"Peeble."
"A competitor got launched into the sun once. He's fine. Probably."
I scan the crowd below, searching for a specific face. Red hair. Sharp eyes. The kind of presence that draws attention whether she wants it to or not.
"What about Elle? What happened to her in this iteration?"
"Oh." Peeble's excitement dims slightly. "Yeah, about that. Iteration Fifteen Elle was... different."
"Different how?"
"She was kind of terrifying, actually. Refused to work with you, me, or any of the crew. She hooked up with a group of outlaw types, bandits, deserters, the kind of people who carved out their own territory and dared anyone to take it from them. Rumor was she ran the whole operation within a year of arriving."
I absorb that. An Elle who didn't ally with us. Didn't trust us. Went her own way. It's hard to picture, but the iterations produce all kinds of variations.
"And me? The version of me in this iteration?"
Peeble makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough. "Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
"After Elle shut you down, and I mean hard, she apparently told you that she'd rather eat her own boot than spend another minute in your company; you withdrew from everyone in a fortress on the other side of the realm. Barely left. Stopped training. Stopped fighting."
"I retreated."
"You pouted. Like a baby. Just sat around in your fortress eating cheese and feeling sorry for yourself." Peeble shrugs withtheir whole body. "It's no wonder she didn't want you. You gave up. This version of you, anyway."
The words land harder than they should. An alternate version of me who let rejection break him. Who stopped being useful because one person turned him away. It's pathetic.
"So I won't be running into myself here."
"Not unless you go looking, and trust me, you don't want to. It's depressing."
Fine. That's one less complication. I return my attention to the clearing. "Then we go down, find out if anyone's seen unusual activity—timeline disturbances, people appearing out of nowhere—and move on."
"OR," Peeble says, already buzzing toward the crowd, "we enjoy the games, gather intelligence in a casual and non-threatening way, and have a wonderful time doing it!"
"Peeble, get back here."
But they're gone. Darting into the crowd with the speed and determination of a beetle who has found their purpose. I stand at the treeline for approximately four seconds before I realize that chasing them through a packed arena will draw more attention than just walking in calmly.
I adjust my armor, check that my weapons are accessible but not drawn, and descend into the amphitheater. I keep to the edges, moving along the outer ring where the vendors and spectators are densest. Nobody seems to pay me much attention. Good.
Then a caller's horn sounds, a deep, resonant blast that silences the crowd. A figure on a raised platform, at the clearing's center, raises their arms. They're tall, built like a boulder with legs, their voice carrying through the amphitheater with the help of some amplification enchantment.
"Welcome, people of the free territories, to the thirty-fourth Rootbreaker Games!"
The crowd erupts. I press closer to the inner ring, trying to spot Peeble.
"We have a special guest today," the caller continues, their voice dripping with theatrical flair. "A competitor who needs no introduction, though I'll give him one anyway because I enjoy the sound of my voice!"
No.
"He's tall! He's dark! He's got that look on his face like he's smelled something unpleasant!"
No. No, no, no.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and beings of indeterminate categorization, I give you the Rebel Prince himself—KAELREN!"
