Season 20, Episode 5 Im-ferno
“Im-ferno”
Our first morning in Shanghai, we had free time to wander the hotel’s tony neighborhood while Troy and Zara supervised a production meeting.
Bikes swirled around the lush planters and bronze statues of the Jing’an District, the sunlight ardently warring against the smog as I accompanied Melange, Erika, Shawn, and PB on this rare unchaperoned foray.
Imogen advised we divide and conquer, allowing her to reassure the Medals boys of our loyalty…
and me to keep an eye on PB. I felt awful, and Imogen’s suspicions of PB were getting harder to accept.
That morning I’d seen him slipping a tightly folded note underneath Jiamin’s pillow when I passed her empty room.
He clearly had more of a heart than even he wanted to acknowledge, and here I was about to screw him over.
Armed with directions from the concierge, Melange marched us toward the high-end Chinese designers, ready to alter her testimonial wardrobe to “imperial couture.”
Erika shook her head. “This seems like a great way to get accused of appropriation.”
“It’s only appropriation if you do it badly. Otherwise, it’s an homage.”
“Until you end up looking like Lucy and Ethel in the geisha house,” Erika chuckled.
PB openly wondered when we’d leave before we even arrived at Melange’s boutiques, so she banished us both, retaining Shawn and Erika for consultation. Shawn hugged me though before we left, arms visibly lingering around my waist.
“So when did you and Wonder Boy graduate to playing grab-ass in public?” PB joked.
“Stop,” I groaned, following him into an incongruously manicured public garden, winding our way through its prim hedges and clear ponds.
“Come on, there’s an extended cut of your husband blowing his load on Old Glory. I think you can chastely hold hands with a sweet little porn star.”
“Tell that to a judge,” I muttered. “I’m just… trying to be careful right now.”
“Sorry for being flippant,” he said after a beat.
“I just know that in our fairly eclectic profession, it’s not easy to meet decent people.
Shawn won’t be winning a Nobel any time soon—hell, he won’t be winning this show—but I do like him.
Plus, having him around is convenient. Anytime I need to know where you are, I just track where he’s looking.
” It was all too real, like we were friends out for coffee, and I couldn’t keep myself from grunting in frustration.
“Jesus, Luke, stop overthinking it. You look absolutely tortured.”
“It’s not that,” I finally admitted. “The Medals guys want to take you out.”
He blinked, a bemused laugh escaping. “You say that like I wasn’t already aware. Is that why you’ve been on the verge of an ulcer all morning? And here I just assumed boy trouble.”
“You know they’re coming for you?”
“Who else would they come for? No one’s taking the first swipe at Fortune.”
“PB, Imogen is making me vote for you, and I tried—”
“Vote how she tells you to. You’ll win no points defending me to Imogen.”
“Did you screw her over before too?” I asked, nauseated by the whole situation.
“Not specifically, but we’ve never seen eye to eye. She plays the game; I play the show.” He shrugged. “Seriously though, don’t stress over me, as much as I appreciate the gesture.”
I sighed, wearily staring across the garden. “We should head back before we’re late.”
“Please, they have no show without you. You’re the Hartt-breaker of Season 20.”
“How long have you been waiting to drop that one?”
“Already said it in a confessional.” He smirked before abruptly halting.
Jiamin stood on the opposite sidewalk with an older Chinese couple, the man in a linen summer suit, the woman’s silver hair in a bouffant.
Jiamin was speaking intently, the woman’s hand in hers.
Before her gaze could drift across the taxis, PB reeled to the iron fence behind us.
In solidarity, I joined him, though now it seemed we were peeing together on the Nanjing Road.
“I didn’t realize Jiamin’s family lived in Shanghai…”
“They don’t,” he replied, tight. “They’re in Beijing, but she probably called them yesterday.
I mean, they have a private jet.” His humiliation radiated next to me, and I recognized the scene.
PB O’Connell hiding on a Shanghai street from the Yingzhi parents wasn’t too different from the Bhaduris dismissing Luke Griffin on a Los Angeles backlot.
“It’s a cool fence,” I said. “I could look at it for at least the next ten minutes. You?”
He nodded, upper lip sucked into his mouth.
“If I see another noodle, I’ll go insane,” Camdon whined that night when we boarded the bus to the Trial. “I want some Pizza Hut, man!”
