Cracks in the Armor

Chapter XVI: Cracks in the Armor

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 23 VP - 1700 BP
Norah - 10 VP - 1000 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 5 VP - 0 BP
Emi - 4 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 3 VP - 2000 BP
Marissa - 3 VP - 1500 BP
Liesa - 3 VP - 1900 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP

Andy finished his eggs with mechanical efficiency, the faint taste of butter and salt doing little to interrupt the internal loop replaying last night’s conversation with Norah. He sipped his coffee, watching sunlight creep across the marble countertop, wondering if the rest of the day would be as emotionally combustible as the evening before.

He’d just loaded his dishes in the washer and was halfway through fastening the buttons on a clean shirt when the elevator’s call panel let out a chirp. He hesitated, but assumed it must be Sam, or perhaps Claire. Shirt half-buttoned, he thumbed the “admit” switch.

To his surprise, the doors parted and Erin stalked in, hair damp from a shower, still wringing the ends out with a hotel towel. She wore black yoga pants and a thin gray T-shirt, her usual armor, but there was an exhaustion about her that even she couldn’t fully mask. She barely acknowledged him before heading straight to the window, as if needing a view to ground her.

Andy finished buttoning his shirt, surprised to see her here, after the previous day. “Hey.”

She stared out at the ocean, silent. When she finally spoke, it was to the glass: “Didn’t know if you’d let me up.”

“You are always welcome,” he said, trying for casual, but it came out with more gravity than he’d intended.

She stayed quiet for another minute, then: “Look, I—I needed to say I’m sorry. About the other day. About the way I acted. I was…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

“Shell-shocked?” he offered.

She snorted, a little air escaping her nostrils. “That’s one way to put it.”

He joined her at the window, keeping a respectful distance, watching the sunlight skitter off the water. “Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

Erin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We both know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

Andy didn’t answer. He waited, giving her room.

Finally, she pulled her gaze from the water and looked at him, eyes sharp with old wounds and new uncertainties. “You ever feel like the game is rigged, Andrew? That you could do everything right, and it still wouldn’t be enough?”

“All the time,” he said, and meant it.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Bullshit. You were always the guy who had it together. Even when you didn’t, you made it look easy.”

Andy shook his head. “That was just good acting. I never knew what I was doing, Erin. Least of all with you.”

Her mouth twisted, as if weighing whether to trust him with the next words. “I don’t know how to fix this. My head, my body. The… curse. Whatever you want to call it. I thought I could power through, just ignore it. But I can’t.”

She flexed her hands, the knuckles white. “It’s not like the others, Andy. I can’t even…” Her voice faltered. “I can’t even take care of myself anymore, unless you’re in the room. Fucking watching me. I feel like a pet. Or worse, a lab rat. And there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

Andy was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, Erin. I didn’t realize how bad it was.”

She barked a harsh laugh. “Why would you? It’s not your problem.”

He was about to protest, but she cut him off. “And the worst part? It’s humiliating. I keep thinking… if I could just muscle through, just get it over with, maybe I’d feel human again. But I can’t. I tried. It’s like there’s a lock, and you’ve got the only key.”

Andy turned that over, then said, “What do you want me to do?”

She stared at him, like she didn’t believe he’d asked. “Don’t make me answer that,” she said, softer now. “Not unless you really mean it.”

“I do,” he said.

She looked away, toward the ocean again. “I just want to make it through tomorrow without breaking down in front of everyone.”

He nodded. “I’ll help however I can. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

A long pause. “I know. It’s not about that. It’s just… I used to be in control. Always. And now I’m not.” She clenched her jaw. “You ever get that feeling, Andrew? Like your whole identity is just a trick, and if you can’t hold the line, you’re nothing?”

Andy thought of his own carefully curated life, the shell he’d built around himself after Laura, the way he’d hidden from everything he was supposed to want. “Yeah,” he said, “I do.”

Erin eyed him, searching for the lie, but didn’t find one. “I didn’t expect you to say that,” she admitted.

He shrugged. “I’m not the same person you used to know.”

She cracked a smile, small but real. “No. You’re a better listener now.” She nudged his shoulder with hers, just a light brush, but the touch held a weight he didn’t miss.

Andy gave her a smile in return, then asked, “What are you really afraid of, Erin?”

She looked away, then blurted it out: “That I’ll be sent home first. That all of this was for nothing. And I’ll go home, and I’ll… be like this. Forever.”

Andy didn’t laugh, didn’t try to reassure her with empty words. Instead, he said, “You’re not going anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

She studied him, suspicion flickering. “Why would you do that? You’ve got a harem to run, right? Plenty of better options.”

He let the question hang, then answered, “Because you matter to me, Erin. Always did.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no venom. “That’s such a you thing to say.”

They watched the water in silence, the morning sun climbing higher.

