Chapter 9 #2
Bron leans on the rail beside me and lets out a low appreciative sound. “Oh, that’s nasty.”
“It’s engineered.”
“Yes,” he says. “Nastily.”
I ignore him and keep scanning.
The dual wall is a trap if the stronger climber tries to pull too fast. The balance beam section will punish rushing.
The rotating cylinder isn’t about strength, it’s rhythm and timing.
The crawl tunnel pressure panels likely penalize uneven load distribution.
The puzzle lock station is where faster but less observant pairs will hemorrhage time.
I can already see three ways to break this course.
I pull up the map on my comm and start sketching notes with my thumb.
“Left-side wall has better reach spacing at the top third,” I murmur mostly to myself.
“So taller climber should take right, shorter climber left. Rotating cylinder—wait for synchronized low point, not first opening. Tunnel likely weight-calibrated. Need even pacing. Puzzle gate—one reads, one manipulates—”
Bron tilts his head. “Are you talking to yourself or briefing me?”
“Yes.”
He laughs softly. “Good to know.”
I cut him a glance. “You find this entertaining?”
He looks back at the course, sunlight from the arena roof striking one side of his face in warm gold. “I find absurdly high-stakes nonsense weirdly clarifying.”
I stare at him. “That is one of the most alarming sentences I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t say healthy.”
Nearby, other pairs are already reacting in predictable ways.
One man is insisting he’ll “just carry” his former partner through half the course.
She responds by asking whether he’d like to die before or after she pushes him off the beam.
Sonya is down the rail with her so-called prison-adjacent ex, both of them glaring at the cylinder like it insulted their families.
Dax is flirting with his pair in what appears to be either genius strategy or advanced self-destruction.
A whistle cuts through the arena.
A trainer in black steps onto the floor. Tall, shaved head, voice like gravel wrapped in command.
“Welcome to paired orientation,” she barks. “You’ve all been volunteered for emotional nonsense. Our job is to keep your bones mostly inside your skin while you figure out whether you can function together.”
A few contestants laugh. Most don’t.
She points to the course. “Tomorrow’s first elimination challenge uses variant structures based on these mechanics. Tonight you learn your weaknesses. Pairs will run abbreviated segments, then repeat after coaching.”
Bron murmurs, “Mostly inside your skin. Reassuring.”
I keep watching the trainer.
“No heroics,” she continues. “No attempting shortcuts unless you enjoy disqualification. We are timing you, recording you, and evaluating your pair dynamic from the first whistle. If you have unresolved interpersonal garbage, congratulations. So does everyone else. You will still get over the wall.”
That, at least, I respect.
We’re assigned lane markers. Mine flashes with Bron’s name beside mine in brutal silver text.
I hate seeing them together.
Not because it’s ugly.
Because once upon a time it would have felt inevitable.
The trainer sends the first set of pairs out.
I watch every run.
That’s what I do. I watch, and the world turns into patterns.
A physically stronger pair blows the balance section because neither one yields pace.
Another pair communicates beautifully until the puzzle gate, where both talk at once and lose seventeen seconds to confusion.
One woman nearly solves the crawl tunnel blind by tapping the floor rhythm before committing weight. Useful. Very useful.
Bron stretches beside me, rolling one shoulder, then the other. Casual. Too casual.
“Stop that,” I say.
He glances over. “Stretching?”
“Treating this like a concert warm-up.”
A smile ghosts at his mouth. “I stretch before those too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re not.” I gesture at the course. “You’re leaning on the rail making jokes while I’m trying to stop us from dying in public.”
His face shifts a little. Not offended exactly. More… attentive.
“I know you’re serious,” he says. “I’m not mocking you.”
“You are performing ease.”
He lifts a brow. “And you’re performing control. We all bring our coping skills to the apocalypse, sweetheart.”
The endearment hits me right in the throat.
I step closer, voice low and lethal. “Do not call me sweetheart.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Right. Sorry.”
“Again.”
“Still sorry.”
We’re called to lane four before I can decide whether to stab him with grammar.
A staffer clips monitoring bands to our wrists and points us toward the start platform. Up close, the course smells like rubberized flooring, steel dust, sweat from previous runs, and the faint ozone snap of active sensors. The metal under my palm is cool and dry when I test the first wall hold.
Bron steps up beside me. “All right, commander. What’s the plan?”
I glance at him despite myself.
He says it lightly, but there’s no mockery in it this time. He’s giving me lead.
Interesting.
Annoying, but interesting.
“You take the right wall,” I say. “Longer reach at the top. Do not overpull. If you throw the timing off, we lose more on recovery than we gain in speed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Balance section: match my pace. Not yours.”
He smiles. “That slow, huh?”
I don’t even look at him. “That was your one.”
He chuckles under his breath and falls quiet.
