Archive of Our Own ^beta

Well, today's the day.

You don't one hundred percent know how you feel about that, honestly.

Nervous, you guess. What if you mess up? What if you're culled for some reason before the main event? What if someone notices you sneaking away for the two seconds it'll take to prepare? What if you don't get to finish? About a million and one things could go wrong.

It'll all end the same either way, though.

But you really, really want this to be successful.

You've spent your whole life training for this. So many hours spent learning how to be a waiter, a butler, a chef, and so many more spent putting it into practice. Too many of them spent working in some fancy, high class restaurant or hive.

Or a crusty, low class one. There wasn't much difference in the pay, which was next to none.

You think you prefer the low class ones though, honestly. It might be more dirty work, scraping gum off the bottom of tables and scrubbing the bathroom stalls when some asshole decides it would be funny to clog the sinks and toilets, but at least the highbloods rarely came around, since they're always the ones that get off on pushing the servers around, metaphorically and literally.

But that didn't stand a chance of getting you where you are now.

So you strived to be the best, working in the best hives and restaurants you could get hired in, enduring whatever humiliation the highbloods decided to cast onto you, and learning how to move as fast as you could so you could get their orders out in an “acceptable” time frame.

Which is usually ridiculously small, but you make it work.

That's how you got where you are now.

Which, if someone looked at you right now, wouldn't look like much.

Half awake, hanging out of your recuperacoon and covered in slime after another nightmare fueled sleepless day.

You don't know why you bother, really. It’s not like the sopor slime lowbloods have actually works, and it really isn't all that comfortable either. All the cold, weirdly textured slime all over isn't that pleasant. Plus the stickiness that comes soon after emerging and the air making it ten times colder, and the required shower with not-much-warmer water it takes to get the shit off.

You might actually sleep better somewhere else, with it being more comfortable. And there would be a hell of a lot less hassle in the morning.

You wish you'd thought to try that sooner.

Oh well. You’re at least thankful you were allowed a few days home before the last round.

You drag yourself out of your recuperacoon, hoisting yourself above the edge and swinging a leg over, slinging slime all over the towels you keep at the base.

That's another thing you don't like about recuperacoons. The slime gets all over the floor and is a drag to clean up, so you lay towels down the night before so all you have to do is switch them out. Which, to be honest, you'd probably do less often if it didn't smell like something died within a day.

Shivering from the cold, you wipe your feet on the towels and rub the sleep from your eyes, flinging the slime off your fingers, then head for the shower. You throw your soggy boxers into the hamper and step into the shower, turning the pressure on as high as it would go – which wasn't much – and letting the not-quite-warm water hit your back and run down your legs.

You make it quick, only sparing about a minute to just sit under the water and enjoy the flow.

You comb your fingers through your hair, rubbing the shampoo in and working out the tangles, and let it sit while you lather your body with soap.

You watch as the bubbles pour down the drain in a spiral while rinsing off, head bowed and letting soapy water fall past your eyes in rivulets.

You turn off the water and hop out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a coarse towel as quick as you can to keep the bite of the cold air off you.

You blow dry your hair and towel dry the rest of your body, then slip into your outfit, scowling at the stiff and humid feel.

You slick your hair back, polish your horns, slip on your shoes and you’re finally ready.

You make sure to leave your hive door unlocked - probably for the first time ever - so your friends can find the notes you left them. They’ll surely visit your hive after tonight.

You climb into your scuttlebuggy and punch in the destination, letting the autopilot do its thing. Within twenty minutes you’ve arrived, parked behind the hexagonal building.

You sit in the scuttlebuggy for a few minutes, heart pounding in your chest at what’s about to go down here just a few short hours from now.

Maybe you shouldn’t do this. Once you take even the first step of the plan, there’s no going back. Maybe you should reconsider. Just keep your head down and let the night go smoothly.

But no. You can’t do that.

Even now, it’s far too late to go back. Your time to reconsider was sweeps ago. The only reason you’re here now is because of this dream you’ve wanted to carry out for so long.

If you chicken out now, it will all have been for nothing. All the effort you’ve put in, all the boot licking you’ve done, the literal blood, sweat and tears you’ve put into this, it would all be wasted. Plus, who knows if you’d ever get another shot at it.

So, of course you have to do it. There’s no other option.

You lean forward, hands on your knees, close your eyes and take a deep breath to try and calm your nerves.

You see a shadow fall over your window out of the corner of your eye, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You almost think that someone’s read your mind and come to haul you over to a drone before you can even set foot in the building.

But you’re immediately comforted when you hear three sharp taps on the window. When you look over, you see Xhanea, your… friend, who’s also competing at this restaurant tonight.

You swallow and press the button to roll down the window, trying to disguise how on edge you are and hoping he wouldn’t notice how much you’re sweating.

It doesn’t work.

“Woah, dude, are you okay?”

“Uh,” you stutter, “Yea? Yes. Just– Nervous, I guess,” you let out a shaky laugh and fall back against the seat.

He barks out a laugh, “Yea, I understand,” (he really doesn’t) “Anyway, I just came to warn you we start in like, 5 minutes.”

You glance at the clock and mutter under your breath, “Shit.”

Turning back to him, you say, “Okay, thanks. I’ll be right in.”

“Alright, see you in there. Hey,” he says, leaning onto the window, “you’re gonna do great. In a few hours, we’ll both be up there in space, with better living quarters, better food, a better job, living the dream, yea?” he gives you a sincere smile, and you can’t help but smile back.

“Yea,” you say, chest tightening at having to lie to him like this.

He pats you on the shoulder, and with that he turns and walks back into the building.

Xhanea. He’s been your friend for a while now, ever since the competition to decide who would be serving at this event.

Those were the most nerve-wracking few months out of all of this, constantly under surveillance and scrutiny, waiting for the screw-up that would demolish all your chances to finish what you started. But hey, you made it.

