Island Challenge!, Part 1

The party moved as a loose, shifting stream, with the flag-waving Mildred at the front keeping a strict, regulation pace just slow enough for even the least athletic to keep up. Andy, drifting somewhere in the middle third, registered the sensation of walking in a crowd entirely made of his own ghosts: men and women in his same position, past or present, some of them just starting their journey through Harem Hotel and not knowing what to expect, others close to the end like he was, or perhaps even past it, like Harper. The whole procession looked like a grown-up field trip, the air thick with banter and the slightly-unsteady confidence of people playing it cool for the first day of school.

The footpath unspooled in gentle curves past the gardens and out to the Main Beach, and as they stepped onto the sand the world seemed to click over from the hotel’s high-gloss unreality to something softer and more honest. The sky was cloudless and the water so calm it looked poured into place. Even the air had that exact-for-a-movie scent: fresh salt layered over driftwood, warm grass, and sunscreen.

By the time everyone had shaken out of the bottleneck and found their own stride, Sam strode forward past the flag-waving Mildred and stood at parade rest near the shoreline, clipboard under her arm, sunglasses on, cobalt blue hair mussed by the breeze. The flag Mildred’s stop made her grin, and she twirled one hand in the air, rallying the stragglers with an energy that was more cruise director than Host. People fanned out across the sand, forming clumps by affinity or accident, until the whole group gathered around Sam in a rough semicircle.

Andy got there ahead of most, and Sam tossed him a wave before putting two fingers in her mouth and whistling the rest of the party silent. Even the breeze seemed to pause to listen.

“Alright!” she called, voice carrying over the surf and the increasingly distinct crowd. “The schedule says we’re running on time, which is its own kind of miracle with stuff like this, so I’ll keep this short. Welcome to the Island Challenge! The rules are simple, the course is marked, and the first team to reach the Pavilion of Bonds and get the box open wins the day. Box is locked with two keys and a combination. None of you get either for free. You want ‘em, you earn ‘em.”

She flipped a page on her clipboard. “Here’s the breakdown. Start here, then climb over the wall,” she pointed at a tall length of stone wall choked by wisteria and ivy about a hundred yards away, “through the Bamboo Grove without making a sound, across the Inner Gardens without taking the main path and without getting lost, and then you need to get at least two of your team to the center of the Conservatory—on the floating platforms, no swimming allowed. Once you’ve done that, back across the Main Beach and to the tidal pool, where you’re looking for a red key. Next, the Lagoon. There’s a second key in a case at the bottom. Don’t drown. From there, straight up the volcanic spur at the tip of the island for the combination. First team to the Pavilion of Bonds with both keys and the right combo gets the box.”

She paused, letting the competitive types process the information, and then added, “Also, no flying. No jumping the wall in one bound. No shortcuts. I called in a favor. Erin’s plants will not allow it, and I’m pretty sure at least two of you will end up in a bramble trap if you try. Erin kindly agreed to make the course fair for those of us who don’t have wings, or Hulk-level strength to jump, or whatever.” She gave Laura Black and Mark Garret a look that hovered between mock-accusing and genuinely impressed. Mark shrugged with an exaggerated innocence; Laura Black folded her wings demurely behind her back, but the look she sent Sam promised payback.

Sam pushed on. “Also, don’t wreck the plants. It’s rude. And if you do, Erin gets to give you a personal challenge at the wedding tomorrow. You won’t like it.”

A few heads turned to see if Erin was on the sand, but of course she was at the bachelorette breakfast, or whatever else was planned after. Andy could picture her, arms full of wisteria, giving the job exactly as much gravity as if she’d been asked to dig a moat around the place.

Sam flipped another page, then gave the crowd a grin. “One last thing, for those of us who are magically gifted,” she looked at Harper pointedly, “no teleportation. Now for the teams! If you don’t like your draw, blame the dice.” She grinned at Kevin Burgmeyer. There was a light-hearted boo from the back, which Sam pointedly ignored.

“Team A: The Nerds. Andy, Matt Hawkins, Kevin Burgmeyer.” Matt raised his eyebrows at Andy and gave him a tight-lipped smile; Kevin just said, “Of course,” under his breath, not even pretending to be surprised.

