She hands over the bag and box. “Reception begins at nineteen hundred in the Solarium Hall. Contestants are expected to arrive no later than eighteen-fifty.”
“Expected by whom?”
“Production.”
“Ah. Tyranny, then.”
That almost gets another smile. She escapes before it fully lands.
I hang the garment bag on the closet hook and unzip it.
Inside is a dress.
Of course it is.
Dark blue, structured but soft, simple enough not to screamdesperate sponsor puppet,expensive enough that I know Brautigaum wants me to look polished and accessible and just hot enough to photograph well under flattering light. The box contains shoes. Sensible heels, miracle of miracles.
Jesse points. “Pretty.”
“Suspiciously.”
I hold the dress up against myself in the mirror. It fits the image they clearly want—competent woman, understated elegance, human interest package with cheekbones. I hate that I understand this now. I hate even more that it might help.
I set it aside and return to the desk.
If I have to survive this place, I need information faster than I need indignation.
The compound map shows the residential blocks arranged around a central spine of training halls, dining facilities, med centers, and media zones. Family services sits off the eastern branch. Good. Slightly removed. Less foot traffic. Training Arena One is much too close to everything. Media hub on the west side. Reception hall central, naturally, so nobody can avoid it without making a statement.
Jesse has discovered the drawer full of tiny pencils and is trying to line them up by some logic known only to children and prophets. I let him. The quiet is useful.
I read through media rules next.
No discussing unrevealed event content.
No disparaging sponsors during official coverage.
Dependent minors prohibited from media exposure without special clearance.
Unauthorized physical altercations subject to penalties.
I pause there and think,How often did that happen before they wrote it down?
There’s a soft knock at the half-open door.
I look up.
A woman about my age stands in the corridor with two duffels and an expression that says she has already judged the entire compound and found it lacking. Human. Tall. Dark braided hair. Thick forearms. Scar crossing one knee. She points at the room opposite mine.
“You know if this is 2C-14?”
I glance at the plaque. “That’s 2C-12. So yours should be across.”
“Thanks.”
She starts to turn away, then notices Jesse. “You brought a kid?”
“I did.”
