate we just came out of. A man wheels a cart in, his face covered by some sort of mask. From where we are, it's hard to make out what's on the cart…

"Hey!" wild-hair shouts. The guy ignores her and exits. Wild-hair runs after him—and she's fast—but the wall closes before she can get there. Huffing, she curses under her breath. "We still don't know anything."

"What's on the cart?" Damiano calls.

The girl takes a few steps closer to the cart. "It's… food. Packaged sandwiches."

"Is it for us?" he calls back.

"How would I know?"

"You're the only one that's close enough to see."

The girl inspects the cart as the rest of us move over to the cluster of picnic tables. "There are twenty sandwiches."

Damiano quickly looks over the rest of us. "There are twenty of us too. I guess they are ours."

Blonde objects again, her pretty face cold as stone. "Maybe they're poisoned."

Wild-hair groans. "And you're still not telling us anything."

"Would you trust mysterious food?" the girl fires back.

There's a pause before she responds. "I guess not."

"Exactly."

Marcus reaches for one of the wrapped sandwiches anyway. "I'm seriously hungry though." When both girls look at him in shock, he shrugs. "Honestly, if whoever gave us these wanted us dead, they wouldn't go to the trouble of giving us food. We'd already been shot or decapitated or something."

The reasoning makes sense and I'm still hungry, so I take one too. It's a pretty hearty sandwich too, with two thick slices of bread, some meat, lettuce, and a mystery sauce. I'm still investigating the sauce when Damiano interrupts, calling from one of the picnic tables.

"Serena—you should come sit!"

I inspect the rough wood. "That'll give you splinters!"

"Not if you're careful."

"And it's so dusty!"

"Come on, princess. It's not that bad."

Everyone else has taken a sandwich—other than the blonde—and found seats at the tables. I guess I should too, then… I lightly run my finger over the wood to reassure myself and sit down.

Other than Damiano and me, there are three other people at the table, two girls and one guy. The girls are noticeably better dressed. For a moment, I stare at them. They stare back at me, and I avert my eyes to avoid making it awkward. Out of the corner of my eye, they all do the same.

Damiano interrupts the awkward silence perfectly. "Well then, we might as well get to know each other." Ugh, his accent is just perfect. "I'm Damiano."

"I'm Serena," I say, chiming in.

The first girl shrugs and laughs, flipping her also-blonde hair. "Hey—I'm Arielle." I swear I've seen her face somewhere…

The other girl seems less sociable, but she follows along. "I'm Justine." Gosh—I love her British accent! It's just like all the characters in that last show I was binging last… week? Month? What day even is it today? I reach for my phone, but suddenly all I see in my head is Damiano's warning. No, Serena. Not right now.

Arielle takes charge of the conversation, so I must've missed the guy's name. "So where are you guys from? I'm hearing all the different accents and I'm super curious—I'm from Canada, by the way."

"Italy," Damiano says.

"America," I say.

"The UK," Justine says.

"Vanuatu," the mystery guy says.

"Where is that?" I ask. "I've never heard of it."

"It's in the Pacific…" he says, thinking, "It's near Australia, if that helps."

Now I wish I paid more attention in Geography. I smile and nod anyway. "That's super cool. Like we're all from different places…"

Damiano, who's been staring at the table in thought, suddenly straightens. "That's weird, isn't it? We're all here from different corners of the world and none of us know where we are?"

Mystery guy nods. "It is weird… Do any of you remember what you were doing right before this?"

Arielle shakes her head. "That is funny… I can't remember at all…" She pauses for a moment. "I vaguely remember the smell of pancakes… and I still have the taste of syrup in my mouth so I must've been eating breakfast."

Justine smiles a little. "I think I remember reading a book…"

"Book?" I interrupt. "What book?"

"Below Twelve. Have you heard of it?"

No. Freaking. Way. "Yes! I love that book!"

Her eyes brighten a little. "Really? Not many people have heard of it."

"Of course I love it! Except for the part where the guy dies…"

"Really? That's my favorite part."

All of a sudden, I sense someone moving in from my right. I turn my head to find a poised Asian guy, standing at the head of the table.

He smiles. "Hello! I've been getting to know everyone here and I would like to meet all of you." Though his English has some traces of an accent, it's clear he's practiced a lot. "My name is Alan."

"Hey," I say. "Yeah, I'm Serena."

The rest of the people at the table introduce themselves, so I pay attention this time. Justine from the UK. Arielle from Canada. The mystery guy's name is Geoffrey, from… Vanu-however-you-spell-it. And of course, Damiano from Italy, with his bright and shining eyes…

"What do you all think is happening?" Alan says, "No one seems to know anything."

"All of us are super confused too," I say, "It's like there's a gap in our memory and the last thing we remember is reading or eating pancakes or something."

He raises his eyebrows in a question.

"At least that's what Arielle remembers," I explain. Arielle laughs again, and I go on. "It's so weird though. It's almost like that TV show where a whole bunch of guys wake up in a place and no one has any memory. Of course, we all have some memory but it doesn't help because it's not what happened just before we got here…"

I suddenly realize that practically everyone's beginning to get that glazed-over look that tells me I've been rambling again.

"I'm so sorry— I ramble sometimes and then I can't stop. Like…"

Alan interrupts. "Well, that's understandable." Rude? I was about to stop talking. At least, I think I was about finished.

There's a loud screeching sound that makes us all cover our ears. Apparently, there are speakers in the walls. A deep voice comes on.

"Attention, everyone."

I can't pinpoint the accent this time. It's not American… but it's almost American. Or is it? It's so neutral that it's impossible to tell.

"We hope you have been enjoying the food accommodations."

So we were right in assuming the sandwiches were ours. They weren't horrible, but…

The voice continues. "We're sure you've been wondering what you are here for, and it is our pleasure to let you know now."

All around the room, metal gates are slowly opening, filling the warehouse with whirring.

"Every single one of you is here because of something your parents have done."

Dad? What did he do? He's only… the President of the United States of America. And Damiano is also the son of the Prime Minister or whatever. And Arielle is familiar now—she's Arielle Lecroix, the daughter of the Canadian Prime Minister. Are all these people famous too?

The booming voice continues. "Unless your parents change their courses of action, you will all be sent to an arena, where you must kill each other until only one of you is left. Of course, if you do not wish to kill, you don't have to."

Suddenly, masked people holding guns enter from the gates in every direction.

"If you do not decide that you are the one that must survive, we will make the decision for you. Good luck."

Just as suddenly as they all entered, they all leave and the doors slam shut.

A/N Welp. This is what it is. Before I disappeared from the site, I planned this with two of my friends who are also on the site. I don't think either is still here now, though, so I'm finishing it... I guess?

Man, it's been a long time. Drop a review if you feel so inclined; let me know what y'all are thinking after this. Part of the author's fun is seeing the reader's reaction, after all. And if we used to talk on here, I'd be down to catch up.