Yay…

You first started talking about three days into it. You were supposed to be cooking a dish from memory, but unfortunately it was one that you had more difficulty with. You couldn’t remember which ingredient to use, and depending on which one you went with, it would either make or break the whole dish. He’d seen you frozen, trying to remember which one was the correct one, sweating from the pressure of having a drone breathing down your neck and waiting to drag you off and blow you sky high for a big enough mistake.

You were working next to each other. He’d grabbed your attention by discreetly tapping his claw on the counter, and then jerking his head to the right to indicate it was the eytelia that needed to be used.

You remember thinking that he was probably giving you the wrong answer, trying to get you disqualified to increase his own chances.

But hey, you were gonna die eventually anyway, whether it be 1 sweep from now or 6 sweeps, and this dude could very well be trying to help, so what the fuck. It was better than sitting there indecisively for another 45 seconds.

So you put the feverweed back, and began slicing up the eytelia. The drones didn’t respond to this, but you found it too early to be relieved.

But your worries were unfounded. You passed that test with flying colors, and was able to stay for the next part of the tournament.

You made sure you were early to the sleeping quarters so you could try to catch him as everyone else was filing in. You don’t think you would ever get used to the sight of this room. It’s not like they put a lot of effort into making it fancy (You’re only gutterbloods, after all) But the large, circular room with walls covered floor to ceiling in exactly five-hundred softly glowing recuperacoons, with a gradual shift in color from rust to jade to fuchsia and back again, it was kinda pretty. 

The rust started at either side of the entrance, with fuchsia coming to a head opposite of the door. In your opinion, it should have started with rust at the left, and ended with fuchsia at the right, completing the color wheel.

But now that you thought about it, it was probably done like this on purpose, placing fuchsia and rust at opposing ends. Otherwise, people might start to get ideas.

You were lost in thought standing by the doorway, and almost missed your chance. You noticed him just as he was about to step out of range, and tapped on the doorframe three times with your claw, hoping to grab his attention the same way he grabbed yours.

Luckily, it worked.

But also, unluckily.

You realized that you had no idea what to say. You hadn’t thought this through at all. Why hadn’t you taken even two seconds to think? What were you supposed to say in this situation? “Hi, thanks for decreasing your chances of winning and getting the job of your dreams and in the process helping someone who absolutely plans to throw this opportunity away, provided he succeeds in this competition,” yea. Classic.

But you were also not the same person you were two sweeps ago, and you’d be damned if you let this conversation go awkwardly. Maybe you could make an ally.

“Hey, thanks for saving my skin back there,” okay, cool, that’s a decent start.

“Oh, yea, no problem,” he replied.

“So…” Shit .

“...Can I ask why you did it? I mean, you risked your life to help a rival,” great. Question his helpfulness. That’s a great way to get someone on your side. Fantastic.

“All my friends are back in the city. They didn’t manage to get picked, and I didn’t really want to be alone during all this. Plus, you’re kinda cute,” his eyes briefly scanned your body and then he winked, a small smile playing on his lips.

You blinked in surprise. Shit, was he hitting on you? You’d never really had much luck with quadrants, and you never really planned on getting to know anybody here, much less get intimate with any of them.

But you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t cute too.

“Uh,” you said, quite eloquently. Great, looks like you’re still managing to be the awkward one here.

He chuckles and glances at the floor, “Sorry.” 

You quickly regained your composure, “It’s fine. Just,” you paused, “wasn’t really expecting it. Can I ask why you’re here?” you asked, changing the subject.

“Who says I wasn’t drafted here against my will?”

Shit.

“S-sorry,” you hurried to apologize, “you said your friends didn’t ‘manage’ to get picked, so I guess I just assumed you were trying to get in…” you said, trailing off near the end.

“Nah, I’m just teasing, we were trying to get in,” he reassured, “I just figured winning the whole thing would be pretty great. Traveling around with the Heiress, warm water, decent recuperacoons, good food, all that. If I lose, I just go back to my boring old life, and if I get culled, well,” he shrugged, “it’s not like there’s much to go back to anyway.”

You nodded, “Yea, that sounds about right, to be honest,” you were absolutely not being honest.

“Anyway,” you started, “it’s getting late, we should probably hit the ‘coon. We can talk more tomorrow though, yeah?”

His face brightened a bit, “Yeah, that’d be great. Before we go, can I get your name?”

Ah, right. Names are a thing.

“Xefros. Xefros Tritoh.”

“Well then, Xefros. Pleased to meet you. I’m Xhanea Sinyaz.” 

He held out his hand and gave you a flirty smirk when you shook it.

“Goodday, Xhanea,” you say.

“Goodday, Xefros.”

And with that you returned to get ready for sleep.

That night you laid in your ‘coon thinking about how this whole system is a double edged sword. The top five-hundred chefs, butlers, and waiters (most are all three) from all over Alternia are drafted into this competition. Some people try to get drafted, others try to lose as soon as they set foot in the building. If you’re in the top 50 by the end, you get to move on to the final round, which in itself is something people want to participate in without necessarily winning. And then if you’re in the top 25 of that , you get the Ultimate Prize. Capital U, capital P.

It can be a tricky thing to manage, depending on your goal. Of course, if you’re trying to win the whole thing, all you have to do is try your god-damned hardest and hope for the best. But if you only want to participate in the final round and then go home after that, you have to get into the bottom 25 by being worse than everyone else, but in a way that isn’t cull-worthy.

Which is a very thin tightrope to walk.

The only thing you need to do is get into the final round, and then it’s simple from there on out.

After that day you would talk with Xhanea whenever you got the chance. Beginning of night, during breaks, and at day just before sleep. You have to admit, though you didn’t plan on it, it was nice having a friend through all this. (Though you could never tell if his flirting was sincere or just friendly joking.)

Before you knew it, you two were closer than you ever thought you would be to someone. Than you thought you could be to someone. You felt like you had known each other your whole life.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. You traded tips and tricks, and helped each other out whenever you could manage. You talked about life at home, where you lived, favorite music, movies, hobbies, everything in between and nothing at all. You even requested a recuperacoon change so you could sleep next to each other with some bullshit excuse that the person next to you kept snoring and made it harder to get to sleep.