This was the seventh time he’d invoked Pizza Hut in three hours. “Is he always like this?” I asked Imogen, trying not to fixate on his unnervingly bleached teeth.
“Cut him some slack. There aren’t many people who say ‘As long as one of us wins’ and actually mean it,” she answered under her breath.
“I’d just think an Olympic athlete would be more… cultured.”
“You don’t have to be brothers.”
After forty-five minutes, we arrived at what seemed to be an abandoned construction site but was in fact our new Arena.
We proceeded past the fleet of box trucks to a threatening iron gateway, soldered from chain link and sheet metal, an inscription in Chinese characters above.
“Purgatory,” PB translated to my surprise.
“What? I learned some basic Mandarin once upon a time. I didn’t plan to be a total disappointment as a son-in-law. ”
Inside was a yard of gravel the size of a tennis court.
Mounted cameras and monitors dotted one side, while square concrete platforms stood at knee height across the way like the bases of fallen pillars, one for each team.
A complicated network of scaffolding, bungee rigging, and lights hung above, embellishing the brutalist aesthetic.
We mounted our pedestals, and I stared down the line at PB, who flashed me a reassuring thumbs-up.
Melange quickly darted up, voice low. “Shawn said you’re voting PB? Luke, we can’t. PB said vote Royce and Solana.”
“He doesn’t have the votes,” Imogen interjected. “Do what you want, but PB’s the target.” I could only shrug at Melange helplessly while Zara called for places.
“Welcome, teams!” Ecklund proclaimed from the center of the court. “As you know, everyone except Tati and Camdon is vulnerable, and while you might be duos, you’ll vote as individuals—starting with Luke and Imogen.”
“PB and Greta,” Imogen declared, all certainty, though my echo was half-hearted.
Shawn suffered through his own vote for PB and Greta, but Melange just threw her hands up exasperatedly. “Royce and Solana.”
“Big mistake,” Imogen said.
Camdon was next, but he’d inexplicably frozen. “Drew, my daddy, Pastor Jim, raised me to be a provider and a protector, but I can’t protect people who’ll keep me from providing for my family at home,” he stated, voice cracking. “I gotta do what’s best for my own game… I vote Luke and Imogen.”
My first instinct was to burst out laughing, but I quickly suppressed it as Imogen’s head spun toward Camdon. His blubbering exhortations had trickled to choked whimpers when she finally addressed him, all stone: “Say it again. And look me in the eye.”
Like a shamed hound, Camdon repeated our names, Tati seconding with her clipped accent. Royce followed suit with a heaving breath, holding Imogen’s gaze and voting for us alongside Solana. So much for our new allies.
Erika voted for Royce and Solana, with Fortune and even Jiamin joining. After Aspen chose us (no love lost), Ecklund tallied the score: “Five for Luke and Imogen, four for Solana and Royce, and three for Greta and PB, who will now finish us off…”
“Royce and Solana,” PB said, then looked straight to Imogen. “You’re welcome.”
“A tie! Greta, the deciding vote is yours,” Ecklund continued.
Greta, inscrutable thus far, cut a saccharine smile to PB. “Gosh, you know, I’ve never liked being told what to do…”
For once, PB seemed sincerely shocked. “Imogen will pick us to go against them if you vote for her, Greta! Right, Imogen?!”
“It’s not a bad plan,” Imogen said stonily. It wasn’t. She’d trounce Greta.
“And yet I’m guessing she has bigger fish to fry than her partner’s wingman…
so I vote Luke and Imogen,” Greta blithely beamed.
Knowing her, she still wanted to punish me for befriending Shawn, but she was gambling big to assume PB’s ties to me would deflect Imogen’s wrath.
Despite the Medals boys’ fresh betrayal, PB and Greta were still likely easier to beat.
“Imogen, it’s been a long time since you were on this side of the line.” Ecklund beckoned us to him. “Do you two want to discuss opponents?”
Imogen’s piercing eyes flayed the cast until she at last landed at PB. “No.”
“Luke, any thoughts to share with the class?” Ecklund inquired as Imogen turned to me, silent, testing…
I shook my head.
Imogen nodded curtly, satisfied, and I prepared for her to slit PB’s throat.
“Royce and Solana,” she said. “Since we’re all doing what’s best for our own games.”