Season 20, Episode 4 Come Hell… and High Water
“Come Hell… and High Water”
It’s fucking sabotage!” Hartt barked. “What about the rules?!”
“This is a TV show, not the NCAA,” Zara replied calmly, Troy by her side. “Producers can legally adjust the format at their discretion as long as we don’t target specific contestants, and this decision was made well before a winning team was declared.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Do you want to see the time-stamped emails with the network? The only ‘rule’ of Endeavor is that you’re in the game unless you’re eliminated, violate contract, or choose to depart. Would you like to do the latter?”
“You’d be up shit’s creek then,” he snarled. “Waste of a flashy Trial.”
“Not really,” Troy mused. “It just confirms you’re so scared of Luke you quit the show.”
“I’m not scared of that washed-up old man!”
“Then beat him or leave,” Zara said flatly. “The van’s right there.”
Foiled, he and Chrissy stalked toward the terrified Italian PA who held our swimsuits for the competition. Melange and I had already dressed, so I cornered PB while I had the chance. “Did you know this would happen?”
“I certainly didn’t think it would happen tonight.”
Melange swiftly joined our huddle. “Wait, what? Don’t say you inceptioned this…”
PB sighed. “I told Troy I wanted to talk to Luke privately about Jiamin. As bait.”
Her jaw dropped, genuinely shocked. “You talked about the engagement?”
“Weren’t you and Jiamin common knowledge to everyone but me?” I asked.
“I’ve never commented about our engagement on camera though. That’s been my nonnegotiable and my only leverage for a rainy day. I needed a Trojan horse, pun partially intended, to pitch you two battling your nemeses. Still, I figured we’d get a little warning.”
Melange shook her head in awe. “You really are one twisted sister.”
“You aren’t mad, are you?” he asked me.
I hesitated, recalling the countless times Barnes had manipulated me without my even realizing it. “I just wish you’d explained afterward what you were planning.”
“If it went nowhere, I figured no harm done. If it happened, I knew you’d take the shot.”
“But if you were sure it was happening?”
“Obviously I’d have told you.” His head cocked, looking almost hurt I’d think otherwise.
For now, I chose to believe him; I had more immediate concerns.
The sacks we’d collected earlier had been arranged in four equal piles, and we’d soon learn why they’d been so heavy.
As the cameras rolled, Ecklund gave the mission.
“Inside the bags are metal puzzle pieces you’ll assemble at the bottom of this tank.
Don’t worry, they’re magnetized so they’ll lock in.
All players have assigned quadrants, which combined make one whole image.
For example, Hartt has the top left corner, and Luke has the bottom right.
To keep it interesting, you each have twenty-five pieces…
but they might not be the twenty-five you need,” he teased.
“So if somebody has your pieces, you know what to do.”
And we had a headbanger after all.
Zara chimed in off camera. “You can’t steal pieces once someone’s correctly claimed them, and you can’t touch anybody on their ladder. I don’t want broken ankles.”
A thought occurred, and I raised my hand. “Are other parts of the Arena out of bounds?”
She paused, undeniably curious. “Anywhere else is fair game.”
We stood on each side of the tank, bags in hand.
I inhaled, summoning the little stamina I had left.
Fleeting currents of numbness flickered in my aching feet while I watched Hartt stretch, biceps bursting as he dragged each arm across his broad, forested chest. For all his bigotry and ego, I couldn’t deny Hartt’s athleticism.
But if I couldn’t beat that arrogant ogre, I didn’t deserve to stay anyway.
When the horn sounded, I poured my metal pieces onto the dirt floor only to learn Erika was a prophet. The Garden of Earthly Delights.
The others hurried toward the tank, puzzle pieces in hand. Big mistake.
“Melange!” I waved her over. “Let’s figure this out on dry land first…”
I laid out our two sections, discerning which pieces belonged to whom. Combined, we had the painting’s bottom half. Melange stared over my shoulder. “Is it medieval porn?”
There had to be a trick to solving this.
Zara kept things fair, so it couldn’t be random.
Then I realized we each had one piece from the other three sections, thus missing three of our own.
