Nearby, other pairs are already reacting in predictable ways. One man is insisting he’ll “just carry” his former partner through half the course. She responds by asking whether he’d like to die before or after she pushes him off the beam. Sonya is down the rail with her so-called prison-adjacent ex, both of them glaring at the cylinder like it insulted their families. Dax is flirting with his pair in what appears to be either genius strategy or advanced self-destruction.
A whistle cuts through the arena.
A trainer in black steps onto the floor. Tall, shaved head, voice like gravel wrapped in command.
“Welcome to paired orientation,” she barks. “You’ve all been volunteered for emotional nonsense. Our job is to keep your bones mostly inside your skin while you figure out whether you can function together.”
A few contestants laugh. Most don’t.
She points to the course. “Tomorrow’s first elimination challenge uses variant structures based on these mechanics. Tonight you learn your weaknesses. Pairs will run abbreviated segments, then repeat after coaching.”
Bron murmurs, “Mostly inside your skin. Reassuring.”
I keep watching the trainer.
“No heroics,” she continues. “No attempting shortcuts unless you enjoy disqualification. We are timing you, recording you, and evaluating your pair dynamic from the first whistle. If you have unresolved interpersonal garbage, congratulations. So does everyone else. You will still get over the wall.”
That, at least, I respect.
We’re assigned lane markers. Mine flashes with Bron’s name beside mine in brutal silver text.
I hate seeing them together.
Not because it’s ugly.
Because once upon a time it would have felt inevitable.
The trainer sends the first set of pairs out.
I watch every run.
That’s what I do. I watch, and the world turns into patterns.
A physically stronger pair blows the balance section because neither one yields pace. Another pair communicates beautifully until the puzzle gate, where both talk at once and lose seventeen seconds to confusion. One woman nearly solves the crawl tunnel blind by tapping the floor rhythm before committing weight. Useful. Very useful.
Bron stretches beside me, rolling one shoulder, then the other. Casual. Too casual.
“Stop that,” I say.
He glances over. “Stretching?”
“Treating this like a concert warm-up.”
A smile ghosts at his mouth. “I stretch before those too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re not.” I gesture at the course. “You’re leaning on the rail making jokes while I’m trying to stop us from dying in public.”
His face shifts a little. Not offended exactly. More… attentive.
“I know you’re serious,” he says. “I’m not mocking you.”
“You are performing ease.”
He lifts a brow. “And you’re performing control. We all bring our coping skills to the apocalypse, sweetheart.”