After that, you two stayed up longer, talking the day away.

You helped each other through the more stressful times. Sometimes there were more rigorous tests that no one saw coming, that really probably served no purpose other than to off a few contestants. Sometimes the drones were particularly agitated for no discernable reason, dragging people away for the smallest mistakes. Sometimes someone didn’t go to sleep on time, and that was reason enough for a culling.

You pull yourself out of the memories and return to the present. This is no time to reminisce, you have a contest to screw up.

You take a few more minutes before exiting the scuttlebuggy and rush into the building just as they’re about to start calling attendance, taking your place right next to Xhanea.

He gives you a mocking smirk, “Nice of you to join us,” he whispers over the loud voice of the person doing troll- uh, you mean, roll call.

“Nice of you to… uh…” you try to think of a smart remark, but your mind falls blank.

“Cat got your tongue?” His smirk turns into a full-blown shit eating grin.

“Yea, kinda,” you mutter.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, nudging you with his arm,”You’ll do great. In a few short hours we’ll be living the dream,” his grin finally morphs into a genuine, encouraging smile.

“Xhanea Sinyaz?” the voice boomed.

“Present!” He replied.

“Yea,” you say quietly.

“Xefros Tritoh?”

“Present!”

You smile sadly at Xhanea and hope he doesn’t notice.

He probably does though. In fact, he probably knows far more than he lets on. All his remarks about how the two of you would soon be “up in space, living a better life,” sounded less like he was trying to convince you that you could do it and more like he was trying to convince you to try to do it.

He knows you never intended to try to win this thing and he knows your underlying plan is just a fancy suicide mission, though he’s never voiced anything about it aloud.

You’re afraid you’ve only confirmed his thoughts with your lack of enthusiasm, turning it into an unspoken fact.

There’s no way he could know the full extent of your plan though, you’ve been careful not to let it slip to anyone, but especially him. If he knew, if authorities knew he knew, he’d be culled right alongside you. Once it starts, you just have to hope he won’t do anything stupid, like trying to stop you. You hate thinking about what you’d have to do if he got in your way.

The instructor's voice silences all conversation and orders everyone to follow in a single file line. You’re all led to the biggest kitchen you’ve ever seen. Rows upon rows of sinks and drawers, spice racks covering whole walls, a walk-in freezer that was no doubt at least as big as this room. Thank the heavens, it looks like nobody would have to fight over ingredients. Everyone was to begin in the kitchen, and when all the guests were seated, the go ahead would be given to start the competition.

You and Xhanea were starting in the kitchen with 23 others, while the rest were to go out to the dining hall and begin taking orders. You would cook the food and they would serve it, and half way through the roles would switch.

After everyone was lined up in the kitchen, she went over the basic rules one last time.

“ Remember , sabotage, cheating, or otherwise doing anything to purposely diminish or improve someone else’s chances is not allowed and is punishable by immediate culling. Your telekinesis is allowed, but communing with the dead will result in disqualification. Any questions?”

Oh yea, the telekinesis. You almost forgot about that, really. They’d be a huge help, both for the competition and for… your goal.

Back during the time where you and Xhanea were still rivaled with 498 other contestants, you would go to the mini gym with Xhanea during breaks and days off. It was a great way to stay in shape, both physically and psychically. When you weren’t working out your muscles, you were working out your powers. You and Xhanea would show off to each other and compete against each other. 

Who could lift the most weight, who could bend the most spoons, who could do the most multitasking, who could do the most intricate origami. While you tended to be better at weight lifting and won most of those contests, he was better at fine movements and won more origami and lock picking contests

You’re hugely grateful that heavy lifting is your forte, since that will be more useful in your goal tonight.

You both are definitely worlds better than before the qualifiers, though. You helped each other get better and learn tricks, he’s far stronger than before everything started, and you’re able to do much smaller movements.

You recall one day when you decided to have a tug-of-war contest. You started with a weight in the center of the room, and the one to get it to touch their wall wins.

It must have been a bad night for you (Or a good night for Xhanea) because he was able to hold his ground pretty well. For over twenty minutes, the weight was just floating above your heads, barely moving more than a few inches towards either wall.

A small group of trolls had started to gather sometime after the fifteen minute mark, curious to see who would win. 

Xhanea was well-known for doing poorly in the strength contests that were organized, so seeing him hold his ground was a bit surprising. Bets were even being placed, but before the outcome was determined, the curfew bell rang and everybody was made to go back to the ‘coon room.

You like to joke that he was cheating somehow. He likes to think he would have won that night.

You’re pulled back to reality again by the instructor assigning each troll one of the 25 tables in the restaurant. The first serving group would wait on them hand and foot, while the first cooking group would prepare the meals. After the table was vacated by the previous customers and taken over by new ones, the roles would switch.

Tables were assigned, the bell sounded, and the clock was ticking down. The first serving group left to deliver menus, which meant the rest of you had at least a few minutes before the orders started coming in.

Everyone scrambled to claim a station, you and Xhanea managed to get one next to each other.

It’s not like you can help each other out during this, it’d be much harder to get away with it than in the qualifiers, and it’s punishable by death. Staying close to each other gives you both a little extra courage though.

Honestly you don’t get why you’re not allowed to assist each other during this. It’s not like the winners would be barred from working together once they were in space, so why not show off your “teamwork” skills or whatever during the final competition?

But whatever. That’s Alternia for you. Convoluted, makes no sense, and unnecessarily violent.

You try to shove these thoughts out quickly and busy yourself with preparation, in case there are any blue bloods poking around your minds here.

Compared to what you were about to do, this was the easy part. Just take the orders from your table, cook the food, label which table they’re for, and wait for new ones to roll in.

Everything passes in a blur, you’ve gone on autopilot, focused only on making it to the next part.

Just as the orders were beginning to roll in, a troll was speed-walking in your direction with a sack of flour. They hit their hip on the corner of the table, and the sack went tumbling into you. A plume of the powder burst into your face, coating your entire upper body in the stuff. You reel back in surprise.

“Oops~” they say with a wicked look in their eyes.

