Chapter 5 #2
Not because his words are magical. Because he smells faintly like antiseptic and coffee, because his shoes are scuffed, because he has not once given me a brochure sentence. Because tired competent people are the only authority figures I consistently trust.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.
He inclines his head. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Jesse has discovered a bin of soft weighted blocks and is trying to carry four at once.
“No, sweetheart,” I say automatically. “One at a time.”
He frowns at me. “Why?”
“Because if you drop all four on your foot, I’ll have to listen to you be betrayed.”
Kavi snorts.
We finish the tour with practical details—meal schedules, emergency channels, allergies, nap preferences, Jesse’s tendency to overheat when upset, the yellow shuttle toy that has become emotionally non-negotiable.
By the time we leave, I have a signed childcare confirmation on my comm, three backup contact methods, and enough cautious relief in my chest to make room for all the other worries again.
Which is unfortunate, because there are so many of them.
Residential Block C is quieter than the central compound, at least for now. My assigned quarters are on the second level, family corridor, behind a locked glass door and a biometric panel that reads my wristband before admitting us. Good. More barriers between Jesse and the wandering circus.
The room itself is better than anything Brautigaum ever would have paid for in ordinary life.
Not extravagant, not by the standards of the liner, but clean and well-designed: a main bed alcove for me, a child sleeping nook with the reinforced crib already made up, a compact washroom, a sitting area with a real table and two sturdy chairs, storage built into the walls, and a wide window looking out over one section of the compound.
I set our bags down and do a slow circuit, opening cabinets, testing latches, checking corners. Jesse toddles after me narrating nonsense to himself.
“Bed. Chair. Window. Mama. Chair.”
I put my hand on the chair back and push. Solid.
“Good chair,” I tell him.
He pats it approvingly. “Not rude.”
“Exactly.”
Outside the window, contestants move like bright purposeful ants between training fields and briefing halls. Every few seconds a drone passes, catching the sun in a cold metallic flash.
I unpack with the brisk focus of a woman holding herself together by sequence.
Clothes into drawers. Jesse’s things into the child nook.
Med kit into the washroom cabinet. Snacks into the kitchenette compartment.
Travel documents in the desk drawer. Yellow shuttle on the bed, where Jesse sees it and beams as if I’ve restored order to the cosmos.
Then the competition materials.
They’re waiting on the desk in a sleek black folio embossed with the GXC crest. Of course they are. Of course the death pageant has premium stationery.
I sit while Jesse explores and open the folio.
Schedule overview.
Code of conduct.
Compound map.
Media protocol.
Sponsor contact policy.
First-phase briefing locked until tomorrow morning.
Tonight: mandatory meet-and-greet reception, media and sponsors present. Formal casual attire recommended.
“Formal casual,” I mutter. “Die in style, I guess.”
I skim further. Contestants are expected to attend, circulate, and make themselves “available for introductory interaction opportunities.” Meaning smile on command and let powerful strangers assess your marketability like livestock with better lighting.
Jesse climbs onto my lap without warning, nearly knocking the folio sideways.
“Up,” he announces, after the fact.
“Yes, I can see that.”
He nestles in and studies the silver crest on the packet. “Pretty.”
“Everything dangerous is pretty first.”
He leans back to look at me. “Mama grumpy-ficient.”
I laugh before I can help it. “You have got to stop saying that in public.”
“No.”
“Fantastic.”
A soft chime sounds from the wall panel. I cross the room and answer it.
A young staffer appears at the door carrying a garment bag and a slim box. Her uniform is immaculate; her expression says she’s on hour twelve of a customer-service face.
“Ms. Robertson? Welcome package from your sponsor liaison.”
“Oh, good,” I say dryly. “I was worried Brautigaum might fail to capitalize on my distress.”
Her smile flickers with dangerous empathy. “Signature?”
I sign.
She hands over the bag and box. “Reception begins at nineteen hundred in the Solarium Hall. Contestants are expected to arrive no later than eighteen-fifty.”
“Expected by whom?”
“Production.”
“Ah. Tyranny, then.”
That almost gets another smile. She escapes before it fully lands.
I hang the garment bag on the closet hook and unzip it.
Inside is a dress.
Of course it is.
Dark blue, structured but soft, simple enough not to scream desperate sponsor puppet, expensive enough that I know Brautigaum wants me to look polished and accessible and just hot enough to photograph well under flattering light. The box contains shoes. Sensible heels, miracle of miracles.
Jesse points. “Pretty.”
“Suspiciously.”
I hold the dress up against myself in the mirror. It fits the image they clearly want—competent woman, understated elegance, human interest package with cheekbones. I hate that I understand this now. I hate even more that it might help.
I set it aside and return to the desk.
If I have to survive this place, I need information faster than I need indignation.
The compound map shows the residential blocks arranged around a central spine of training halls, dining facilities, med centers, and media zones.
Family services sits off the eastern branch.
