I stare into my empty glass. “Something like that.”
“That’s one of those answers that means yes, but with damage,” she says.
“Generous,” I murmur.
Dax studies me for a moment. Less amused now. “You okay?”
I bark out a laugh. “No. Obviously not.”
Before either of them can add anything more irritatingly perceptive, the lights in the hall shift.
Music swells—big, bright, triumphant nonsense with drums under it, the kind of score that sayssomething dramatic is about to be inflicted upon you for ratings.The suspended light sculptures dim to a cooler glow. The hum of conversation falters, then slides into a curious hush as everyone’s attention tilts toward the far end of the hall.
A circular platform I had assumed was decorative begins to rise from the floor.
“Ah,” Sonya says dryly. “Here comes the host-shaped problem.”
Captain Photonic ascends on the platform like a man personally invented by a boardroom. White suit so tailored it looks aerodynamic. Teeth that could guide ships in at night. Arms flung wide with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted that a crowd exists to adore him.
“Contestants!” he booms.
The room answers with scattered applause, groans, and a few sarcastic cheers.
He beams harder. “Welcome to Fratvoy One! Welcome to the greatest season launch in Galactic Extreme Challenge history!”
Dax leans toward me. “They say that every season, right?”
“Of course,” I murmur. “It’s legally required if you’re wearing that much hair product.”
Photonic paces the stage while cameras swoop in around him like worshipful mechanical birds. Giant display screens descend from the ceiling in a glittering ring, each one flashing the GXC crest.
“Tonight,” he says, voice rising with practiced relish, “you begin more than a competition. You begin a journey! A transformation! A test of your bodies, your wills, your hearts!”
Athearts,half the room visibly stiffens.
Oh no.
No, no.
I have spent enough time around production people to know when language starts getting ornamental for dangerous reasons.
Beside me, Sonya mutters, “I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I,” I say.
Across the hall, Tilda’s attention is on the stage now. Her expression has gone careful. Assessing. She feels it too—the shift in the air. The way the room subtly tightens when producers are about to spring something on people who signed waivers but not, perhaps, this particular flavor of humiliation.
Photonic claps his hands once. “You all know the Challenge tests endurance, strategy, courage, and charisma. But this season…” He turns in a slow circle, milking the silence. “We’re adding an element of emotional truth.”
A ripple moves through the contestants.
“What does that mean?” somebody calls.
Photonic points dramatically into the crowd. “Excellent question, future icon.”
“It means,” he says, lowering his voice to a theatrical purr, “that this season is built around unfinished business.”
My stomach drops.
