Chapter 6
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Fratvoy One smells like money, ozone, and lies.
That’s my first coherent thought when I step off the transfer line into the main compound with my guitar case slung over one shoulder and my travel bag bumping against my thigh.
The air is warm in a curated way, climate-tuned to flatter skin and calm nerves.
Above me, the sky is a high polished blue streaked with decorative clouds that look so art-directed I half expect a sponsor logo to drift across one.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
The compound sprawls out in every direction like a rich man’s fantasy of hardship.
Housing towers in smooth white tiers. Training structures all angles and steel and glass.
Massive enclosed arenas with retractable walls.
Media buildings that glint so hard in the sun they look less like offices and more like temples dedicated to the worship of public humiliation.
Contestants pour through the main arrivals concourse in clusters, all of us tagged and scanned and directed by smiling staff with headsets and impossible posture. Somewhere overhead, camera drones drift lazily, already collecting footage. We haven’t even bled for them yet and they’re circling.
A woman in a fitted charcoal uniform checks my wristband and glances at her slate. “Bron Varek. Residential Block A, room 3A-27.”
“Lovely,” I say. “Will my room include a panic spiral or do I supply my own?”
She doesn’t laugh. Tragic.
“Mandatory welcome briefing is uploaded to your packet. Mandatory sponsor and media reception at nineteen hundred in Solarium Hall.”
“Mandatory socializing,” I say. “My favorite type.”
She gives me the kind of neutral smile staff are trained to deploy when contestants start sounding feral. “Enjoy your first evening on Fratvoy One.”
“That feels premature, but thank you.”
I move on before she can decide whether I’m a problem worth flagging.
My room turns out to be better than I deserve and less luxurious than I’d feared, which is somehow ideal.
Clean lines, smart storage, a wide bed, actual soundproofing, a shower big enough to regret things in properly.
The wall screen hums awake when I enter and flashes a welcome message with my name in shimmering silver.
“Bold of you to assume I’m welcome anywhere,” I tell it.
I dump the bag, set the guitar case on the stand by the desk, and do a fast circuit out of habit.
Balcony door locked. Bathroom stocked. Mini-chiller full of nutrient drinks and fruit.
Closet empty except for a garment bag from production, which means they’ve already selected an outfit for tonight and I’ll deal with that insult later.
I splash water on my face, drink a full glass straight from the tap, and stare at myself in the mirror.
Better.
Not good. Let’s not get aspirational. But better.
The hangover that tried to murder me yesterday has retreated to a dull ache behind my eyes. My hair is tied back. My shirt is clean. I still look like trouble, which has historically been one of my more bankable qualities.
I should rest.
Instead I head right back out, because sitting still in a new place while my future hangs over a pit with live commentary feels like a poor emotional strategy.
The central walkways of the compound are already alive by the time I get down there.
Contestants drift between buildings in workout gear, sponsor merch, and varying degrees of self-conscious bravado.
Staff zip past with tablets. Maintenance carts hum along the edges.
Somewhere nearby there’s the clang of metal and a burst of cheers that prickle over my skin.
I follow the noise.
Training Arena Two opens before me in a long oval bowl of reinforced steel and composite glass.
Half the side wall is transparent, giving spectators a full view inside.
A dozen contestants are already in there running one of the lower-level obstacle circuits under the eye of trainers wearing black GXC jackets.
I stop at the rail.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
The course is a nightmare assembled by committee.
Tilt platforms suspended over a cushioned pit.
Rotating bars. Climb walls that shift angle mid-ascent.
A stretch of uneven moving ground that looks specifically designed to destroy ankles and self-esteem.
One contestant hits a swinging hold too late and gets spun sideways into the padding with enough force to make the crowd outside the rail collectively wince.
The trainer blows a whistle. “Again!”
A huge Trinex woman just laughs, spits blood into the pit, and climbs back up.
I lean my forearms on the rail and watch, deeply insulted by how athletic everybody is being before sunset.
A voice beside me says, “You look horrified.”
I glance over.
Sonya, if I remember the roster photo correctly. Human. Scarred knee. Arms like she’s on intimate terms with heavy machinery. She’s holding a protein drink and squinting into the arena like she’d like to punch the architecture.
“I am horrified,” I say. “I thought there would be a little more ceremonial easing-in. Maybe champagne before the trauma.”
She snorts. “You’re Bron, right?”