Good. Slightly removed. Less foot traffic.
Training Arena One is much too close to everything.
Media hub on the west side. Reception hall central, naturally, so nobody can avoid it without making a statement.
Jesse has discovered the drawer full of tiny pencils and is trying to line them up by some logic known only to children and prophets. I let him. The quiet is useful.
I read through media rules next.
No discussing unrevealed event content.
No disparaging sponsors during official coverage.
Dependent minors prohibited from media exposure without special clearance.
Unauthorized physical altercations subject to penalties.
I pause there and think, How often did that happen before they wrote it down?
There’s a soft knock at the half-open door.
I look up.
A woman about my age stands in the corridor with two duffels and an expression that says she has already judged the entire compound and found it lacking. Human. Tall. Dark braided hair. Thick forearms. Scar crossing one knee. She points at the room opposite mine.
“You know if this is 2C-14?”
I glance at the plaque. “That’s 2C-12. So yours should be across.”
“Thanks.”
She starts to turn away, then notices Jesse. “You brought a kid?”
“I did.”
Her mouth twists. “Bold.”
“Or desperate.”
She gives me a long look, one exhausted woman to another. “Yeah. Fair enough.” She jerks her chin at the folio on my desk. “You read the part about tonight?”
“I have.”
“You going?”
“Apparently my choices are attend or be dragged there by production interns.”
That earns a short laugh. “Sonya.”
“Tilda.”
She nods once. “See you in the sponsor circus, Tilda.”
“Can’t wait.”
When she disappears into her room, I shut the door and lean against it for one second.
I am here.
Actually here.
Not on a shuttle. Not in transit. Not imagining worst-case scenarios from a cheap apartment two worlds away. Here. Inside the machine.
The air-conditioning whispers through the vents. Jesse hums softly to himself. Somewhere far off, I hear amplified cheers from an arena, followed by the deep metallic clang of something massive shifting into place.
I turn back to the room.
“All right,” I say quietly. “We adapt.”
Jesse looks up from his pencils. “A-dap.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Late afternoon slides toward evening with dangerous speed.
I take Jesse to the daycare center for a short pre-check acclimation session so tomorrow morning isn’t his first abrupt separation in a strange place. Kavi meets us at the door with a bubble wand and the confidence of a man who has defeated far worse odds than my son’s suspicious stare.
“Five minutes,” he says. “Then ten tomorrow. Ease him in.”
Jesse clings to my leg at first.
“This is stupid,” I whisper to myself.
Kavi hears anyway. “Most useful things are.”
He kneels to Jesse’s height. “Want to see something illegal?”
Jesse blinks. “Illegal?”
Kavi produces the bubble wand like a stage magician. “Extremely.”
He blows one bubble. Then three. Then a shimmering storm of them.
Jesse gasps.
Traitor.
Within thirty seconds he is toddling after bubbles with both hands out, laughing so hard he hiccups. I stand there watching him, the ache in my chest strange and complex—relief, fear, gratitude, guilt all tangled together like exposed wires.
Kavi glances up at me. “Go get dressed for your nonsense event. We’ve got him for an hour.”
“I’m not sure I’m emotionally prepared to leave him with a man who introduces himself via contraband bubbles.”
“Then you’re definitely not ready for this competition.”
“Unfortunately true.”
Back in the room, I shower fast and hot, scrubbing away the residue of travel. Steam fills the washroom. My skin comes out flushed. I stand in front of the mirror in a towel and look at myself without flinching away.
Tired eyes. Strong mouth. Shoulders tighter than they should be. A body that has done a thousand ordinary hard things and is now being asked for extraordinary ones.
“Professional,” I tell my reflection.
“Composed.”
“Do not let these people smell fear.”
The reflection seems unconvinced but willing to participate.
I dress carefully.
The blue falls cleanly over me, skimming instead of clinging, all sharp lines and soft movement.
I pin my hair up, then take it down and redo it because the first attempt says regional bank manager and the second says woman with enough control to fake serenity.
Minimal makeup. Good shoes. Wristband hidden as much as possible without violating the rules.
When I’m done, I almost look like someone who belongs at a high-level reception instead of a woman one missed paycheck from ruin.
That’s useful.
A chime sounds from my comm. Reminder: Mandatory Meet-and-Greet Reception begins in 30 minutes.
I close my eyes.
Then I open them, square my shoulders, collect my room key and folio, and head to retrieve my son from daycare before the reception staff sweep me into whatever polished social horror they have planned.
At the doorway, I pause and look once more around the room. The neat bed. Jesse’s small clothes folded in the drawers. The competition materials waiting on the desk. The window beyond, glowing now in sunset gold over the arenas and media towers.
Professional and composed, I remind myself.
Strategic.
If they want a contestant, they get one.
If they want a spectacle, they can work harder for it.
And if they think I’m here to smile prettily and drown, they’re about to be very disappointed.