“Same thing if you market it right.”
“That,” I say, “is the most challenging thing anyone has said in this building.”
A boarding chime pulses overhead.
Contestants start gathering bags, straightening clothes, checking travel bands and comms. The crowd noise changes pitch—less waiting, more motion. That dangerous electric hum before something begins.
Dax stands. “See you on the shuttle, performer.”
“See you in the regrettable life choices arena.”
He gives me a finger-gun on the way out, which nearly makes me root for his early elimination.
Boarding is its own little parade. Staff in immaculate uniforms. Security scans. Production assistants hovering with tablets and false urgency. Cameras drifting along the queue hunting reactions.
I give them one over my shoulder as I step onto the ramp. Chin up, half smile, guitar case in hand.
If I’m going to be consumed by spectacle, I might as well season the meat.
The shuttle interior is sleek, overlit, and deeply committed to the fantasy that strapping a hundred adrenaline addicts into upholstered seats makes them civilized. Overhead storage snaps shut. Vents hiss. Engines hum low beneath the deck, a vibration I feel through the soles of my boots.
I stow the bag, keep the guitar case with me, and drop into my seat.
Across the aisle, the influencer is already taking filtered selfies.
Two rows ahead, Scar-Brow Military is reading a physical booklet instead of a comm screen, which I respect irrationally.
A production runner passes through handing out official contestant packets. “Rules updates, transit schedule, payout structure, emergency procedures. Please review before station arrival.”
Payout structure.
Now you’re speaking my language.
I wait until the shuttle lifts before opening it. The ascent presses me back into the seat. Outside the port, the city peels away in strips of light and smoke and geometry. Novaria’s urban veins flare beneath a haze of dawn glare, then thin into orbital traffic.
I should feel sentimental leaving.
Instead, all I can think is that the farther I get from the planet, the harder Mysk becomes to ignore.
I crack open the packet.
Regulations. Waivers. Conduct clauses that suggest somebody somewhere once tried to bite a host. Medical disclosures. Elimination conditions. Team phase adjustments. Sponsor bonuses. Penalty system. Advancement bracket.
Then, finally:
PRIZE PAYOUT SCHEDULE
There you are, sweet thing.
I lean closer, pulse ticking up.
Round advancement bonuses start modestly. Useful money, but not life-changing. Enough to patch a leak, maybe pay a creditor long enough to stop growling. Quarterfinal payout jumps sharply. Semifinal jumps again. The final purse—plus sponsor multipliers, appearance premiums, and victory endorsements—is obscene.
I do the math twice.
Then a third time, slower.
If I make it through early rounds, I can buy myself time.
