Chapter 13
TILDA
Ido not look back.
That rule forms in my head with the clarity of survival instinct.
If I turn around—if I see Bron still standing there with that stunned, calculating expression spreading across his face—then everything I have spent the last couple of years constructing will begin to fracture.
Secrets are fragile things, and once someone starts pulling at the edges, they rarely survive the day intact.
So I keep walking.
The hallway outside the visitation commons carries the soft domestic scent of the family wing—warm plastic toys, citrus disinfectant, and the faint sweetness of fruit snacks crushed into upholstery.
The lighting here is gentler than the arena corridors, a calmer amber glow that softens the metal walls and makes the space feel almost peaceful.
Somewhere farther down the hall a toddler laughs with bright, ringing delight, the sound bouncing off the walls like a tiny bell.
Jesse shifts against my hip.
“Mama?”
His voice is small but certain. I press a kiss against the top of his head, breathing in the scent of bath soap and warm skin.
“I know, baby,” I murmur.
He leans back just enough to peer at my face, golden eyes narrowing in suspicion. Jesse has always been observant in that quiet, unsettling way children sometimes are—like he’s watching the adults around him and filing away conclusions none of us expect him to make yet.
“Who dat?” he asks.
My stomach tightens immediately.
Children notice everything.
“Nobody,” I answer softly.
Jesse studies my expression with grave concentration. After a moment he pats my cheek, the gesture gentle and oddly comforting, as if he has decided I am the one who needs reassurance.
“Okay,” he says.
I step into the private family suite and let the door seal behind us with a quiet hiss.
For a moment I simply stand there, trying to steady my breathing. The room smells like clean laundry, warm blankets, and the faint rubbery scent of the dinosaur toy Jesse has been chewing on for three days. My pulse pounds so loudly in my ears that the silence of the room feels almost oppressive.
Bron saw him.
The thought repeats in my mind with relentless clarity.
Bron saw Jesse.
Jesse wiggles down from my arms and toddles immediately toward the low table where his toy shuttle lies in several carefully dismantled pieces. He picks up the wing section, turning it slowly in his hands with a frown that suggests the shuttle has personally betrayed him.
“Broken,” he announces.
“Yes,” I reply faintly.
He examines the pieces again before attempting to jam them together with determined enthusiasm. When the parts refuse to reconnect, he sighs heavily, as though engineering has disappointed him on a deeply personal level.
I watch him for a moment before lowering myself onto the edge of the bed and covering my face with both hands.
This was always the nightmare.
Not the competition. Not the risk of injury. Not even the possibility of elimination.
This.
Bron discovering Jesse before I had decided how—or whether—to tell him.
I drag my hands slowly down my face and stare at the far wall.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Think.”
There is still a chance he doesn’t know. He may only suspect something vague. Perhaps he simply noticed Jesse’s scales and assumed nothing more.
Except Bron has never been particularly bad at noticing things that matter to him.
My comm vibrates suddenly against the bedside table.
I flinch before grabbing it.
A notification scrolls across the screen:
Contestant briefing — Rally Event begins in 40 minutes.
Right.
The competition does not pause for personal crises.
“Mama,” Jesse says.
I look up.
He is holding two pieces of the shuttle again, studying them with intense concentration.
“Broken.”
“Yes,” I repeat, a little more gently this time.
He nods thoughtfully, then slams the pieces together with renewed determination.
They still do not connect.
“Hmm,” he says.
I push myself to my feet.
“Come on, engineer,” I tell him quietly. “We need to get you to daycare.”
The daycare sector sits behind two security gates and a cheerful mural of cartoon astronauts holding hands with smiling alien animals. The entire place smells like powdered milk, disinfectant wipes, and the faintly sweet scent of synthetic fruit snacks.
Jesse waves solemnly at the receptionist when we enter.
She waves back.
He immediately attempts to climb onto her desk.
I catch him mid-scramble before he can demonstrate his Vakutan strength on corporate furniture.