What the fuck . Are they fucking stupid? Is this their suicide mission? This will get you both culled, regardless of whether it was truly an accident or not.

“Oh I’m so sorry, here let me help you,” they say, reaching for a rag.

You’re reminded of the time you and Xhanea were in the kitchen practicing some of the recipes. Xhanea was trying to bring over a bag of flour using telekinesis, but a brief lapse in concentration caused him to drop it between you two, covering both you and your uniforms in a thick layer of powder.

You both stopped in shock, staring slack-jawed at the pile surrounding the torn bag on the floor.

You were the first to break the silence, “shit,” you whispered, fighting back the smile that was creeping onto your face.

Laughter bubbled up from Xhanea, and you couldn’t stay straight-faced any longer. You both fell into the flour pile cackling at the stupid situation you were both in, and everytime it seemed like the two of you were able to calm down, one glance at each other sent you back into hysterics at how ridiculous you looked. You grabbed a few fistfulls of powder and tossed it in Xhanea’s face, which really didn’t do much to help, but it was fun.

The only thing that dragged you back down to Alternia was the pot on the stove catching fire.

“Oh, hell!” you exclaim at the same time Xhanea says, “Shit!”

You grab for the cup of water on the counter and are about to dump it on the fire when Xhanea knocks it out of your hand and throws the lid on the pot, then turns the heat off.

“You dumbass! You can’t put out grease fires with water!”

“Oh, fuck me,” you whisper, sliding your back down against the wall.

Xhanea sits down next to you, “Maybe later,”

That sends you both into another fit of giggles.

The cleanup was a pain in the ass. An entire sack of flour was all over - well, everything. The floor, the counters, you . You and Xhanea shook off what you could, then swept and mopped. Every time you thought you got it all, you turned around and there was another pile of it. You were starting to wonder if Xhanea was screwing with you by pouring out more piles when you weren’t looking.

Eventually, finally , you got the last of it.

You both went to the bathroom to shower off the remaining powder, but as luck would have it, they were locked for maintenance. Turned out someone was trying to escape a drone by hiding in there, because apparently drones can’t go in bathrooms or something?

A few missed shots was all it took to destroy most of the stalls and a lot of the piping, so it looked like nobody would be taking a shower, at least for a day or two. Great.

“Well shit. What now?” Xhanea voiced your concerns.

You couldn’t let anyone see you covered in flour, it was risky enough just trying to get to the bathrooms. There would more than likely be repercussions for this event.

It probably wasn’t anything worthy of culling or disqualification, especially because it happened during free time, but impressions would certainly be damaged.

You both hurried back to the kitchen, hoping nobody was suddenly in the mood for more cooking.

As usual though, it looked like everybody was too busy slacking off to bother with it. You grabbed two clean sets of uniform clothing and hoped nobody would notice they’re missing.

Xhanea took a wet rag and started trying to wipe off his face and neck. You did the same.

“What are we gonna do about our hair?” You asked.

“I’m not sure. Can we fit our heads into the sink?”

“We can try.”

You paused wiping off your face and clogged the sink to begin filling the basin with water. Once it was almost full you moved the faucet to the side and brought a stool in front of the sink.

“Here. Sit down and lean your head back,” you said, laying an extra towel on the edge of the counter.

Xhanea obliged, resting his neck on the towel and submerging part of his head underwater.

“Comfy?”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed.

You moved to the other side of the sink and your hands collided as you both reached to start rinsing. There was a chorus of “Ohs,” and “Ums,” and “Uhs,” and “Sorrys,” and–

He rested his hands on his lap and shut his eyes, leaving you to fumble. You must have paused for a moment too long, because you saw him trying to hold back a smirk.

You rolled your eyes and decided, what the hell, and started combing your fingers through his hair, working loose the remaining flour. He let out a deep sigh and you couldn’t help but focus on his face. It wasn’t very often you got the chance to just stare without him knowing, so you took your time, slowly scraping your claws over his scalp and enjoying the texture of his hair.

After what could probably be considered too long to just be washing out flour, you pulled the plug and let the foggy water begin to swirl down the drain.

Xhanea started to move, but you told him “hang on,” and he quickly settled back into place.

You grabbed one of the abandoned rags and rinsed it out in a different sink, then returned to start wiping the remaining smears of powder off of his face and neck.

Some of the flour had worked its way under his neckline. You shifted his collar to the side a tiny bit, hoping you could get away with this.

He brought his hands up, presumably to push yours away, so you backed off and were about to mutter a “sorry.”

Instead he undid the top button.

You hesitated, but slowly picked up where you left off.

You hoped he didn’t notice, but you were probably (definitely) going a tad bit further than where the flour has made its way.

You tossed the rag to the side and reached for a softer one, but then you stopped short.

“Um. Can I, uh,” You weren’t quite sure how to phrase this.

He nodded his head and said, “Yea,” like he’d read your mind.

You started at the base and worked your way up, being sure to get everything out of the crevices of his horns. You finished quickly, because you were sure you’d already taken far more than enough time and you didn’t want to push it any more than you already had.

You hurriedly towel-dried his hair and handed him the change of uniform.

You turned around to let him change clothes and resisted the urge to glance over your shoulder.

He shook out his hair, flinging droplets of water everywhere.

“Okay, your turn,” he said, putting his hands on your shoulders and pushing you into the chair. He filled the sink back up and you lowered your head down, trying not to stab him with your horns. You closed your eyes and tried to relax, but your mind was racing faster than your heartbeat.

When did you start looking at him like this? When you searched the recesses of your mind, you remember thinking that he was cute right from the start, but when did it escalate into this? Why were you just noticing it?

He began to rinse out the flour, carding his fingers through your hair. It sent shivers down your spine and you were thankful for the long sleeves of the uniform for hiding the goosebumps you got.

How sincere was his flirting? He’d made flirty comments every now and again since the beginning, but how much of that was genuine and how much was just playful? Did he feel the same way?

He moved on to wiping off your face and neck, and you reached up to undo the top button like he did. You tingled everywhere he accidentally brushed his fingers against your skin. (Is it really accidental?)

