“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 movingsupport 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.
“Outer lift first,” I say quickly, mapping the pattern as we run. “Then center plate, then hold for the sweep.”
Bron glances upward, measuring. “You sure.”
“Yes.”
“That’s hot.”
“Wrong time.”
“Worth a try.”
We jump for the outer lift and land hard as it begins to rise. The plate trembles under our combined weight and drifts sideways toward the central spine. A barrier arm slices through the air just ahead of us with a vicious electrical hiss.
“Down,” I say.
We crouch together, the charged edge passing close enough that the hair on my arms lifts from the static.
“Center plate on my count,” I say. “Not before.”
Bron’s eyes flick to the gap, then back to me. “Got it.”
That simple answer should not hit me as deeply as it does. It absolutely does.
“One,” I say, watching the timing. “Two. Now.”
We move as a unit, springing across to the next plate just before the outer lift drops away beneath us. The central plate jerks under the impact and begins descending immediately toward the lower lane.
“Left rail!” I shout.
Bron catches the support bar and swings his weight just enough to stabilize the platform while I hit the manual lockrelease panel built into the side strut. It catches. The descent halts.
Behind us, one of the other teams mistimes a transfer and slams into a barrier arm hard enough to spin sideways into a fail net. Another elimination. The commentator voices boom overhead, ecstatic and appalled at the same time.
“Semifinal bloodbath!” one of them shouts.
“Language,” Bron mutters, because of course that is the part he objects to.
I almost laugh, but the final climb is on us too fast for indulgence. The vertical lift grid is worse up close. Narrow rails retract and reappear in alternating sequences while the support cages shift weight based on load placement exactly as I feared. If we stack wrong, the route jams and drops us into a lower cycle where recovery would cost precious time we do not have.
I grab Bron’s forearm to make sure he is looking exactly where I need him to. “Alternate positions. I go high first, you counter on the lower brace. When I signal, you move to the right support and I cross center.”
He nods once. “Understood.”
No flourish. No charm. Just focus.
I climb.
The metal is warm under my hands, vibrating faintly with the massive machinery driving the lift spine. Above me, a support rail slides into place with a sharp clang. I hook a boot into the lower rung, pull myself onto the upper cage, and feel the structure tilt.
“Bron, right support now.”
He moves immediately, redistributing the weight. The cage steadies.