The trainer raises a hand.
“Lane four. Ready.”
My pulse sharpens. The world narrows down to texture, distance, sound.
Bron beside me.
Wall in front of us.
Timer above.
Air in my lungs.
“Go.”
We move.
The climb wall is exactly what I expected—awkward spacing, holds that reward precision over brute force. I hear Bron’s breath to my right, steady, controlled. Good. He listened. At the top, our timing nearly slips when one foothold shifts, but I compensate fast and drop to the platform first.
“Left beam,” I snap.
He’s already moving.
Balance section. I set the rhythm and he matches it, mostly. A fraction too eager on the third span, enough to wobble the beam under both of us.
“Stop anticipating me,” I hiss.
“I’m literally next to you.”
“Then try being less aggressively next to me.”
He laughs—actually laughs—while correcting his stance, and for one insane second I want to shove him into the pit just for emotional consistency.
Rotating cylinder.
We crouch at the edge, watching the rhythm.
“Now?” he asks.
“Wait.”
“Now?”
“Wait.”
“Now?”
I turn my head. “Are you trying to be murdered before the first elimination round?”
His grin flashes quick and wicked. “Just checking whether your murderous instincts are still sharp.”
“Bron.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The low point aligns.
“Now.”
We go together.
That part works beautifully, which is infuriating. He adjusts quickly, plants exactly where I need him, counterbalances without crowding me. We hit the far platform in sync.
The crawl tunnel is worse. Low, enclosed, full of pressure panels that blink amber if either of us loads the wrong zone too hard.
“Even weight distribution,” I say.
“I know what those words mean.”
“Your past choices suggest otherwise.”
We crawl.
The tunnel smells like heated metal and old rubber. My knees protest. One panel flickers red when Bron shifts too much of his weight forward.
“Too heavy on the right,” I snap.
“That feels pointed.”
“It’s data.”
We clear it only slightly behind ideal time.
Then the weight-transfer station.
A crate of weighted blocks sits on one side, a narrow stepped lane on the other. One partner must carry while the other calls pathing through unstable floor plates.
Bron looks at the crate and smiles like he’s just been handed a toy.
I immediately distrust that expression.
“No showing off.”
He glances at me. “What if my natural form is impressive?”
“What if your natural form gets us penalized?”
He laughs, crouches, and lifts the crate.
Too fast.
A floor plate ahead shifts under his first step.
“Stop!” I bark.
He freezes.
“Left. Then center. Slow.”
He follows my instructions, but I can feel the friction building now—the difference between us grinding like mismatched gears. I want system, sequence, discipline. He wants motion. Adaptation. Instinct. We are not failing, exactly, but we are not clean either.
At the puzzle gate, I grab the code reader. “I’ll call symbols. You input.”
He puts both hands on the rotating lock wheels. “Try not to insult me while we work.”
“No promises.”
The symbols flash.
“Three-point arc. Double line. Hollow square. Left diagonal.”
His hands move fast. Too fast.
“Stop freelancing.”
“I saw the pattern.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
The lock jams.
A warning tone blares.
I close my eyes for one dangerous second. “I am going to bury you under this gate.”
“Constructive,” he says, but there’s strain in it now too.
We reset, do it my way, and the gate releases.
We sprint the final unstable platforms with frustration buzzing hot between us like exposed current. By the time we hit the end pad, I’m breathing hard and so angry I could sharpen into a weapon.
The timer freezes above us.
Not terrible.
Not good.
Middle of the pack so far.
Bron bends forward, hands on thighs, then straightens with a grin born straight out of adrenaline. “Well, that was fun.”
I stare at him, chest heaving. “Fun.”
“Objectively.”
“Objectively, you nearly cost us twelve seconds because you think rules are a genre suggestion.”
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “And you’d have us moving like we’re filing tax disputes.”
“Tax disputes require precision.”
“So does not falling off a rotating death tube, sweetheart—sorry.” He stops himself fast enough to almost make me laugh, which is unacceptable. “Sorry.”
The trainer strides over, slate in hand. “You two.”
I turn toward her.
“Strengths,” she says. “Fast adaptation. Strong recovery. Good physical complement.” She looks at Bron. “Weaknesses: ego.” Then at me. “Rigidity.”
I blink.
Bron makes a deeply offended sound. “That feels asymmetrical.”
She ignores him. “You don’t trust each other. Fix it by morning or you’ll bleed time.”
Then she walks off to ruin someone else’s self-esteem.
I stand there in the arena light, sweat cooling on my skin, fury and adrenaline and a far more dangerous awareness tangled together in my chest.
Bron looks sideways at me. “Rigidity.”
“Ego.”
He snorts.
I do not.
Because she’s right, and that’s the problem.
We don’t trust each other.
And in every way that matters, I absolutely cannot afford to.