“Exactly.”
Outside the window, contestants move like bright purposeful ants between training fields and briefing halls. Every few seconds a drone passes, catching the sun in a cold metallic flash.
I unpack with the brisk focus of a woman holding herself together by sequence. Clothes into drawers. Jesse’s things into the child nook. Med kit into the washroom cabinet. Snacks into the kitchenette compartment. Travel documents in the deskdrawer. Yellow shuttle on the bed, where Jesse sees it and beams as if I’ve restored order to the cosmos.
Then the competition materials.
They’re waiting on the desk in a sleek black folio embossed with the GXC crest. Of course they are. Of course the death pageant has premium stationery.
I sit while Jesse explores and open the folio.
Schedule overview.
Code of conduct.
Compound map.
Media protocol.
Sponsor contact policy.
First-phase briefing locked until tomorrow morning.
Tonight: mandatory meet-and-greet reception, media and sponsors present. Formal casual attire recommended.
“Formal casual,” I mutter. “Die in style, I guess.”
I skim further. Contestants are expected to attend, circulate, and make themselves “available for introductory interaction opportunities.” Meaning smile on command and let powerful strangers assess your marketability like livestock with better lighting.
Jesse climbs onto my lap without warning, nearly knocking the folio sideways.
“Up,” he announces, after the fact.
“Yes, I can see that.”
He nestles in and studies the silver crest on the packet. “Pretty.”
“Everything dangerous is pretty first.”
He leans back to look at me. “Mama grumpy-ficient.”
I laugh before I can help it. “You have got to stop saying that in public.”
“No.”
“Fantastic.”
A soft chime sounds from the wall panel. I cross the room and answer it.
A young staffer appears at the door carrying a garment bag and a slim box. Her uniform is immaculate; her expression says she’s on hour twelve of a customer-service face.
“Ms. Robertson? Welcome package from your sponsor liaison.”
“Oh, good,” I say dryly. “I was worried Brautigaum might fail to capitalize on my distress.”
Her smile flickers with dangerous empathy. “Signature?”
I sign.