“Team B: The Oddballs. Yours truly, Nick Reynolds, Adrien Moore.” Sam nodded with what looked like satisfaction, Nick looked momentarily panicked, and Adrien just tilted his head, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Team C: The Minmaxers.” A ripple of laughter moved through the group. “Mark Garret, Harper O’Connor, Mildred.” Mark’s speculative glance at his prospective partners overlapped with Harper’s dry “expected nothing less,” but it was Mildred’s small, deadpan curtsy that got the biggest laugh.

“Team D: The Lovers. Kevin McAllister, Laura Black, and Herman.” Kevin McAllister glanced at his teammates with a quick, tactical eye, but if he had an opinion, he kept it to himself. Herman gave a single, philosophical nod.

“Team E: The Regular Joes.” Sam held up her hand to forestall the jokes. “Felix Walker, Van, and Robert West.” Andy noticed, almost as a reflex, how every head turned in sequence to track the three of them, and thought he heard someone in the group muttering “poor kids”; Van’s jaw set a little harder, Felix just half-shrugged, and Robert seemed to find it genuinely funny, flashing a bashful smile and a “what can you do” gesture at no one in particular.

Sam checked the sheet, then looked up. “No switching. No whining. If you want to complain, save it for the post-game.” She tucked the clipboard under her arm and pointed to the wall at the far end of the beach. “Start’s over there. Flag Mildred will meet you at the Pavilion. If you cheat, I will find out, and I will humiliate you publicly and creatively. Otherwise, get moving.”

The whole group funneled in the new direction, some immediately strategizing, some trying to sneak in last-minute stretches. Andy found himself pulled into a tactical huddle with Matt and Kevin before they’d even cleared the first fifty yards.

Matt gave Andy a side-eye. “How do you want to play this?”

Andy grinned. “Cautious but fast. Kevin, you got wall experience?”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “I’ve climbed three in my entire life. But I can read the pattern. I’ll spot the handholds. Matt, you want to be the anchor?”

Matt nodded, a gleam in his eyes. “On it.”

They walked together, the energy good, not forced. As they passed Team B, Andy caught Sam’s eye; she shot him a wink, then elbowed Nick, who was half-listening to Adrien explain the physics of running on loose sand.

Just ahead, Mark, Harper, and Mildred were already approaching the wall, Mark’s height and Mildred’s grace making them a daunting front-runner. Harper walked with the cool assurance of a pirate captain, occasionally pausing to call something back over her shoulder to Mark.

The wall itself was a broad, high stretch of pale stone, at least ten feet tall and topped with a riot of green: ivy, wisteria, and the occasional burst of purple or pink flowers. It looked climbable, but Andy could already see the strategic placement of the really mean stuff—poison oak, sharp cactus, the sorts of things that made the course more puzzle than brute force.

As they closed in, the sand gave way to packed earth and a line of flat stepping stones. Kevin squinted up at the obstacle, scanned left to right, and pointed. “That section’s less tangled, but the handholds are further apart. If you’re tall, you win. If you’re small, you get stabbed. Guess which one we are.”

Andy looked at the lineup; Matt was not as tall as Andy, but lean and light-footed. Kevin was the shortest, but also probably the best at seeing the trap before he hit it. Andy grinned, “I’ll take the hit if there’s a breakaway, but you two set the pace.”

Behind them, a short exchange drifted forward from “The Regular Joes”. Robert, with a soft, resigned laugh, said, “You know, I actually always wanted to do one of these.” Felix said nothing, but Van muttered, “I’m not liking our chances,” though Andy could tell the edge was mostly for show.

There was a commotion at the front: Mark, dragon horns catching the sunlight, had attempted an over-wall leap, and got about three-fourths of the way up before a mat of wisteria caught his left leg and spun him into a cartwheel that ended with a clean, if loud, landing in the sand. Harper, not to be outdone, took a running leap and made it halfway up, clinging to the stone.

Mildred, for her part, didn’t even seem to try. She walked to the wall, found the tiniest seam between two stones, and flowed up it with the ungainly precision of a gecko. At the top, she crouched and watched the rest, expressionless except for a faint smirk. Andy suspected she’d been programmed for exactly this moment.

Sam, clipboard and all, materialized near the wall to supervise before joining her team. She gave Andy’s group a once-over, then said, “Don’t overthink it. Spread out. Just get over.” She said it loud enough that half the field could hear.

The wall looked taller up close. It wasn’t just the ten-foot drop or the way the stone curved inward at the top, but the living armor: a net of ivy so thick it blurred the edges of the stones, wisteria hanging heavy in fragrant clusters, and—if Andy squinted—bamboo stalks already poking up on the far side like scouts looking for a way in. The others groups had spread along the length of the wall, out of sight.

