Chapter 10
brON
Morning on Fratvoy One arrives with too much light and not nearly enough mercy.
I’m awake before my alarm because stress has apparently decided to become an internal percussion section.
For one bleary second I stare at the ceiling of my assigned room and forget where I am.
Then the memory lands all at once—Tilda, the reveal, the course, the cameras, the deeply cursed phrase Last Chance at Romance—and I groan into the pillow.
“Fantastic,” I tell the empty room. “Love a waking nightmare with premium bedding.”
The wall screen blinks on in response to my voice, which feels invasive.
GOOD MORNING, brON. FIRST ELIMINATION CHALLENGE BEGINS IN 02:10:43.
“Thank you,” I mutter. “I hate you.”
I shower fast, dress in the provided challenge gear, and stare at the black-and-silver athletic uniform like it personally offended me.
Compression fabric, sponsor striping, reinforced seams, all tailored to move well and photograph better.
The shirt clings in places that will absolutely delight the viewing public and irritate me on principle.
A breakfast tray waits outside my door when I open it. Protein, fruit, coffee strong enough to count as medicinal intervention. I take it back inside, sit on the edge of the bed, and force myself to eat even though my stomach is doing nervous little flips like it’s considering escape.
The packet for today’s first elimination challenge keeps replaying in my head.
Bridge crossing.
Elevated hazard.
Swinging obstacles.
Variable footing.
Team completion required.
And the trainer’s verdict from last night keeps replaying right alongside it.
You don’t trust each other. Fix it by morning or you’ll bleed time.
“Charming,” I say to the coffee.
The coffee, unlike most authority figures in my life, is useful and silent.
By the time contestants are called to the central arena, the compound is fully awake. Transport carts hum. Drones glide overhead in bright morning light. Staff move with the unnatural speed of people who already know how the day ends and are enjoying our ignorance.
The elimination arena is packed.
Not with a full public audience—this is still the early phase—but enough sponsor guests, media personnel, production staff, and internal viewers to make the place feel electric.
Tiered seating curves around the challenge floor.
Massive display screens hover overhead. Music pulses from hidden speakers with the expensive menace of a military parade repackaged as entertainment.
I find Tilda near lane assignments, already geared up, already focused, already looking like she’d rather peel her own skin off than be standing anywhere near me.
Which, in fairness, may well be true.
She has her hair braided back tight today. No softness left to it. No room for anything to come loose. Her eyes flick to me once as I approach, then back to the course schematic on the screen.
“Morning,” I say.
“Debatable,” she replies.
“Promising start.”
“Did you eat?”
The question catches me so off-guard I blink. “What?”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
I stare at her.
She exhales through her nose, impatient. “If you crash halfway through because you thought caffeine counted as nutrition, I will throw you into the fish myself.”
Ah.
There she is.
“Yes,” I say. “I ate.”
“Protein?”
“Yes.”
“Actual protein?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
She turns and fixes me with a look sharp enough to dress game. “Bron.”
I hold up both hands. “Yes. Actual protein.”
“Good.”
That should be the end of it. Instead I hear myself say, “You ate?”
Her mouth flattens. “Don’t start.”
“That wasn’t a start. That was basic reciprocity.”
“Yes. I ate.”
I nod solemnly. “Excellent. Look at us. Almost a functioning mammal unit.”
She goes back to the schematic. “Please preserve your energy for not dying.”
The course rises before us in cruel, glittering detail.
A narrow bridge system stretches across a long tank of dark water that churns under the arena lights.
Not natural water. It’s too mechanically agitated, too carefully sinister, all rolling surface and hard glints.
The bridge itself is a segmented route of narrow planks and suspended platforms connected by rails and partial supports, some fixed, some obviously designed to move at the worst possible time.
Above it, huge pendulum obstacles swing in overlapping arcs—padded, probably, but still fully capable of knocking a person clean off balance and into the drink.
And in the drink—
Movement.
Big movement.
Silver-black shapes cutting just below the surface.
I lean forward slightly. “Those are not decorative.”
“No,” Tilda says.
One of the screens zooms tight on the tank and, because production is run by monsters with graphics packages, labels the species: FRATVOYAN RAZORFINS.
The fish breach just enough to show rows of glittering teeth before slapping back into the water.
“Well,” I say. “That feels unnecessary.”
