Chapter 27
TILDA
By the time the semifinal challenge briefing begins, the entire compound feels like a set of lungs breathing too fast.
Everything is sharper now. The lights seem brighter, the hallways narrower, the voices lower and tighter, as if every remaining contestant has unconsciously agreed to conserve energy for the violence ahead.
There are only five couples left, and the knowledge changes the atmosphere in ways no producer could manufacture.
Gone is the early-season chaos of too many people trying to turn themselves into memorable television.
Gone are the louder egos, the weaker teams, the contestants who still thought charm alone could carry them through engineered catastrophe.
What remains is discipline. Damage. Hunger.
Even the air in the staging hall smells different this morning—less like perfume and pretense, more like coffee, metal, medicated muscle cream, and the dry electric sting of nerves held under control.
I stand beneath the massive holo projection with my arms folded so tightly across my chest that my shoulders are beginning to complain.
Above us, the semifinal arena rotates slowly in luminous blue wireframe: a monstrous mechanical labyrinth of shifting platforms, retracting bridges, rotating walls, timed pressure gates, and suspended traversal lanes woven through the skeletal frame of what looks like a half-assembled city.
It is the largest course we have seen yet, and that fact alone tells me exactly what production wants from this round.
Spectacle. Chaos. Hero shots. A near-catastrophic test of teamwork that can be cleanly packaged into a narrative about fate, romance, and human resilience while viewers scream at their screens and place emotionally unhealthy bets on strangers.
I can almost feel Andrew Brautigaum vibrating somewhere in the universe with joy.
“Contestants!” Captain Photonic bellows from the main platform with the reverent enthusiasm of a man announcing the end times as a premium entertainment package.
“Today you face the semifinal gauntlet! Precision, trust, courage, and synchronization will determine who earns a place in the final round!”
Beside me, Bron exhales slowly through his nose.
“That is a very large amount of murder architecture,” he murmurs.
“It’s modular,” I say automatically, my eyes still fixed on the shifting model overhead. “The outer ring rotates independently from the inner transit columns.”
He turns his head to look at me. “You sound excited in a deeply worrying way.”
“I sound focused.”
“You sound like you want to date the schematic.”
“That is an extremely weird thing to say before noon.”
“It’s never too early for concern.”
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitches. Then the map zooms inward, and my entire attention narrows.
The arena consists of three primary zones.
The outer perimeter is a moving obstacle ring, all rotating walkways, collapsing catwalks, and timed barriers designed to separate impatient teams from their dignity.
The central section contains puzzle gates that control access to the upper mechanical spine, and the final route climbs through a vertical grid of shifting lifts and retractable rails toward an elevated finish platform.
It is not just dangerous. It is strategically rude.
Every section forces a team to choose between speed and control, and every fast option is obviously a trap.
Bron leans slightly closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my side even through the ambient chill of the briefing hall. “Talk to me.”
I point at the projection. “We do not take the lower ring. It looks shorter, but the rotational timing is designed to create jams. That’s where people will panic and either miss the gates or knock each other off the platforms.”
“So upper route.”
“Yes, but only to the second crossover. After that we cut through the interior service bridge.”
“Because?”
“Because the bridge is narrow and ugly and everyone else will avoid it. Which means fewer collisions and cleaner timing.”
He nods once, not joking now, not performing, just taking it in.
“Then what.”
“The first puzzle gate will probably be brute-force bait.” I point again as the model slows over a cluster of rotating lock panels. “You’ll want to muscle the wheel mechanism. Don’t. If you force it, it triggers the defensive reset.”
He gives me a look. “I appreciate that you know exactly how I’d fail.”
“I’ve had practice.”
“That was cold.”
“It was accurate.”
A tiny grin touches his mouth and then disappears just as quickly. He studies the upper route again, eyes narrowing. “What’s the dangerous part?”
I trace the final climb. “This. The vertical lift grid. Platforms shift weight distribution when both teammates are on the same rail, so we’ll need to alternate positions and keep the load balanced. If one of us rushes ahead without timing the counterweight cycles, the entire section locks.”
