“Right,” I murmur. “That.”
I should correct him. Should sayworkortemporary corporate exploitationorthe thing keeping us housed if I don’t die in public.But he looks so delighted that I let him keep the word.
By the time we dock groundside, my nerves feel polished thin.
Contestant transfer from the liner to the compound happens with all the glossy efficiency of a regime that has practiced turning chaos into spectacle. We’re guided down a wide boarding ramp into an arrival concourse made of brushed steel, smoked glass, and walls of giant moving screens that flash contestant names, sponsor logos, and snippets of old challenge footage.
Jesse, strapped into his harness on my chest, turns his face into my neck when the crowd noise spikes. I rub his back automatically.
“Got you,” I murmur.
A line of staff in fitted charcoal uniforms checks travel bands and directs contestants toward separate orientation lanes. One lane for solo contestants. One for dependent accommodations. Bless whoever designed that, because if I had to stand in the same queue as thirty adrenaline junkies with no bags except a smile and some trauma, I might start biting people.
A woman with a headset and a serene expression scans my wristband.
“Tilda Robertson?”
“Yes.”
“Dependent one, Jesse Robertson?”
“That’s right.”
She smiles up at him. “Welcome to Fratvoy One, Jesse.”
He eyes her solemnly, then hides his face in my shoulder.
“Same,” I say.
Her smile twitches. Human. Good. “A family services escort will meet you after intake. Your quarters are assigned in Residential Block C, family section. Childcare orientation is scheduled immediately on arrival.”
“Immediately?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Relief slides through me so quickly it almost hurts. “Good.”
She glances at her slate. “You’ve got extensive accommodation notes in here.”
“I do.”
“So I see.” Her tone sayssomebody’s already been difficult.Correct. “Everything’s set. This way.”
We move through a long corridor with transparent side panels, and then the compound opens around us.
I stop without meaning to.
It’s enormous.
The GXC compound sprawls across a broad terraced valley under a pale blue sky, every piece of it engineered to intimidate and impress. Housing blocks rise in clean angular tiers of white and silver. Training arenas sit beyond them like polished weapons—domes, obstacle towers, open-frame climbing rigs, aquatic pits glinting in the light. Further off, giant enclosed structures I assume are event simulators hum with hidden machinery. Holo billboards shimmer above walkways. Camera drones flick lazily overhead like metallic insects. I can see media buildings too—glass-fronted, overlit, designed for people who make a living narrating other people’s breakdowns.
And all of it is surrounded by manicured landscaping so aggressively beautiful it feels sarcastic. Purple-leafed trees.Sculpted stone paths. Water features. As though if they give trauma a nice enough fountain, we’ll all forget the point of the place.
“Oh, hell,” I breathe.
Jesse lifts his head. “Pretty.”
“Sure,” I say. “If your taste runs to expensive danger.”