I handed Chrissy’s and Hartt’s pieces to Melange.
“These are theirs. Hide them in the Arena as far away as possible so they have to leave the tank to get them. Insurance policy.”
“Using what’s in bounds. You’re brilliant.”
As I arranged our puzzles for transfer to the tank in sections, Melange took off with the spares, but her uneven gait betrayed her exhaustion. She’d clearly struggle to install her puzzle at the bottom of the tank, but there was one task for which she’d always summon her reserves…
“Go steal our pieces from Chrissy,” I said when she returned. “Erika will tell you what to grab. In the meantime, I’ll install both our puzzles and then get our other pieces from Hartt.”
She shook her head, almost dazed. “Luke, you can’t do all that for me.”
I faced Melange, dust on her cheeks and her platinum locks drenched in sweat. “You took a chance on me before anyone else here, and I’m not losing you. Now go!”
She reluctantly nodded, drawing herself up.
As I started shuttling pieces up my ladder, Melange scaled hers and dove in, a missile aimed at Chrissy.
After ferrying roughly a hundred pounds of puzzle to the tank between mine and Melange’s combined pieces, I gasped when pinpricks of rain suddenly cascaded across the surface, the incessant heat finally breaking.
I jumped in to assemble Melange’s puzzle first, my fatigued lungs feeling more and more blistered with each dive to the bottom. Thankfully, Hartt remained baffled by the puzzle, the precipitation not doing him any favors.
The rain was pounding by the time I began installing my own portion, and I soon heard a cry of victory from the neighboring quadrant with its caterwauling cousins. Melange triumphantly tossed a piece to me. “It’s mine!” I confirmed.
She nodded and rebaptized Chrissy, who sputtered breathless vulgarities.
“Holy shit!” Hartt suddenly cried, successfully linking three pieces. Our buffer was dwindling, and the insurance policy would be our last line of defense.
Across the tank, Melange wrestled the other piece from Chrissy, who made a fleeting grasp for Melange’s foot, but Melange kicked her away. “Back off, Big Bitch!”
“I’m almost done,” I assured her when she resurfaced from placing her piece. “I’ll get your last piece from Hartt in a sec.”
I frantically took my remaining pieces down, trying not to notice Hartt spinning like a bulbous otter as he brought his own pieces to the floor. I was only missing one piece, and Hartt had it along with Melange’s. I had to attack now.
I burst upward, only to hear Hartt screaming to the cast, “Where are my pieces?!”
“They hide in Arena!” Aspen’s fractured English echoed. “We try telling you, man!”
Hartt’s murderous eyes found me as I lunged for our pieces, abandoned on the tank ledge. I sent Melange’s piece sailing toward her, but right as my fingers grazed mine, Hartt’s forearm crushed my throat. He wrapped himself around me and dunked us, both clutching my piece.
Underwater, I saw Melange finish her image, a merciful horn echoing through the dull, bleak silence beneath the surface. At least one of us was safe.
Hartt launched up for air, and I swallowed a mouthful of water along with precious wisps of oxygen, the pair of us still locked in combat.
Greta directed her weeping, now-eliminated pal Chrissy toward the hidden pieces, if only to save Hartt.
Totally drained, Melange still rushed to waylay her cousin on my behalf, though Chrissy’s height worked to her advantage on land, allowing her to shove Melange off and haul all four missing pieces to the ledge for her man.
Seeing this, Hartt pinned me roughly against the tank and drove his knee into the center of my ass.
I emitted a dry airless cry as he ripped my puzzle piece away.
My body throbbed as he launched my puzzle piece across the increasingly swampy Arena, lost amid the lights and rain. Melange, slathered in mud from pursuing Chrissy, chased after it. “Luke, he hasn’t touched his piece yet!” PB screamed. “Steal it!”
I strained across the ledge for Hartt’s final piece, but he beat me there, raising it high like a scythe. “Suck my dick, faggot,” he spat, slashing it across my face, new wounds cutting along the grooves of the old, before he shoved my head beneath the frothing waves.
I’d actually never been called that before.