“Occasionally.”
“I watched your arrival interview clip.”
“God, already?”
“They move fast.”
“What’d I say?”
She deadpans, “Something about public suffering as a career pivot.”
I put a hand to my chest. “Excellent. Nice to know I’m branding consistently.”
That gets the smallest twitch of a smile. “You training today?”
“Absolutely not. I prefer to preserve the illusion of competence until absolutely necessary.”
“Coward.”
“Strategist.”
She takes another drink. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
“That and pharmaceuticals.”
Inside the arena, a siren chirps and one section of the floor tilts unexpectedly. Three contestants curse at once. One goes down to a knee. The Trinex woman barely stumbles.
I watch the trainer pace the edge with a slate in hand, noting times, errors, recoveries. Not just whether they finish. How they react. How quickly they adapt.
Useful.
Another arena sits beyond this one, open-air, full of climbing towers and suspended cargo nets. Beyond that I can see an aquatic course glinting under the sun. This place isn’t just a competition venue. It’s a factory for pressure.
Sonya jerks her chin toward a bank of screens mounted above the rail. “Look.”
I follow her gaze.
The screens are cycling through contestant stats, archived clips, sponsor tags—and a live menu called AUDIENCE FAVOR INDEX.
My brows go up.
Below it, percentages ripple beside various names. Another tab reads INTERVIEW IMPACT RANKING. Another: VIEWER ENGAGEMENT BONUS.
“Well,” I say. “There it is. The beauty pageant part.”
Sonya’s mouth flattens. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew there’d be cameras. I did not realize my suffering would also be judged by strangers eating snacks in their homes.”
She barks a laugh. “Yeah. Public voting. Personality segments. Viewer saves in some rounds. Sponsor points if you trend.”
“Of course.” I stare at the board. “So it’s not enough to survive the obstacle course. We also have to survive being likable.”
“Or interesting,” she says. “Sometimes they’ll keep a disaster around if the disaster performs well enough.”
I put a hand to my heart. “Finally. A category I may dominate.”
A man a few feet down the rail looks over, recognizes me, and groans. “Oh no. It’s the musician.”
I spread my arms. “The very same.”
He’s Odex, broad through the chest, shaved head, expression of a man who flosses with contempt. “Please tell me you’re not one of those contestants who thinks banter is a substitute for training.”
“Please tell me you’re not one of those contestants who confuses being humorless with being formidable.”
Sonya makes a strangled noise into her drink.
The Odex man glares. “I’m Kett.”
“Bron.”
“I know.”
“How flattering.”
He points at the screen. “Public vote is noise. Performance matters.”
“Darling,” I say, “on any televised enterprise, noise is performance.”
He looks like he wants to throw me into the obstacle pit himself. I beam at him until he stalks off.
Sonya exhales through her nose. “You make friends fast.”
“I believe in building a rich social environment.”
“You’re going to get hit.”
“I’m Vakutan. It’s practically cultural enrichment.”
She shakes her head and moves on, but I catch the ghost of another smile as she goes.
I stay a while longer, watching.
The more I see, the more the shape of the thing emerges.
There’s the physical contest, sure. That part is obvious.
Sweat, speed, endurance, pain. But layered over it is narrative.
Who do the cameras follow? Who cracks under pressure in photogenic ways?
Who gives a good interview? Who turns strain into charisma?
That part, at least, I understand down to the marrow.
I start clocking not just the contenders, but the cameras. Where they linger. Which contestants know how to angle themselves toward a lens even when pretending they don’t. Which trainers speak to the room and which speak to the nearest drone.
A woman with silver brows from the shuttle appears on a track below, running intervals with a gait so smooth it seems unfair.
A floating camera darts alongside her. Without breaking stride, she flashes two fingers at it and says something that makes the operator laugh. Smart. Tiny moment. Human. Memorable.
I file it away.
By the time I circle back to Block A, the sun has started to dip, pouring amber light over the compound and turning the white buildings gold at the edges.
My room screen pings the first of three increasingly passive-aggressive reminders about tonight’s meet-and-greet.
The garment bag in the closet is, naturally, immaculate and offensive.
Black suit. Open collar. Tailored like the designer took one look at me and thought, Yes, but what if we made his bad decisions look expensive?
I hold it up and sigh. “You manipulative bastards.”
The suit fits perfectly.