Did you actually like him in the first place though? Or was it just desperation to feel some connection in this hell of a tournament? Were you latching onto the only person you care for in this place and mistaking it for romantic attraction?

“Can I…?” he began, and you nodded your head far too quickly.

It didn’t matter though. You were getting culled soon anyways, so none of this matters in the first place. It was best to just try to sweep these thoughts and feelings under the rug. It was a mistake to befriend him at all, knowing from the start what you came here to do. The only thing you were going to end up doing is hurting him. You couldn’t exacerbate that by pursuing a relationship with him.

And all too soon he finished. You hurried to turn around and throw on the clean change of clothing, hoping to hide the heat you feel in your face. When you both turned back around he had an expression that you couldn’t decipher, and there was a tension in the air that you couldn’t tell if he senses.

Thankfully, he was the first to break the silence.

“Alright, we should probably get back before people start getting suspicious,” he grabbed the pile of flour coated clothing, “I’ll take this down to the wash, meet you back in the gym?”

“Sounds good, I’ll get the weights set up?”

“Yep, see you in a few,” he said, turning in the direction of the laundry room.

Was it just you, or did he seem flustered?

A brief flutter of hope ignited in your chest before you brushed it away and reminded yourself of your goal.

Besides, it was probably just wishful thinking clouding your judgment.

You pull yourself back to the present again, and feel panic squeeze your heart. If you don’t do something quick, you’ll both be culled.

You hold a hand up to stop the contestant from trying to “help,” and close your eyes.  This will take quite a bit of concentration, not to mention energy, but there’s nothing else you can do. You reach out with your telekinesis. You connect with every particle of flour, feeling the fine powder in your mind. You imagine it all sweeping off of you in one sheet, forming a pile in midair, and when you open your eyes it’s there. A neat ball of white hovering in between the two of you. You decide to go the extra mile and add the flour from the floor to the mass, and neatly float it into the trash can.

You smile insincerely at the other contestant, who has a slightly dumbstruck face.

“It’s okay, accidents happen,” you say, turning to continue with the competition. You discretely wipe the beading sweat from your temple under the guise of fixing your hair, in hopes that nobody will notice just how much that took out of you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the administrators look at you and scribble something on her clipboard. What’s on it doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that you weren’t culled on the spot.

Now that you think about it, that’s the second time Xhanea has saved your skin, though in a slightly roundabout way. If it weren’t for his help learning finite movements, there’s no way you would’ve gotten out of that.

You remember sitting in the lounge during trials. After making a few pieces of origami by hand, he had you cut paper into perfect squares, then fold it into various shapes using nothing but your telekinesis. It was hard at first, you were much more used to just hauling heavy shit around or fucking up silverware, but that wasn’t gonna help much during the first half of the competition.

He was pointing out which folds to make, where to tuck each flap of paper, and it was really getting on your nerves how much you sucked at it. It felt like trying to shove two magnets together. It just didn’t go in the right place, god dammit .

“This is impossible,” you said, turning to face him.

Only when you turned around, you were met with a perfectly folded origami swan, who then flapped its wings at you.

“How,” you said as a statement more than a question.

“Practice,” he said, grinning at you, “I’ve been doing origami since I was six. The small movements come easier after a while”

You huffed and took another look at the instructions, psychically picking up your paper once more, and resumed aggressively trying to force the paper to make the right shapes.

You felt something strange suddenly, another presence. At first it startled you, you had never had this happen before, but you realized it was Xhanea helping to guide the paper into the right position.

You ended up doing most of the work, but with Xhanea’s assistance you were able to messily fold the paper into quite the deformed looking swan.

It was weird. For the first time, you could see the shape of your respective powers in your mind's eye. Both rust tinted, yours was large and clumsy, fumbling to grasp the fine paper. Xhanea’s was smaller and nimble, teaching yours to be smaller and more fine-tuned.

The next swan was easier, and soon enough you were able to make them on your own in no time at all. You think the ability to visualize your telekinesis gave you an edge

“You’ve gotten good! We should move onto a more complicated piece!”

Fuck.

But folding paper and picking locks the way Xhanea taught you is leagues below plucking each individual grain of flour from a surface. You’re amazed you could pull it off, but you doubt you could do anything even resembling that again. Hopefully you’ll have enough juice left to assist in the second half.

Speaking of Xhanea, you turn to his position at the station next to you to find him looking at you awestruck. You give what you imagine is a slightly frenzied smile. You’re left trembling from that ordeal, both from the exertion it took and the nerves it imparted upon you.

He smiles back at you. “Holy shit,” he whispers, “you’re miles better than what you used to be.”

You whisper back, “Maybe so, but don’t ask me to do that again tonight.” you hold out a shaky hand to demonstrate just how much it took out of you.

You notice an administrator watching the two of you and quickly return your attention to your own station. If anything is even mistaken as colluding, you’d both be culled.

Just as you’ve finished preparing your workstation, the orders from your assigned table are placed on the line. You rush over and grab them and begin fervently working on getting the food prepared as quickly as possible.

Everything is going smoothly, until there’s a commotion. A clattering of pots and pans, and then a troll races by your station. Less than a second later, a laser fires off and evaporates the troll.

It immediately brings you back to what was perhaps the worst day of the time spent with the other hundreds of competitors.

One day a group of friends had gotten cocky, and were up far past the time they were supposed to be, and they weren’t very subtle about it. They were right by you too, keeping you and Xhanea up, so you just hung on the edge of your respective ‘coons and talked, waiting for them to settle down and climb into their ‘coons.

But then someone from the group aggressively shushed everyone else, and the din quieted down to make more obvious what they had heard.

Footsteps.

Heavy, metal footsteps that grew louder with each passing second.

It was quiet chaos then. Everyone raced back and forth to put their belongings away and jump into their ‘coons before the drone got there. You and Xhanea both quickly put your heads down in your arms on the edge and pretend to have fallen asleep like that. Just as the room quiets down, the door flies open and the drone marches in.