“And probably tries to kill us.”
“Yes.”
“Comforting.”
I finally look at him fully. “Bron.”
His face settles instantly. “I know.”
“No improvising.”
“None.”
“No camera heroics.”
“Mm-hm.”
“No taking a stupid risk because it looks dramatic or because you think shaving two seconds matters more than staying synchronized.”
He meets my eyes and, to my intense annoyance, there is no deflection in him at all. “I said I know.”
For one suspended beat, I simply look at him. It is still occasionally startling how much I believe him now.
The arena floor smells like hot steel, engine grease, and the faint ozone bite of energy systems charging to life.
Above us, the crowd is already in a frenzy, their noise rolling down in waves that make the metal under my boots seem to vibrate.
Floodlights burn across the vast mechanical structure, turning every moving surface into a shifting blade of brightness and shadow.
I can hear servos whining deep within the arena frame, gears locking and unlocking with huge industrial clanks, and beneath all of it the low predatory hum of a machine designed to punish hesitation as efficiently as arrogance.
When the starting horn sounds, all five couples launch at once.
The first section is exactly the kind of chaos I expected.
Two teams break for the lower ring immediately, choosing the route that appears faster because people have an almost spiritual devotion to obvious mistakes.
The outer walkways begin rotating in opposing directions, and within seconds one pair is already shouting at each other while trying to clear a retracting bridge before the next rotation cycle.
To our left, Vanna and Pajack commit to the central rise with the cool, athletic confidence of people who have been making brutal choices with their bodies for most of their adult lives.
Zack and Dartha peel toward the upper north route.
Bron and I angle for the upper east corridor and keep moving.
“Second crossover,” I say.
“I see it.”
The first rotating span slides under us with a metallic groan.
I step onto it, feel the shift under my boots, and adjust automatically for the motion.
Bron matches pace at my shoulder instead of forging ahead the way he would have weeks ago.
Below us, a lower catwalk buckles and retracts entirely, and someone swears with operatic bitterness as a safety field catches them in a wash of blue light.
Elimination. The crowd roars approval as if almost dying is a trick done for their birthday.
“Lovely people,” Bron mutters.
“Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We hit the second crossover just as the lane divider opens.
I duck through first, Bron right behind me, and the sound changes immediately.
The service bridge is enclosed on both sides by vertical machine ribs, cutting some of the crowd noise and replacing it with the clatter and hiss of internal machinery.
The air is warmer here and tastes faintly of lubricant and charged dust. Narrow rails run along the floor, and every third plate dips half an inch under weight before settling.
I file that away while Bron says, “This path feels illegal.”
“It feels efficient.”
“Same difference.”
Ahead, the first puzzle gate blooms to life as we approach—a circular lock assembly with multiple rotating segments and four color-coded pressure hubs. Of course. Something designed to look physical while actually punishing brute force. Bron steps toward the main wheel.
“Don’t,” I snap.
He stops immediately.
I kneel at the lower hub array and scan the pattern. The colors are decoys. The real sequence is in the tiny indicator runes around the inner ring, cycling in staggered repetition. One blue, two white, one red, pause, reverse. My mind catches the rhythm and maps it.
“Blue, white, white, red,” I say. “Then hold.”
Bron presses the first two hubs with one hand while I handle the other pair. The mechanism shudders. The main wheel unlocks with a heavy click.
“Now rotate sixty degrees clockwise and stop on the second detent.”
He does. Not because he understands the whole sequence, maybe, but because he trusts me to. The gate splits open.
“That was annoyingly elegant,” he says.
“I know.”
We move.
The middle section is where the course gets mean.
The service bridge empties into a broad mechanical chamber where suspended plates travel along vertical rails between moving support columns.
It would be beautiful if it weren’t so openly hostile.
The plates rise and descend in offset cycles while heavy barrier arms sweep across the traversal lanes at chest height, forcing teams to duck, leap, or time their movements between arcs.
Above us, the final lift grid looms like a steel forest built by someone with childhood abandonment issues.