Captain Photonic strides onto the announcing platform in a white jacket so bright it may actually be audible. “Contestants! Welcome to your first elimination challenge!”
The crowd cheers.
The fish churn.
The bridge sways faintly in the conditioned arena air like it’s already amused.
Photonic gestures grandly to the course.
“Today, each pair must cross the Razorfin Span! Balance, timing, trust, and courage will determine who survives to the next round. Fall, stall, or fail to complete the route together, and you may find yourselves saying goodbye to Fratvoy One far earlier than you’d hoped! ”
Beside me, Tilda mutters, “He says goodbye like he’s pitching vacation packages.”
“He’d sell our funerals with upgraded seating,” I murmur back.
The rules are straightforward in the way all terrible things are straightforward.
Each pair must cross together. Some sections allow only one stable foothold at a time, so timing matters.
Certain planks are pressure-sensitive. Some rails release only if triggered in sequence.
Swinging obstacles accelerate if the wrong route is taken.
The fish, we are informed with disgusting cheerfulness, are “strongly motivated” by motion and impact.
“So,” Dax says from the next lane over, staring into the tank, “the water is murder.”
“Looks that way,” I say.
His partner—a glamorous woman with a diamond-studded braid and the dead eyes of somebody regretting multiple life eras—says, “If you fall, I am not diving in after you.”
Dax puts a hand to his chest. “That hurts, considering our history.”
She doesn’t blink. “Our history is why I said it.”
Sonya is two lanes down with her ex, both of them glaring at the span like it owes them money.
A horn sounds.
All idle chatter dies.
Lane assignments flash overhead. Bron Varek and Tilda Robertson, lane four.
Tilda rolls her shoulders once, then looks at me fully for the first time this morning.
“Listen carefully,” she says.
I nod.
“There are trap sections in the first third.”
“Pressure plates?”
“Yes, but not just plates. Some planks are dead weight and some are keyed. The rail spacing on the left side is wrong for the obstacle swing pattern. We take the right approach, then cut center at the split platform.”
I glance from her to the course. “You got all that from the preview?”
“I got that from having eyes.”
“Cruel, but fair.”
She ignores me. “Do not rush. If you see an opening, assume it’s lying unless I confirm it.”
That startles a grin out of me. “You say the sweetest things.”
Her expression doesn’t move. “Bron.”
“Right. No rushing.”
“I’m serious.”
I look at the bridge again. The water flashes below. A Razorfin rolls, pale underbelly catching light like a knife.
“I know you are,” I say.
The first pair goes.
It is educational in all the ways disaster often is.
They make good time through the opening section, too confident by half.
On the second platform, one of them cuts left to avoid a swing arc and hits what looks like solid footing.
It isn’t. The plank drops two inches, a hidden mechanism clanks awake, and suddenly the pendulum timing changes.
The second contestant gets clipped hard, stumbles, slams into the rail, and barely catches herself before pitching over the side.
The fish erupt beneath her with such violent excitement the whole arena recoils.
“Ah,” I say softly. “Noted.”
Tilda doesn’t look at me. “I told you there were traps.”
“Yes, commander.”
“Stop sounding amused.”
“I’m terrified. My voice just has range.”
She almost smiles.
Almost.
The next pairs confirm her read. Right approach safer. Center split necessary. Timing everything. One pair makes it fast by staying synchronized and low. Another gets rattled by the fish and loses nearly a minute hesitating.
When our lane number flashes, my pulse slams up into my throat.
This is it.
A production assistant clips our mics, checks our harness sensors, and points us toward the starting platform.
The bridge looms ahead, all narrow steel supports and treacherous grace.
The air above the tank is cooler, damp with atomized spray.
The fish smell faintly metallic, like blood diluted in water.
“Lane four,” the announcer says, “Bron and Tilda—one of the season’s most volatile pairings. Can tension become teamwork?”
The crowd makes the delighted noise of people rooting for chemistry or disaster and not caring which arrives first.
Tilda steps onto the start plate and doesn’t even glance toward the stands. “Stay with me.”
“Planning to.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and for one suspended second the noise drops out. I can see the strain in her. The control. The calculation running hot behind her eyes. There’s more here than the challenge. More than me. Something coiled under all that focus.
I don’t have time to figure it out.
The horn blasts.
We move.