Kevin Burgmeyer sized it up and said, “If I were Laura Black I’d be halfway up that thing already. Probably catch a sunrise while I’m at it.” His tone was flat, but not envious; just stating the facts. He gestured at the rest of the group: “Who’s the lightweight?”

Matt grinned, “Pretty sure it’s me, but I’ll check at the next weigh-in.”

“You first, then,” Andy said.

Matt nodded, and without any pretense of drama, slotted both hands into the ivy and started up. It was a practiced, almost casual climb, the kind you got from years of distance running—strong but not showy, each movement planned in advance, legs doing most of the work. Matt’s shoes barely left an imprint in the leaves, and at the top he paused, leveraged himself up, and swung a leg over the edge with a “Not as bad as it looked!” that was more encouragement than challenge.

Kevin went next. He hesitated for half a second, then went up with both hands, gritting teeth. Andy could see the difference: it wasn’t that Kevin was weak, just out of shape and out of practice—every reach a little higher than comfortable, every foothold a negotiation between gravity and dignity. About halfway up, Kevin stopped, caught his breath, and then started again, not looking back.

Andy waited, giving the man a head start. Then, making sure to keep hands and feet on bare stone, not the plant life, he punched controlled, shallow holds into the rock. Not too deep—he didn’t want to undermine the structure—but just enough to move up quickly, using his whole body as a lever. It was almost mechanical, the way each grip and push fit together. At the top, he rolled up and over, landing in a silent crouch next to Matt.

“Show off,” Matt said, but the edge was friendly.

On the other side, the bamboo spread out like a picket fence, and the ground was soft with last year’s needles. Kevin was already there, doubled over for a second, hands braced on his knees. His glasses were fogged, but he didn’t seem embarrassed, just focused on getting his lungs back online.

When he straightened, Kevin wiped his face and said, “Alright. Let’s not pretend I’m going to be much help on the next few physical things. So if I’m pulling my weight, it’ll be up here.” He tapped the side of his head, not his chest. “I know the trope is that the out-of-shape guy is dead weight, but I’d rather be the brain.”

Neither Matt nor Andy objected. For a moment, there was just the wind through the bamboo and the distant sound of the next team making a lot of noise on the wall.

Matt said, “Don’t sell yourself short. You did it. Plus, there’s always a trap right after the easy part.”

Andy nodded, and the three of them fell into step, heading toward the mouth of the Bamboo Grove.

He felt something settle in the group after that—like they’d just agreed, without having to talk it out, that nobody was here to look good or win a medal. They’d do what needed doing, and trust each other to figure the rest out on the way.

The path narrowed, and the three went silent, not needing to say anything else.

The Bamboo Grove was a different world from the sunlit chaos of the beach. The bamboo shot up in clean, pale-green lines, packed tight enough to filter the day down to an underwater glow. Bells and prayer chimes, no two alike, hung everywhere—at ankle, at knee, at overhead height—some spun from thin glass, others strung with weathered wood or polished brass. The air was thick with the scents of sap and cut grass, layered under by the deeper earth-and-ash smell of the old needle carpet on the ground.

Andy’s shoes landed with a dry, almost polite crunch. He went slow, keeping a careful pace with Matt and Kevin, each of them automatically matching the stride of the others. Nobody talked. The path wound forward, veering left and right but never doubling back, marked at intervals by carefully inlaid stepping stones and narrow boards bridging the low points.

Andy let his focus settle on the obstacles themselves: the thin lines of cord just visible among the shadows, the almost imperceptible slant of the ground where leaf litter had been artfully swept out of position, the hidden chimes and bells ready to ring at the smallest mistake. Sam had rigged the Grove like a game of Operation—one false move and the whole canopy would come alive.

About thirty yards in, they crossed a narrow footbridge. The wood flexed with each step, but Matt, in the lead, managed not to bounce or overstep. At the end of the bridge, Andy caught a faint motion: Kevin’s hand, flat and rigid, coming up to signal halt.

Matt stopped immediately. Andy froze, halfway through his own step, and retraced it, boot coming down softly on the very edge of a paving stone. Kevin went low, shoulders squared, and squinted at the next section of the path. He traced the line from the base of a bamboo stalk, across a patch of slightly darker leaves, to a dull metallic glint embedded just at the edge of the path. Andy followed it, and saw the near-invisible cord stretched at shin height, looped around a tiny trigger box hidden in the litter.

