The trainer behind him holds talons to his throat, and the threat’s implied.
The slightly older Zan doesn’t complete the task in time, and the instructor slashes across his face.
I’m horrified, absolutely stricken at what he’s seen and experienced.
Poor Zan.
This is sick.
I absolutely refuse to give Ken any emotional footage that he can use to splice together.
Zan’s life is his, and even if he did sign up for this, he didn’t sign up to have all of his childhood pain splashed across the screen, made into fictional drama.
This is real.
This isn’t some joke.
Ken can push me all he wants. He can show my deepest, darkest secrets. He can make fun of me, he can make a fool of me, but he cannot hurt Zan.
I won’t let him make us a spectacle, because what we have isn’t a spectacle.
Not at all.
It’s real.
The third scene begins to play, and I recognize this version of Zan, because this is the one that’s mine.
The white scar given to him across his face by his former military instructor, well-worn, older, massive compared to the younger versions of him, and deadly.
A comms tablet is held in front of him, and the angle of the scene changes slightly so that I can tell he’s signing a contract, a contract clearly labeled theMated and Afraidreality television series.
A voice I recognize as the Roth who was somewhere in the audience asks Zan, “Are you ready to find your mate? Are you ready to have the love of your life?”
Zan smiles smugly and answers clearly, “Yes, absolutely.”
And I know the one that’s the lie immediately.
“It’s that one!” I scream, pointing to the third scenario. “That one’s the lie. Zan didn’t come here looking for a mate.”
Triumph races through me because I know I’m correct. I know I’m right about this, and it doesn’t matter to me that he didn’t join this wanting a mate at all.
It doesn’t bother me one bit, because I sure as hell didn’t either, and yet I ended up with one that was perfectly suited for me.
The screens disappear, the silence replaced by the horrific roar of the crowd and the bubbling, hissing of the magma.
A quick glance down tells me it’s closer than before, and whether the rock is sinking or the magma is rising it doesn’t matter, because both options are equally terrible.
I glance over to where Zan is standing on his black column of rock, clearly undecided between his three scenarios of mine, and I wonder briefly what it is he’s seeing. Before fear takes the wheel, and I wonder if he knows me well enough to decide which of my memories are the truth and which is the lie.
Finally, Zan points at the middle option of his and says something, his mouth moving, but he’s too far away to make out. Whatever bubble of silence I was trapped in, he clearly is as well.
His rock shakes, and I scream in spite of myself as he registers the new noise of the crowd, clearly finishing his task at hand.
I want to ask him what he saw, what he picked, but there isn’t enough time before both of our columns begin moving forward.
With a harsh lurch that almost sends me flying off the rock, I crouch, hanging on with my fingernails to the black rock,grateful there’s at least enough texture that I can get a good handhold.
Our columns finally hit the next black embankment, and I practically leap to safety the minute it touches.