At least not to my face. Behind my back maybe, in the hormone-drenched fog of the middle school locker room after practice or at some Beltway fundraiser, likely tossed in our wake as Barnes and I walked to the car.
It was delivered with utmost contempt. But it felt undeniable.
Pirouetting strands of red wafted from my cheek as I drifted above the demons and their ribald dances.
Perhaps this was the inevitable destination to which I’d conscripted myself—ever since I’d trusted Barnes, ever since I’d betrayed Imogen, ever since I’d destroyed Arjun, ever since I’d abandoned my children, ever since I’d become me: the bloated dilettante, floating bloody in a pool on national television, the faggot who’d abetted the undoing of everything and everyone he should have protected.
When gravity lifted me to the surface, the Devils were cheering, the pack serenading their alpha. Hartt beat his hairy chest, teeth bared in grotesque celebration.
Melange cradled my puzzle piece forlornly, and I saw Shawn restrained by Erika and PB, clearly trying to deliver retribution for Hartt’s slur. I was heartened by the gesture, but I only sought one face. I found Imogen, her eyes wide and determined, as she mouthed, “No horn.”
No horn? I noticed then two pieces on the ledge, ostensibly left over from Chrissy’s uncompleted quadrant… One was unmistakably from Hartt’s puzzle. He’d inserted the incorrect piece, and this Trial was still live.
I rapidly grabbed both pieces and flung them over the side of the tank.
“Melange, throw him his piece!” Imogen shouted, now at maximum volume. Heads whipped in her direction, but Melange gaped, not following. “Do it!”
Melange tossed me the piece, and Hartt’s face fell with understanding.
With one last breath, I plunged beneath. Hartt dove after, crashing into my side, but I was ready this time. My elbow viciously stabbed his gut, and I shoved my last piece in place before swimming upward, answering the ghostly summons of that single plaintive horn.
Hartt screamed about lawsuits as he was escorted off set, Chrissy limping behind like a bedraggled bird. Meanwhile, Zara brought me to the EMT to examine my face, Troy flitting nearby. “How long will the gash take to heal?” he asked nervously.
“What’s one more scar?” I replied. “At least I got something out of this one.”
“And not even any stitches,” Zara noted, and I blushed to see respect glint in her eyes.
Once we reassembled, Melange wrapped me in a tight hug. “My busted blond behind would be gone without you.”
“You looked out for me too.”
“Not the same,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
“What a night!” Ecklund applauded when filming resumed. “Luke and Melange, that was one of the most epic Trials ever. You demonstrated partnership like I haven’t seen in ages. But we’re about to see a whole lot more, because after twenty seasons, we’re switching things up…”
Ecklund produced two burlap sacks, much like the ones that had tormented us for hours already. “We’re leaving the teams in Italy because… you’re all flying to CHINA! As PAIRS!”
Every jaw swung. There had never been a season of Endeavor that wasn’t team-based; even I knew they hadn’t altered that formula.
It wasn’t hard to imagine this reboot yielding considerable trouble.
Shawn might be chained to Greta, or PB reunited with Jiamin.
All fourteen of us remaining were in terra incognita, no idea how this would affect voting, alliances, anything.
“Luke and Melange, as the Trial winners, you’ll select partners first,” Ecklund continued.
“I pick Luke,” Melange answered instantly. “But I’m guessing it’s not that easy.”
“No, you’ll choose a member of the opposite sex at random.”
Melange eyed Ecklund’s two bags warily, then turned to me. “After you.”
Every shred of triumph dissipated when I reached into the satchel of women’s names. The pieces felt like smooth dominoes, no markings, no hints. I sighed a tiny prayer for the best outcome, whatever that might be, and blindly pulled a tile out…
A relieved smile broke across my face. However, she looked sick, as if she already knew her name would be the one emblazoned on that plastic.
As Ecklund bombastically sang her name, Imogen turned her back—to me, to the cameras, to everyone—and began to sob, her hand suffocating gasps.
Cast and crew alike shifted uneasily, surprised by such a visceral reaction from her of all people. While Ecklund fought to salvage things, my bare feet sank deeper and deeper into the rain-drenched mud, as if nothing could stop the earth from swallowing them whole.