Minimize energy waste in early phases. Observe before committing. Let louder people burn themselves out. Watch for puzzle elements disguised as brute-force contests. Track which events reward consistency over drama. Avoid alliances built on adrenaline and jawlines.
Especially jawlines, I add privately, because life has taught me that beauty is a terrible substitute for planning.
By midnight the apartment is a controlled explosion of lists. Packing notes. Jesse’s food preferences. Emergency contacts. Clothing. Med kit. Spare comm chargers. Layered socks.Documents. The reinforced carrier harness I swore I’d never need again but am suddenly grateful I kept.
I sleep badly.
In the morning, everything happens at once.
A transport confirmation pings in. Brautigaum’s office sends a cheerful branded message wishing me luck “as I embody the company spirit,” which is enough to make me bare my teeth at the screen. A courier drops off contestant travel bands and luggage tags with the GXC logo on them in gleaming silver.
Jesse is ecstatic.
“Shiny!”
“Yes,” I say, fastening one to my wrist. “That’s usually how they get you.”
By midday I’ve packed two bags three different ways. One for me. One for Jesse. Then I repack both because sleep deprivation makes me stupid and I’d somehow given my child six shirts and one sock.
Mrs. Keth comes by with a parcel of dried fruit strips and the grimly ceremonial air of a woman preparing somebody for war.
“For the boy,” she says.
“Thank you.”
She squints at me. “And for you, because you’ve gone pale around the mouth.”
“That’s just my personality.”
“Don’t get clever with me.”
I laugh despite myself and let her fuss over Jesse for ten minutes while I seal the apartment and run final checks. Locks. Utilities. Mail hold. Neighbor contact. Fenn arrives to carry one of my bags downstairs and mutters, “If they kill you for ratings, haunt somebody rich.”
“Beautiful. I feel supported.”
“You are.”
At the transit hub, contestants gather in pockets of nerves and ego under towering departure boards. The terminal smells like fuel, hot metal, stale pastries, and too many species breathing in the same anxious key. Everywhere I look there are bodies built for spectacle—towering Khepri, lean human athletes, a pair of laughing Trinex siblings with matching sponsorship patches, one huge woman with scarred knuckles.
And me. Administrative support with a diaper bag.
Jesse sits in his travel harness on my chest, one hand wrapped in my collar, the yellow toy shuttle tucked under his arm. His warmth seeps through my shirt. The crowd noise vibrates in my bones.
A contestant beside me glances over. Human man, broad smile, too much confidence.
“First season?” he asks.
I shift my bag higher. “Is it that obvious?”
He grins. “You still look morally opposed.”
“I am morally opposed.”
He laughs like I’m flirting. “Name’s Dax.”
“Tilda.”
He nods at Jesse. “Didn’t know they allowed kids.”