Finally, she turned to face him. “Can I ask you something? And you have to answer, honest.”

He nodded.

She said, “If you had to pick, right now, who would you choose? Not for the show, but for you.”

Andy hesitated, surprised by the bluntness. “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Erin nodded. “I figured.”

She started to leave, then stopped, looking down at her hands. “Andy?”

“Yeah?”

She swallowed, face suddenly ****. “If I asked you to help, I mean really help, would you?”

He met her eyes, steady. “Yes. But only if you’re sure.”

She let out a breath, shaky. “Not now. But maybe. Sometime.”

He nodded, letting her have the final word.

She left the Suite without another glance, the towel abandoned on the couch.

Andy stood by the window, staring at the place where her shadow had been, wondering how he could help her without making it worse. It wasn’t the first time that he wished he could solve someone else’s problems with a simple fix. But people weren’t problems, and Erin was not a puzzle to be solved.

Still, he turned back to the ocean, feeling the sun on his face, and promised himself he’d do better next time.

The gardens steamed in the mid-morning light, every flower sharp-edged with dew, and inside, the air conditioning made the hotel’s sunroom feel like the inside of a jewelry box. Dawn perched on a deep window seat, knees folded, as Emi’s six arms moved in their gentle, choreographed blur.

One pair held Dawn’s hair, weaving it into a Dutch braid so smooth it looked like spun silk. Another pair worked, almost invisibly, folding and creasing tiny squares of origami paper. The last two cradled a mug of jasmine tea, Emi’s lips occasionally skimming the rim as she sipped.

Dawn watched, fascinated. She wasn’t sure if it was envy or awe that made her stomach flip—maybe both. “How do you even keep them straight?” she asked, meaning the arms but also, maybe, the thoughts and feelings behind them.

Emi shrugged, all six arms moving in **** sync. “It’s taken a lot of practice,” she admitted. “Now, if I don’t use them all, I get… restless. And they do, too.”

Dawn glanced at the origami pile: a parade of cranes, rabbits, and flowers, each more delicate than the last. Emi’s hands didn’t stop. “Does it hurt?” Dawn asked, then winced, “Sorry, too personal.”

Emi shook her head, never missing a beat in the braid. “Not really. Sometimes my back gets tired. But I don’t mind. It feels like… like they were always there, waiting.”

Dawn nodded. She traced a finger over the nearest paper crane, careful not to disturb the wings. “You make it look easy,” she said.

A silence fell, soft as the filtered sun. Emi finished the braid, tying it with a bit of blue ribbon, then patted Dawn’s shoulder with all four free hands at once. “There,” she said. “Perfect.”

Dawn smiled, but it didn’t last. She picked at the braid, nervous, then blurted: “I’m going to be eliminated tomorrow. I just know it.”

Emi blinked, surprised. “Why?”

Dawn hunched her shoulders, voice small. “I don’t have a… connection. Not like the others.” She paused, then whispered, “On the first day, Claire told me I was probably the throwaway. The one they eliminate to make it feel real for everyone else. She didn’t mean it, but—” She trailed off.

Emi set down her mug. All six hands stilled. She shifted closer, wrapping all her arms around Dawn in a hug so complete it squeezed the fear out, just for a moment.

“You’re not a throwaway,” Emi said, voice certain. “If anyone here makes sense, it’s you. You’re… bright. Like the Sun.” Her lower left hand squeezed Dawn’s elbow, a soft and human touch.

Dawn let out a shaky laugh. “Bright doesn’t win games. Bright gets eaten alive.”

Emi shook her head. “Bright is what keeps everyone else from floating away. Look at Andy. He smiles differently when you’re around. Like he can breathe again.”

Dawn flushed. “You think so?”

Emi nodded, top arms fidgeting with the tea mug. “I know so. I see it. You remind him that real life isn’t just… pain.”

They sat together, the hug not letting up, and for the first time all morning, Dawn felt the tightness in her chest loosen.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I wish I could be more like you. Brave.”

Emi laughed, gentle. “I’m not brave. I’m just afraid of being alone.”

Dawn thought about that. She let the silence come back, this time warm, as Emi resumed her origami, folding another rabbit, its ears sharp and proud.

After a while, Dawn said, “You know what scares me most? Not being forgotten, but being remembered as a mistake.”

Emi put down the paper, used all six arms to hug Dawn again, even tighter. “You could never be a mistake,” she whispered.

Dawn closed her eyes, let herself believe it, just for now. The world outside went on, the birds noisy in the garden, but inside, there was only warmth and the gentle click of origami paper, and the faint hope that tomorrow might not be so terrifying after all.

Sam was the first to spot the trail: a barely-there ribbon in the jungle, trampled once and then promptly forgotten by whoever had made it. She grinned at the opportunity, gave Liesa a “come on, you only die once” look, and started after it. Liesa followed, not because she had any confidence in their sense of direction, but because she had even less in her own ability to resist Sam’s momentum.

