The first pair goes.
It is educational in all the ways disaster often is.
They make good time through the opening section, too confident by half. On the second platform, one of them cuts left to avoid a swing arc and hits what looks like solid footing. It isn’t. The plank drops two inches, a hidden mechanism clanks awake, and suddenly the pendulum timing changes. The secondcontestant gets clipped hard, stumbles, slams into the rail, and barely catches herself before pitching over the side.
The fish erupt beneath her with such violent excitement the whole arena recoils.
“Ah,” I say softly. “Noted.”
Tilda doesn’t look at me. “I told you there were traps.”
“Yes, commander.”
“Stop sounding amused.”
“I’m terrified. My voice just has range.”
She almost smiles.
Almost.
The next pairs confirm her read. Right approach safer. Center split necessary. Timing everything. One pair makes it fast by staying synchronized and low. Another gets rattled by the fish and loses nearly a minute hesitating.
When our lane number flashes, my pulse slams up into my throat.
This is it.
A production assistant clips our mics, checks our harness sensors, and points us toward the starting platform. The bridge looms ahead, all narrow steel supports and treacherous grace. The air above the tank is cooler, damp with atomized spray. The fish smell faintly metallic, like blood diluted in water.
“Lane four,” the announcer says, “Bron and Tilda—one of the season’s most volatile pairings. Can tension become teamwork?”
The crowd makes the delighted noise of people rooting for chemistry or disaster and not caring which arrives first.
Tilda steps onto the start plate and doesn’t even glance toward the stands. “Stay with me.”
“Planning to.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and for one suspended second the noise drops out. I can see the strain in her. The control. The calculation running hot behind her eyes. There’smore here than the challenge. More than me. Something coiled under all that focus.
I don’t have time to figure it out.
The horn blasts.
We move.
The first planks flex under our combined weight. Below us, the water boils with interested motion. The Razorfins are enormous up close, sleek bodies flashing as they circle, teeth catching light every time one breaks the surface.
I make the mistake of looking down too long.
“Eyes up,” Tilda snaps.
“Right.”
Swinging obstacle first. A massive padded cylinder sweeps across the bridge at chest height, then returns on a shorter arc. Tilda slows half a step, counts under her breath, then slides through at the exact moment the backswing opens.
I follow.
The bridge shivers under my boots.
