Ah.
There she is.
“Yes,” I say. “I ate.”
“Protein?”
“Yes.”
“Actual protein?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
She turns and fixes me with a look sharp enough to dress game. “Bron.”
I hold up both hands. “Yes. Actual protein.”
“Good.”
That should be the end of it. Instead I hear myself say, “You ate?”
Her mouth flattens. “Don’t start.”
“That wasn’t a start. That was basic reciprocity.”
“Yes. I ate.”
I nod solemnly. “Excellent. Look at us. Almost a functioning mammal unit.”
She goes back to the schematic. “Please preserve your energy for not dying.”
The course rises before us in cruel, glittering detail.
A narrow bridge system stretches across a long tank of dark water that churns under the arena lights. Not natural water. It’s too mechanically agitated, too carefully sinister, all rolling surface and hard glints. The bridge itself is a segmented route of narrow planks and suspended platforms connected by rails and partial supports, some fixed, some obviously designed to move at the worst possible time. Above it, huge pendulum obstacles swing in overlapping arcs—padded, probably, but still fully capable of knocking a person clean off balance and into the drink.
And in the drink?—
Movement.
Big movement.
Silver-black shapes cutting just below the surface.
I lean forward slightly. “Those are not decorative.”
“No,” Tilda says.
One of the screens zooms tight on the tank and, because production is run by monsters with graphics packages, labels the species:FRATVOYAN RAZORFINS.
The fish breach just enough to show rows of glittering teeth before slapping back into the water.
“Well,” I say. “That feels unnecessary.”
Captain Photonic strides onto the announcing platform in a white jacket so bright it may actually be audible. “Contestants! Welcome to your first elimination challenge!”
The crowd cheers.
The fish churn.