She enjoyed that. And she was learning to enjoy these hikes.

The morning sun filtered through the canopy, dappling their faces with spots of heat and color. Every plant had an attitude—spiked, coiled, or slapping at exposed shins—and Sam loved every second. She narrated the hike as if she were being filmed for a nature documentary, complete with faux-British accent. “Here we see the rare Belgian Liesa, natural habitat: the urban corridor. Watch as she braves the wild, clutching only a sketchbook for protection—”

Liesa snorted. “You are not as funny as you think, schat. But you are close.”

Sam winked. “In comedy, as in life, I prefer a near-miss to a bullseye.”

They tramped along in companionable silence for a while, broken only by Liesa’s yelps when a branch snagged her hair or Sam’s delighted shrieks when she found a new bug. Eventually, Liesa said, “You do this often?”

“Wander?” Sam considered. “All the time. Especially when things get weird. Which is always, lately.” She swiped sweat off her brow. “You?”

“I like to be lost,” Liesa admitted. “If I know where I am, I cannot be surprised.”

Sam grinned. “I think you’re the first person to ever say that unironically.”

Liesa shrugged. “In Belgium, getting lost is a hobby. The trains are never on time, the streets change names at every corner. If you do not like surprise, you move to Germany.”

Sam laughed and then abruptly stopped. The path spilled out into a natural clearing—a perfect ring of cypress trees, so evenly spaced it looked like someone had measured with a tape. At the center, atop a ring of three steps, stood a structure: round, white marble columns surrounding a circular wall, the floor between the columns and the building a mosaic of green and gold tiles. It looked ancient and impossible, yet so perfectly maintained it gave the impression of being a prop from a very expensive TV show.

Liesa sucked in her breath. “What is this?”

Sam shook her head. “The last time I saw something like this, I was playing God of War.”

They approached with caution, each step slow, the silence so heavy it pressed on their eardrums. When they were five feet from the edge, a sudden flash of light burst from inside the temple, white and dazzling, like a thousand camera flashes at once. A somber, earthy aroma suddenly filled the air.

Liesa recoiled, nearly tripping over a root. Sam caught her, steadying both of them just as the afterimage burned away. She helped Liesa to hide behind a cypress, their heads poking out to see what caused the light.

A figure stumbled from the marble shadow: Arabella, but not as she’d ever been seen before. She was barefooted and wore the scarlet peplos Liesa had seen her wearing from the gardens, but the fabric was twisted and askew, her long hair tangled and wild around her shoulders. Her face, normally the picture of calm control, was flushed and beaded with sweat. She carried a small iron box clutched to her chest, as if it weighed a ton or was the only thing holding her together.

She lurched to the nearest column, grabbed it for support, and bent forward, gasping. Her eyes were closed; her lips moved in a silent litany. After a moment, she straightened, smoothed the hair from her face with a shaking hand, and glanced over her shoulder.

Sam yanked Liesa behind the tree trunk, barely breathing.

They watched, frozen, as Arabella composed herself. She knelt, set the box on the tiled floor, opened it, checked the contents, then snapped it shut. Her face had returned to a neutral mask, but her hands trembled. She swept her gaze across the clearing—right past where Sam and Liesa crouched—then, seemingly satisfied, she picked up the box and glided out the opposite side, vanishing into the trees with supernatural speed.

Sam didn’t move for a full minute, then let out a low whistle. “Okay, what in the actual—?”

Liesa shivered, her voice barely audible. “She did not look… normal.”

“No kidding,” Sam said. “She looked like she just crawled out of a tornado.”

They peered through the branches, making sure Arabella wasn’t coming back. When it felt safe, Sam dusted herself off, and offered Liesa a hand.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, voice softer now.

Liesa nodded, but her eyes stayed on the column Arabella had touched. “I have seen many strange things here,” she said, “but never Arabella looking like… like she was afraid.”

Sam shivered, the adrenaline catching up with her. “Yeah. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to see what’s in that box.”

Liesa laughed, shaky. “Or what is in the temple.”

They stepped away from the clearing, both moving a little faster now, the ease of earlier replaced by a prickling sense of being watched. When they were a hundred yards down the trail, Sam finally exhaled.

“Hey, Liesa?”

“Yes?”

“You ever get the feeling we’re the only ones who realize how screwed up all this is?”

Liesa’s smile was thin, but genuine. “Not the only ones. But maybe the only ones who can laugh about it.”

Sam grinned, her pulse slowing. “You’re braver than you think.”

Liesa looked at her, surprised. “You think so?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

They walked on, side by side, the trees swallowing up their footprints almost as quickly as they made them. Whatever had happened in the temple stayed behind, but the charge in the air never quite faded.