My escort glances over with the tiny startled look people get when they forget contestants are actual people and not just future highlight reels.
“This facility was custom-built for the Challenge,” she says.
“I can tell. Nothing says ‘good decisions ahead’ like twelve separate training arenas.”
She almost smiles, then remembers her training and suppresses it.
We take a transport cart through the compound. Other contestants are arriving in clusters, some gawking openly, some already acting like they own the place. I clock bodies built like tanks, people in high-end performance gear, sponsor entourages, staff carrying tablets like priestly texts. Somewhere nearby a siren whoops briefly, followed by cheers from a practice field. My skin prickles.
I force myself not to stare at the larger arenas.
One problem at a time.
The family services building sits slightly apart from the main housing ring, attached to Block C by a secured walkway. That makes sense. More controlled traffic, less random contestant chaos near the children. Already I approve more than I expected to.
Inside, the temperature is cooler. The smell changes too—clean fabric, soft disinfectant, faint fruit from somewhere nearby, and the warm yeasty scent of fresh bread. A good sign. Real food, not just emergency nutrient paste. The lighting is lower here, gentler. Noise dampening in the walls. The floorhas enough give under my shoes that I know somebody thought about falling toddlers.
A broad-shouldered man in slate scrubs meets us at reception. Human, middle-aged, thick braid over one shoulder, face lined in a way that suggests both humor and competence.
“Ms. Robertson? I’m Kavi Pell. Family services.” He extends a hand, then looks at Jesse. “And this must be our famous furniture concern.”
I blink. Then laugh. “You got the notes.”
“I wrote the notes.” He shakes my hand. Firm, warm, steady. “Come on. Let’s show you where your son will be proving our insurance premiums were justified.”
That is the first reassuring thing anyone in authority has said to me in days.
Jesse peers at him. “You funny.”
Kavi grins. “That’s how we trap confidence.”
He leads us through the daycare center, and I catalog everything automatically.
Secure doors with layered access. Visible med station. Open play areas broken into age zones. Reinforced climbing structures with padded flooring. Sleep rooms with temperature controls. Low tables that are definitely strength-rated. Storage bins bolted in place. Two staff members in the infant area. Three in the mixed-age room. Good staffing ratios.
A little girl with blue skin and four tiny horns toddles by carrying a plush sea monster. A Khepri toddler is stacking soft blocks with eerie precision. One exhausted-looking caregiver is negotiating with a shrieking Trinex child who has apparently decided gravity is a personal insult.
This, at least, looks like real childcare. Not a staged brochure set.
Kavi stops beside a smaller enclosed play room.
“For higher-strength developmental profiles,” he says. “Mixed Vakutan, young Odex, occasional Genari in growth phases. We adapt by age, not just species.”
I step inside. The equipment is solid. The chair frames are reinforced. The crib rails in the adjoining nap room are metal-cored beneath the soft coatings. Temperature control panel near the wall. Good ventilation. No obvious breakables. No loose shelving to tip.
I look at Kavi. “And staff?”
“Rotating specialists on this wing twenty-four hours. We don’t use punitive restraint except imminent-harm situations, and even then only with approved species-specific protocols. Mostly we redirect, exhaust, distract, or outsmart.”
“Outsmart a Vakutan toddler?”
Kavi lifts a brow. “You’d be surprised what bubbles and snacks can accomplish.”
Jesse, overhearingsnacks,lifts one hand. “I like snacks.”
Kavi nods solemnly. “Excellent. We’ll build diplomacy around your strengths.”
I set Jesse down and watch him wander toward a low tactile wall full of gears and lights. He touches one panel. It spins without coming off in his hand. Another small exhale leaves me.
