“Ordinary,” I repeat. “Rude.”
My heartbeat shifts. Different now. Still hard, but alive in a new key.
Because the thing about televised humiliation is this: I know how to perform. I know how to suffer prettily. I know how to turn a camera into a lover and a crowd into weather. And if the Challenge wants reckless charm, athletic spectacle, and a contestant with just enough self-preservation instinct to make the near-death experiences marketable?—
Well.
I’m right here.
I lunge for my comm before I can talk myself out of it.
The registration portal loads in a whirl of sponsor logos and liability waivers. My thumb hovers over the first form.
Then I laugh.
It comes out a little wild.
“This,” I tell the empty apartment, “is either my salvation or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
The apartment, having witnessed my catalog of achievements, offers no opinion.
I start filling in my information.
Name. Age. Species. Occupation.
I hesitate over that one, then type:Performer.
Special skills?
I snort and start listing them. Stage combat. Climbing. Stamina. Improvisation. Public charisma. Vakutan endurance. Experience with live audiences and hostile environments.
That last one feels particularly honest.
The app requests an audition video or in-person screening. I choose immediate remote submission, because if I stop moving, fear will catch up and bite a chunk out of me.
I prop the comm on a bottle.
Then I look at myself and swear. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not introducing myself to destiny looking like I died in a nightclub fire.”
Five frantic minutes later, I’ve splashed water on my face, yanked on a clean black shirt, tied back my hair, and done the kind of emergency grooming usually reserved for surprise exes and high-value witnesses. I don’t look fresh, exactly. I look dangerous and sleep-deprived, which on me can pass for intentional.
The recording light blinks on.
I plant my hands on my hips and grin at the camera.
“Hello, Challenge darlings. My name is Bron Varek. I am Vakutan, occasionally famous, chronically underestimated, and very motivated to win your absurd little death pageant.”
I pace as I talk, energy building, voice rough and warm and coming fully online for the first time all day. I tell them I know how to take a hit, how to read a crowd, how to survive ugly odds.I tell them people like watching me because I never do anything halfway, including regrettable choices. I tell them if they want blood, spectacle, and fantastic interviews, I’m their man.
Then I stop, lean in, and lower my voice.
“And if you’re worried I’m only here for the money”—I flash my teeth—“you’re absolutely right. Fortunately, desperation is incredibly motivating.”
I end the recording before I can ruin it with honesty even I might regret.
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