CHAPTER 11
TILDA
The rankings go up after breakfast on a wall-sized holo in the main commons, because apparently public humiliation is more festive when served with fruit and synthetic coffee.
Everybody stops pretending not to care.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Forks pause halfway to mouths. Chairs scrape. Even the couples who’ve spent the last several days performing cool indifference drift closer to the glowing board with the same tight-faced hunger. The room smells like burnt caf, buttered starch rolls, nervous sweat, and the sharp lemon cleaner the production crew uses every morning to make the compound look less like a pressure cooker full of damaged exes.
I stand with my tray in my hands and feel my pulse in my wrists.
Bron comes up beside me carrying enough food for three people and the expression of a man arriving at a fireworks display he assumes will be about him.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says.
I don’t look at him. “Don’t call me that before rankings.”
He leans in a little. “Would ‘beloved enemy’ soothe you?”
“No.”
“‘Co-parent of my unresolved?—’”
I turn my head just enough to cut him a look. “Finish that sentence and I’ll poison your eggs.”
He grins, entirely too pleased with himself. “There she is.”
The holo flickers. Music swells overhead, dramatic enough to accompany a military funeral. Captain Photonic’s face blazes across the screen at approximately the size of a municipal monument.
“Champions, heartbreakers, and ratings miracles,” he booms, “the latest audience-and-performance composite standings are now live.”
A collective hush drops over the room.
Then the list begins to scroll.
Couple names. Sponsor logos. Point totals. Movement arrows. Red danger band at the bottom. Safe zone above it.
My mouth goes dry.
Bron and I stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin sleeve of my training jacket. I hate that I notice that. I hate even more that my body notices before my brain can start filing objections.
The names climb.
Vanna and Pajack. Safe.
Zack and Dartha. Safe.
Some pair from the mining sector whose names I can never remember. Safe.
Then—
Bron Verak & Tilda Robertson — Safe. Rank 18.
I let out a breath so fast it almost hurts.
Bron lets out a soft whistle. “Eighteenth. Look at us.”
“Don’t sound smug. We’re not even top ten.”
