Gods.
These people are enormous.
Not all of them, obviously. There’s range. A wiry human with climber’s hands and a shaved head covered in route tattoos. A broad-shouldered Trinex woman in compression gear who looks like she could bench-press a shuttle. A pair of sibling-looking Khepri in coordinated sponsor jackets, all chitin sheen and cool stillness. One older man with a scar splitting his eyebrow and the dead calm gaze of somebody who has seen enough combat to find televised danger vaguely insulting.
And then there’s me.
Pretty. Hungover-adjacent. Carrying a guitar.
I keep my face neutral.
Inside, however, a much less dignified version of me is whispering,Oh, this is bad. This is aggressively bad.
A camera drone swings by and lingers.
I flash it my nicest smile.
You learn early, if you grow up with audiences, that fear and charisma use a lot of the same muscles. If you’re any good, people can’t always tell which one they’re looking at.
At the bag scan, a bored attendant gestures at the guitar case. “Open it.”
“Buy me dinner first.”
He doesn’t laugh.
Tough room.
I unlatch the case. The guitar lies inside in its molded cradle, dark lacquer gleaming under terminal lights. Old, gorgeous, scarred near the bridge from a night in Jessa Prime when a fan threw a glass and I chose commitment over self-preservation. The attendant scans it, checks the compartments, finds nothing worth confiscating, and waves me through.
“Next.”
I re-latch the case and move aside.
The departure lounge is a tiered open space with sweeping windows overlooking the tarmac. Shuttles gleam outside like sleek predatory birds lined up for migration. Screens along the walls loop challenge footage, sponsor messages, and contestant hype reels so intense they nearly qualify as propaganda.
I find a spot near a column and set my bag down by my boots.
Then I do what everyone does in a room full of future rivals.
I start studying the field.
A human woman in her forties stretches methodically beside the far windows, every movement precise, efficient, and absolutely joyless. Former military, maybe. Or professional endurance. Near her, a young Odex man scarfs down two protein bricks and reviews something on a slate with such concentration he could probably set paper on fire by glaring at it.
Three people over, a blue-skinned social influencer type is recording a message to followers.
“—and honestly, babes, I’m bringing both heart and hustle to this season?—”
A giant Vakutan male in sleeveless gray athleticwear snorts so loudly half the lounge turns to look.
The influencer glares. “Do you mind?”
The Vakutan shrugs. “You sound weak.”
She straightens. “I have nine million subscribers.”
He takes a slow drink from a water flask. “Can they lift things for you?”
I choke on a laugh and look away before anybody notices.