You couldn’t see what it’s doing. God, you wished you could see it. If it had any inkling that you and Xhanea were awake along with the group, you’d have been culled too. You tried to keep your breathing even. In for three, out for three, pause. In for three, out for three, pause.

It was dead silent, save for the drone’s metallic head swiveling back and forth, trying to find the source of the noise. The whole room was holding its breath.

You thought it was about to leave, but it was a little too late. One of the kids right next to you must have been holding their breath and was unable to wait a little longer. They inhaled just a little too loud, and the drone stopped short. The steps grew closer, and Xhanea grabbed your hand.

You were thankful for that, honestly. There was no way you could have done that on your own, so now you could pretend you were comforting him, even though both of you know you needed it as much as he does.

The drone stopped, and you could almost feel its aura right next to you. The troll sniffled, and that was that.

The drone immediately fired off a laser, undoubtedly vaporizing them and leaving behind a pile of ash to soak into the sopor, a thin trail of smoke dissipating. The troll next to them on the other side let out a small cry, and after recharging its laser, the drone culled them too. 

There were five left, and none of them could handle it anymore. They all either burst into tears or vaulted out of the recuperacoon and made a break for the door.

Xhanea’s hand began to tremble, and you would’ve been lying if you said yours wasn’t doing the same. 

You tried to drown out the din of the massacre, and through it you could hear Xhanea’s almost silent sobs. You gripped his hand tighter, stroking the back of it.

Though it felt like hours, it could only have lasted around 20 seconds.

By the time everything died down, Xhanea had regained his composure, and the drone, satisfied with its work, turned and exited the room, slamming the door and leaving the smell of burnt flesh to fill the room.

You waited until its steps faded to nothing, and then for a minute or two after that.

You squeezed his hand three times, and he returned the message. You both lifted your heads up and met each other’s eyes, equally red and puffy.

“You okay?” you mouthed to him, because you didn’t dare make a sound.

He shook his head, “I thought it was after you,” he mouthed back.

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you mouthed an apology.

“Not your fault,” he said, shaking his head again.

He put his head down after that, and let out a long, relieved sigh. You put your head down too, and adjusted your grip on his hand.

You both fell asleep like that.

Waking up the next moonrise and seeing the seven empty recuperacoons put you on edge for the rest of the night.

After that, it was a while before anyone even considered having their eyes open past curfew.

You were something of a celebrity for the next week to the people who were too far away to really know what happened, since you were right next to the first culling. You were bombarded with questions all night about what exactly happened, how many drones, how many died, what did it look like? What did it sound like? Were there any remains or were they just vaporized completely? Forcing you to relive the whole thing dozens of times over.

Xhanea was a saint during those times, shooing them away when you didn’t have the energy to. Though he wasn’t immune to his own share of questions, seeing as he was the second closest.

That was probably the toughest week of your life. You’ve been put through some pretty shitty situations, but you’ve never had seven kids murdered right next to you and then forced to recount the events over and over to other nosey kids.

And it’s not like you were given a break either. No time to process and deal, no chance to recover from it. The trials and tests kept coming and you and Xhanea’s performances definitely suffered from it, it’s a miracle you both stayed in the game.

Now that you think about it, most other cullings took place elsewhere. If a drone decided someone’s time was up, they’d be taken to another room, though you don’t know why. So why weren’t those seven taken? The drones are huge and powerful, there’s no way they could have overpowered it and escaped.

Was that whole thing just another test? A trial to see how those who were witness to the event would deal with the trauma? That was pretty fucked up.

But whatever. What happened, happened. The reasoning didn’t really matter. What mattered is that you got through it and you were still in the competition.

For now.

Your head swivels to the left and you spot the hulking drone that fired off the shot. You’re left standing there, wide-eyed, unable to move. It takes Xhanea “accidentally” bumping into you to break the spell. He gives you a look, and you quickly shake your head to clear the remaining fog before refocusing on the task at hand.

You thank the gods that there are no more incidents after that. The rest of the time passes in a blur, and before you know it it’s your turn to serve the table. You wash your hands of the food residue and head out into the dining hall, heart hammering in your chest. It’s almost time.

You scan the room. You don’t see any bluebloods, which is an enormous blessing. You won’t have to deal with anyone trying to mind-control you to get you to stop.

The table you’re assigned to now has a group of five, two teals and three indigos. You greet them pleasantly and hand them their menus, asking what drinks you can start them with. After returning with the drinks, you wait patiently by the table for everyone to be ready to order.

When you return again from dropping off their orders, it happens.

The Heiress walks in.

This is expected, of course. This whole thing was designed by her, in an effort to obtain the best of the best for her future intergalactic living quarters. She must be very sure of herself, putting together her cast of servants before she’s even fought the Empress.

The whole room goes quiet and everyone stares in awe and reverence. You struggle to keep your face free of the disgust you feel.

The heiress is seated and conversations tentatively resume, albeit hushed.

You notice one of the teal’s drinks is getting low, so you take the glass and bring it to the kitchen. Instead of refilling it though, you set it down and grab your equipment that you smuggled in the night before instead.

This is your very last chance to back out. And maybe you should. Maybe you should try to win, try to have some semblance of a future. When you first hatched this hairbrained plan, you had next to nothing.

Dammek was gone. What else was left? He was everything to you. You didn’t know how to live without him, almost literally. Without someone to tell you when and what to eat, when and where to sleep, when and how to train, what lyrics to sing, you were lost.

Obviously, you figured it out on your own. But even after that, you still had nothing.

Now, you have Xhanea. You have something again. You could abandon this plan and live out your sweeps with him.

But… you don’t think you want to. Despite coming to the realization that Dammek didn’t treat you like a moirail should have, his notions of rebellion stuck with you. And the message you want to send is important.

It’s time.

You creep back into the dining hall and plug the speaker into a secluded outlet, turn on your microphone, and hit play.

The music is loud and plays in a short burst before pausing, and the whole room is silent once more, leaving everyone to wonder if they heard what they thought they heard. There’s another burst of sound, and everyone looks around wildly trying to figure out where the sound is coming from. You look around too, pretending to not know what’s going on.