“Be good,” I tell him firmly.
He studies my face again, those golden eyes narrowing.
“You sad?”
The question lands squarely in my chest.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Jesse considers that answer for a long moment before nodding with solemn acceptance. Then he takes the caretaker’s hand without complaint.
As I walk away he calls, “Bye Mama!”
My chest tightens painfully.
“Bye, baby.”
The rally arena smells like fuel, hot dust, and overheated engines.
Rows of lean ground vehicles sit on the starting grid like coiled predators. Their frames are skeletal and angular, built entirely for speed and endurance rather than comfort. Fuel cells glow faintly beneath armored plates.
Above us the audience roars with eager anticipation.
I spot Bron leaning against our assigned vehicle.
His arms are crossed. His expression is thoughtful.
That alone makes my nerves spike.
Bron thinking is rarely a reassuring development.
When he notices me approaching, he straightens slightly.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
For a moment neither of us mentions the child.
Captain Photonic’s voice booms across the stadium as a holographic course map ignites overhead.
“Contestants! Today’s challenge will test navigation, endurance, and fuel discipline!”
The map expands, revealing a vast desert route filled with steep ridges, twisting canyon passes, and long flats of open terrain.
Fuel indicators flash red.
“Each vehicle has limited fuel,” Photonic continues dramatically. “Run dry before the finish line and you’re eliminated!”
Bron whistles.
“Well,” he says. “That’s comforting.”
I fold my arms and examine the map carefully.
Three major routes stand out immediately.
The ridge path is short but steep. The basin route is long but smooth. The canyon corridor is narrow and brutal but efficient if handled correctly.
Bron watches my expression.
“You’ve got that strategy face again,” he remarks.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
I point toward the map.
“If you take the ridge climb, you’ll burn too much fuel.”
“It’s faster.”
“You’ll stall before the halfway point.”
He tilts his head, studying me.
“You always this bossy?”
“Yes.”
“Fair enough.”
He climbs into the driver’s seat.
I slide into the navigation chair beside him as the vehicle begins vibrating with power.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Great.”
The starting horn explodes.
Vehicles surge forward in a roaring cloud of dust.
Bron slams the accelerator immediately, launching us ahead of half the field in seconds.
“Bron!” I shout.
“What?”
“You’re burning fuel!”
“Winning early!”
“That’s not how this works!”
He laughs.
The ridge climb looms ahead.
“Don’t take it,” I warn.
“It’s faster.”
“You’ll run dry!”
He hesitates only a moment.
Then, surprisingly, he veers left.
The vehicle plunges into the canyon route.
Dust and gravel explode beneath the tires as we dive between jagged rock walls barely wider than the vehicle itself.
“You planned this route,” he realizes.
“Yes.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Focus on driving.”
The canyon floor bucks beneath us as we bounce over uneven terrain. Behind us several competitors stall on the steep ridge climb, engines sputtering.
Bron glances at the fuel gauge.
“Still good.”
“That’s because you’re finally listening.”
He smirks slightly but adjusts his speed with visible care.
By the time the canyon spits us back onto the open flats, several vehicles ahead of us are already sputtering toward empty fuel cells.
Bron keeps the throttle steady.
The finish markers grow larger.
We cross the line with fuel still in reserve.
The scoreboard flashes.
Top third.
Bron exhales.
“Well,” he says quietly. “That worked.”
I lean back against the seat, letting the adrenaline drain slowly from my system.
“That,” I reply, “is what happens when you follow instructions.”
He glances sideways at me.
Not joking this time.
Studying.
“You’re good at this,” he says.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
I turn to look at him fully.
“I know.”
The engine hums softly beneath us while the crowd roars somewhere above the dust.
Bron rests his hands loosely on the wheel.
And for the first time since the competition began, I realize something unsettling.
He is actually listening now.
That realization sends a strange, uneasy ripple through my thoughts.
Because Bron Verak learning to listen might be even more dangerous than him discovering Jesse.