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“Unfortunately,” I said, nodding tightly. My eyes flicked from her hand on my shoulder, taking in her closely trimmed nails to her eyes, ringed with elaborate golden liner.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed. I’m afraid we are starting to run a little thin on time.”
I stood and followed her through the curtain on the far side of the tent into a room full of stations with chairs. It reminded me a bit of a hair salon—if hair salons made a habit of keeping racks of clothes and cosmetics at arm’s reach.
There were even a few weapons propped up in the back, ready for the contestants to pose with them and make sure their character was on point for the night's show.
Many of the Seekers were already sitting in their chairs, chatting happily with their stylists. My eyes lingered on a girl near the front as she gushed about her outfit.
“Isn’t it just going to look beautiful with all the blood splattered on it?” she asked. “I know there are some fetish viewers out there that would pay big bucks to get a sneak peek under a bloodied skirt. What do you think? Is this too–”
“Oh, I justknewI had to grab you,” the stylist whispered to me conspiratorially, flashing a wide smile as she pushed me into a chair. Her interruption was enough to pull me back to what was in front of me. “I wassodisappointed when you weren’t in the press junket. I’m Iris.”
I smiled tightly, practicing acting like I was enjoying this. It was hard to ignore the buzzing in the room. Everyone sat happily in their chairs, picking out what would make them stand out the most, not even thinking twice about what was going to happen in the wall of the arena.
“Wasn’t sure I was going to play,” I said after a moment.
There were two main components to the games: gaining points and maintaining viewership. The more people watching you—the better show you put on—the easier the Architects made it for you. I needed this to be easy.
The stylist laughed like I’d told the funniest joke she’d ever heard. Maybe to her the idea that a Legacy wouldn’t enterwasfunny. Or maybe I was more charming than I thought.
Something told me it was the former.
My information transferred to the mirror, the screen lighting digitally with a flood of data. My username, height, age, weight, hair texture, and skin undertone sailed by so quickly I hardly had time to read them.
Iris nodded thoughtfully, like she was considering the Mona Lisa instead of what was, effectively, my passport.
“God, I’ve wanted to get my hands on you foryears,” she said, moving forward to rummage through a case of cosmetics on the clear acrylic counter. “You have the best cheekbones.”
“No makeup,” I said quickly, feeling my skin heat with embarrassment, I added a hasty, “Please.”
“Not like you need it anyway,” she said, sending me another toothy smile that met her warm, dark eyes. “I’m more interested in what you’ll bewearing.”
She circled the chair so I could catch her face in the mirror as she studied my measurements on the screen. “Killers are soboringmost of the time, you know. But this year they went with this edgy, cyber punk theme—you’ll love it, it’s very video game.”
I doubted I’d love anything about this process but didn’t bother to correct her.
“With a body like this, I’m sure we can put you in something that’ll have you rolling in gifts. Viewers go crazy for a bit of skin, you know.”
I let out a huff like I didn’t give a fuck what theviewersthought, but in all honesty, getting their attention would only work in my favor. As much as I hated the attention of my lineage my entire life, it would come in handy during the games.
Especially if I could get a few gifts here and there.
And Ireallyneeded some help if I wanted any hope of winning.
I hadn’t exactly made any friends to walk into the arena with, putting me at a disadvantage before we’d even begun.
Everyone knew the games didn’t start when you entered the arena—it was when you registered. For someone like me with parents who’d won the games in a previous year, they started at birth.
That’s why everyone knew my name. Why the kids I’d grown up with had their faces plastered everywhere for the last few weeks. In the early stages of the game, recognition waseverything. The press junket just gave them a jumpstart on the competition, introducing them to the viewers before we even started.
My attention drifted as her mind spun. To the left of me was a particularly muscular man in nothing but a tight tank top and jeans. He held a large machete over his head, checking himself out in the mirror. His stylist leaned close to him, bright red paint on her hand, and pressed it flat just over his chest.
“Lift your tank top a bit, girls will go feral if they see a bit of blood when you raise your arms,” she said to him.
“I think they’ll notice the difference between fake and real blood,” he said.
The stylist let out a laugh.