You hope dearly that someone will record the spectacle and post it online. You already have a pre-recorded version of the song queued to post a few hours from now, but if someone gets this performance on tape, all the better.

Once the music starts in earnest, you jump into action. You bring the microphone to your mouth and begin singing, or rather, growling.

“Oohhhhh,” you draw out the word in a deep, guttural voice, “here goes another gift for this world, this world that keeps filling my body with holes.”

You changed your sound drastically after Dammek. You can only imagine he was killed by people trying to squash the rebellion. All the resentment, despair and downright anger at the state of things, at losing the person who meant the most to you, just wasn’t quite encapsulated by The Grubbles’s style. So you officially disbanded The Grubbles and adapted a new style, a heavier one.

“My scars, they itch and I pick my scabs and I grow,” you whisper the last word, and then the next verse, “while they all try to cut my throat.”

This will be your debut, and your one and only performance. The handful of songs you wrote are also scheduled to post in a few hours. You hope they reach the right people before they’re inevitably taken down.

Everyone stares at you dumbfounded, as if they can’t process what they’re seeing and hearing. You wish it could last, but as you start the next verse, a nearby purple lunges at you, and the Heiress’s security unit begin towards you as well.

“But God ain’t gonna let me go to my grave, without showing you what he has made,” you jump out of the way just in time, then repeat the last verse a bit louder. Then, growing in volume, “there’s a war outside.”

All hell breaks loose then. Everybody from teal and up jump from their seats and either start yelling or attempt to apprehend you. Everybody else ducks for cover. You start running.

“There’s a war outside and just know that if I die, know that I fought all my life for this. There’s a war outside and if I should die tonight, whether it’s wrong or it’s right I’ll be missed.”

You’re infinitely grateful for the gym back during the first phases of this competition. If not for that, you definitely wouldn’t have the stamina to race around the room while screaming into a microphone.

“There’s a war outside, war outside, war outside. There’s a war outside, war outside, war outside.”

The recording of the song has extra lyrics whispered in the background, but you ran out of time to make a track that had only those whispered parts for you to sing over. You figure nobody will be missing them, though.

You narrowly duck under a teal’s grasp, and spot two trolls on either side of you racing in your direction. You make a split second decision to use a vacated chair to jump on top of a table, using your telekinesis to fling plates of food in the faces of the trolls still sitting there.

“Oohhhhh, my brothers and sisters we’re trapped in this hole, but we’re kept down here because it’s all about control, and we’re trapped together so we’ll stick tight and out of the cold. And they’ll reap just what they’ve sown.”

You jump over someone’s arm and off the table, nearly rolling your ankle. You spot Xhanea with a tray of food standing in the corner and staring at you wide eyed and slack-jawed. And then he does the unthinkable.

He turns and throws the tray into the nearest highblood’s face before sprinting in your direction, past you, and collides with another troll you didn’t notice who must have been mere moments away from reaching you.

You stare in horror, but you don’t have time to think about it. You have to finish this. You’re on the move again.

You scream into the mic and then continue the lyrics, “‘Cause God ain’t gonna let us go to our graves, without showing them what he has made, God ain’t gonna let us go to our graves, without showing them what he has made.”

You repeat the chorus all while dodging flying fists and food. You look back to see Xhanea holding his own and keeping just out of reach of the other trolls. You look over at the Heiress, who simply has a bemused smile on her face.

The next lyrics are supposed to be whispered, but all things considered, it doesn’t play out that way. You’re too amped up to be quiet now, and they wouldn’t be able to be heard over the din if they weren’t screamed anyways. The music quiets to be barely audible so it’s just you.

“Saw my first body when I was a kid. I thought sleeping in streets was just something they did. Then I grew older I never grew up. I wouldn’t let them take something I didn’t get enough of.” if possible, your voice only grows in volume gradually at this next part, “I put a whole life sentence in these streets. I didn’t sleep a wink, I had to kill to eat. They tried to make it so I didn’t see 25 and when I did I thanked God, and then I retired. There’s a war outside.”

You scream “There’s a war outside,” a few more times before moving onto the last verse. You’re amazed you’ve gotten this far, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to finish.

“I hear all these critics talk but I listen to none, ‘cause none of them have ever been where music comes from. And none of them have ever stepped foot inside a slum, and none of them have ever wrapped their hands around a gun. Squeezed until it’s empty then it locks up and it’s done and feel the man on the other side’s last breath leap out his lungs. I’ve been doing this here since I was young so next time you speak about me just cut out your fucking tongue.”

The last line was also meant to be whispered, but it comes out in a shout that rings around the room. You look over and see Xhanea in the hands of a highblood, and dread fills your heart.

But you’re not quite done yet. The song is over, but on a whim you turn to the elevated section where the Heiress is seated and hurl the microphone in her direction. It doesn’t hit, but you hope the message is sufficient. 

Just a moment after the microphone leaves your hand, there’s an impossibly strong grip on your upper arm.

And that’s it. You and Xhanea are shackled on the spot and hauled out of the building by security. Despite your best efforts, you’re separated and shoved into the back of two of the Heiress’s security vehicles. The engine comes to life, and then you start moving.

You did it.

You fucking did it .

You sit on the floor of the vehicle, out of breath, shaking, sweat pouring down your face.

The whole thing went almost without a hitch. If it weren’t for Xhanea colliding with that troll in the middle of the song, you don’t know how far you would’ve gotten.

Xhanea. You don’t know if you’ll ever get to see him again. You don’t know if you’ll ever get to yell at him for helping you instead of saving his skin and hiding. You don’t know if you’ll ever get to thank him, or to ask him why.

You do know one thing. You’re both going to be culled. Publicly. They’ll try to make an example of you two, to show off, see? This is what happens when you try to make a stand, probably after gratuitous beatings to make you look weak and broken.

You have exactly one wish at this point, and that’s to at least get a chance to say goodbye.

