“Or interesting,” she says. “Sometimes they’ll keep a disaster around if the disaster performs well enough.”
I put a hand to my heart. “Finally. A category I may dominate.”
A man a few feet down the rail looks over, recognizes me, and groans. “Oh no. It’s the musician.”
I spread my arms. “The very same.”
He’s Odex, broad through the chest, shaved head, expression of a man who flosses with contempt. “Please tell me you’re not one of those contestants who thinks banter is a substitute for training.”
“Please tell me you’re not one of those contestants who confuses being humorless with being formidable.”
Sonya makes a strangled noise into her drink.
The Odex man glares. “I’m Kett.”
“Bron.”
“I know.”
“How flattering.”
He points at the screen. “Public vote is noise. Performance matters.”
“Darling,” I say, “on any televised enterprise, noise is performance.”
He looks like he wants to throw me into the obstacle pit himself. I beam at him until he stalks off.
Sonya exhales through her nose. “You make friends fast.”
“I believe in building a rich social environment.”
“You’re going to get hit.”
“I’m Vakutan. It’s practically cultural enrichment.”
She shakes her head and moves on, but I catch the ghost of another smile as she goes.
I stay a while longer, watching.
The more I see, the more the shape of the thing emerges. There’s the physical contest, sure. That part is obvious. Sweat, speed, endurance, pain. But layered over it is narrative. Who do the cameras follow? Who cracks under pressure in photogenic ways? Who gives a good interview? Who turns strain into charisma?
That part, at least, I understand down to the marrow.
I start clocking not just the contenders, but the cameras. Where they linger. Which contestants know how to anglethemselves toward a lens even when pretending they don’t. Which trainers speak to the room and which speak to the nearest drone.
A woman with silver brows from the shuttle appears on a track below, running intervals with a gait so smooth it seems unfair. A floating camera darts alongside her. Without breaking stride, she flashes two fingers at it and says something that makes the operator laugh. Smart. Tiny moment. Human. Memorable.
I file it away.
By the time I circle back to Block A, the sun has started to dip, pouring amber light over the compound and turning the white buildings gold at the edges. My room screen pings the first of three increasingly passive-aggressive reminders about tonight’s meet-and-greet. The garment bag in the closet is, naturally, immaculate and offensive.
Black suit. Open collar. Tailored like the designer took one look at me and thought,Yes, but what if we made his bad decisions look expensive?
I hold it up and sigh. “You manipulative bastards.”
The suit fits perfectly.
Of course it does.