The interrogation is the worst part. Not because of the beatings, the bone breaking, and the claw pulling, though those are awful, but because Xhanea is almost certainly going through the same thing. And he has even less information to give to them than you do.

There’s no indication as to whether it’s night or day, but by your estimation you’ve been here for about a week. By now, news of the event will have spread, and it won’t be long until they make an example of you. You’ve gradually lost all hope of ever seeing Xhanea again. For all you know, he’s already dead.

As you have that thought, the door to your tiny cell clangs open and you look up with dread, expecting to see the interrogator.

Instead, a large troll steps in, manhandling a struggling Xhanea. He spits a tooth in their face just before they throw him across the small room. He hits the opposite wall with a painful thud, then falls to the concrete floor, motionless.

The door slams closed as you struggle to your feet and limp as fast as you can to his side.

“Xhanea?” you reach out and tentatively touch his shoulder. He flinches away, then looks up at you.

You get your first good look at him in at least a week. It’s a stark contrast to how he was at the competition. Where before he was spry and full of life, throwing trays in highblood’s faces and tackling charging trolls, now he looks grim. His face is swollen black and burgundy, eyes bloodshot, greasy hair in a knotted mess. His horns have a few chips out of them and his filthy uniform is disheveled and in tatters, revealing still more cuts and bruises. He has a few claws on each hand missing.

Not much different from you.

He smiles, revealing a new gap in his teeth, and starts laughing. Laughing .

It’s a little contagious, and you find yourself breathlessly giggling along.

He drags himself into a sitting position, clutching at his ribs, and says, “Those bastards really did a number on you, huh?”

You laugh once more before saying, “You’re one to talk.”

He puts a hand on the back of your head and pulls you forward so your foreheads are nearly touching. “Never make a plan like that without including me in it again.”

“… to be fair I don’t think we’ll get a ‘next time.’”

He smiles again and says, “True that.”

You can only imagine that these are your final hours. Maybe minutes. What other reason is there for them to let you see each other again? You guess they’re trying to weaken your resolve, to have you break down so you’re a crying, blubbering mess when the time comes. To make you appear fragile and regretful in front of the masses. 

He releases your head too soon and you mourn the loss of the proximity. You both slump back against the wall, arm to arm.

“Why would you help me?” you ask.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ What else was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, lay low and try to win? Try to achieve the job of your dreams?”

“‘Job of my dreams,’ what a load of shit. You know perfectly well how we’re essentially forced into this. Besides, let you have all the glory?” he shakes his head, “Not a chance.”

You smile at him appreciatively. If not for him, you never would have gotten to finish your performance. “Well, in any case, thank you for the help.”

“Pshh, don’t even mention it. Getting to finally tell them what pricks they are was exhilarating.”

There’s a moment of silence before he asks, “How long had you been planning that?”

“Since before the beginning of the tournament.”

He lets out a long, low whistle, “Damn.”

“You knew I was up to something, didn’t you?”

“Only towards the very end. Can’t believe you kept it from me that long.” his voice is one of surprise rather than dejectedness. Still, you jump to defend your choice not to tell him.

“I wanted you to have plausible deniability.”

He nods, then closes his eyes. There’s silence then, and the only thing reassuring you he hasn’t just died in front of you is the labored rise and fall of his chest.

You’re left to think. If you could do it over, knowing that Xhanea would join you, would you do it different? Would you decide not to go through with it?

It’s tempting. The only thing you want is for Xhanea to be able to live a good life.

But is that really possible, even if he were one of the victors of the tournament? Can being forced into servitude to people who would replace you in a heartbeat at the slightest misstep be considered a good life? Sure, it might be better than the alternative, but that doesn’t make it good .

You decide that no, you wouldn’t do it differently. That was Xhanea’s decision. If he, like you, decided he would rather die to rally a cause than live a miserable few sweeps in space, who are you to take that choice away from him?

You look over at his battered face and are filled with affection. He’s a walking dead man, and he’s dying for you . He decided he’d rather die for you and your cause than lay low and save his skin. What did you do to deserve that?

You decide to be bold. This might be – is – your last chance to do anything like this.

You grab his hand.

His eyelids flutter and a small smile appears on his lips before he returns the gesture.

This is as close to a confession as either of you will get, you think. No words need to be said.

No words can be said, because moments later the cell door opens once more and two large trolls stroll in. You both open your eyes and stare up at them.

They leer down at you with evil grins before hauling you both to your feet and marching you down hallways and through doors.

This is it. You look sideways at each other, and you hope your look conveys apology. He just grins back.

You reach a final door and hear crowds of people outside. Through the small window you can see camera crews ready to televise the whole thing, and of course, the gallows.

Xhanea briefly wrenches himself out of the troll’s grasp and latches onto you with a surprisingly crushing grip, considering his state. “See you on the other side,” he whispers. You return the hug before you’re torn apart and Xhanea is forced out the door.

Do you watch through the window? You don’t want to. But you feel you have to. You’re the reason he’s here, to refuse to bear witness feels… wrong.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. You watch as he's led up the stairs. The rope positioned around his neck. The lever is pulled. The platform sweeps out from beneath his feet, his body drops out of sight and a cheerful roar goes up from the crowd.

Minutes pass where, you assume, his body is being removed and some announcer is ramping up the crowd for the main event. But you don’t listen to any of it, you’re too busy steadying your breathing after what you just saw.

The door opens again and the cool night air washes over you.

You put on a brave face. You can’t be anything less, if you want this incident to have the kind of impact you hope it will.

You take the first step before they have a chance to shove you out the door. You’re going to face this head-on, as much on your terms as is possible. 

The crowd boos and hurls insults your way, but they don’t faze you. You mask your limp as you mount the stairs with confidence, as if there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. And, truth be told, there’s not. Xhanea is on the other side of the veil now, and if this is the path that will take you to where he is, you’ll stride down it with determination.

The rope is looped around your neck now. The troll places a hand on the lever, announces something to the crowd, but you’re still not listening. You grin and hold a middle finger up to everybody, and if possible the crowd’s booing and pejoratives grow louder. 

The last thing you see is the troll pulling the lever.