It was a beautiful piece of work. If anyone, even someone watching for it, had just walked, the cord would have caught them low, snapping the trigger and—Andy looked up—dropping the whole cluster of wind chimes overhead into a full, attention-getting blast. The design wasn’t to punish, but to alert the field to the error, and Andy found himself momentarily awed by the care.

Kevin worked with a precision that made Andy’s own engineer’s heart ache with recognition. He pointed at the line, then at the leaf litter just past it—there was a secondary tripwire, almost invisible, designed to catch anyone who stepped wide to avoid the first. Kevin shifted onto one knee, braced, and with the gentlest movement, untied the first cord from its anchor, then retied it two inches higher, so it would catch even the more careful steps of those who watched for traps. Then, with a straight stick and a slow, careful drag, he shifted the second trigger just far enough that it would fire only if someone really overcorrected.

He didn’t stop there. Kevin lifted the near edge of the litter and, with a finger, flicked something under it. Andy saw the movement, and realized he’d set a third, even subtler trap: a piece of bamboo, arranged just so, that would roll forward to trip or distract even the most careful follower if they lost focus after the first two, sending them straight into the second tripwire. It was elegant, non-lethal, and utterly merciless in its logic.

Matt watched, completely still, his face the mask of someone not sure if he should laugh or clap. Andy held his own breath until Kevin straightened, dusted his palms on his cargo shorts, and gave the tiniest nod forward.

They moved past the section, and Andy saw—just for a heartbeat—the shape of what Kevin had done. If any other team followed at normal speed, they’d still be safe, but if they ran, or if they tried to muscle through, they’d be punished three different ways.

Halfway through the Grove, the bells and chimes grew even denser. Andy caught himself taking smaller and smaller steps, shoulders tensed, neck prickling at the sense that every foot of progress here mattered. At one point, Matt nearly slipped on a patch of damp stone, but recovered with a catlike lunge, barely brushing a low-hanging bell with his sleeve. It didn’t sound, but Andy felt his own heart thump twice in response.

The last thirty yards were the hardest: the path doubled back on itself, twice, and both times Kevin called a silent halt, found the trap, and adjusted it, always making sure the way was open for them but not for anyone less careful.

They cleared the last bend and stepped out of the shade, the Grove ending in a sharp border where the bamboo thinned and the sunlight poured through. Andy felt the temperature rise instantly, sweat starting to bead on his skin.

Only once the three of them were well clear of the Grove did any of them speak.

Matt was first. “Kevin. That was incredible. I've met surgeons whose hands weren't that steady.”

Kevin waggled his fingers in response. “I'm better suited to a server room than an operating theater, but thank you. I guess all those times the CIO decided it was cheaper to send me on a four hour drive than it was to hire a local when a switch needed to be rewired paid off after all.”

The moment the path forked, Andy veered left, barely pausing to check the footing. The main route was a trick—a loop designed to double back on itself and burn time, but the narrow side trail cut the distance by half if you knew how to take the curves. Andy had walked this shortcut nearly every day since it opened for the season, sometimes with a partner, sometimes alone, always learning the trick of not getting snagged on the low branches or losing the trail when it merged with the overgrown segments of hedge.

Matt and Kevin fell in behind him, not even a token protest or second-guessing, which Andy found a little flattering. It wasn’t deference, exactly—just a group decision that if someone wanted to lead, you let them, and if they screwed up, you dealt with it after.

They went single file for a bit, ducking under a tangle of bougainvillea and vaulting a low stone fence that looked, to Andy, exactly like the kind of “natural barrier” you’d see in a game level. It even had a built-in tripping hazard: a slippery patch of moss right at the landing point. Andy pointed it out as they passed, and Matt gave a thumbs-up, like it was part of the course syllabus.

Once they’d cleared the last turn and were back on even footing, the path widened enough for the three of them to walk abreast again. Kevin was the first to break the companionable silence.

“Alright, now that we're out of there and can talk, I've been thinking.” He said, keeping his eyes on the path but tone inviting. “I don't want to discount the climbing wall, but it's exactly the kind of simple thing I'd include in a challenge like this to get the players feet wet. Something to prime the pump so that they're bought in when they get to the next thing. The second challenge would then be the first one designed to make them actually start to think. If we assume the same logic here, what does that tell us about the kinds of things we're likely to encounter going forward?”

Andy nodded. “You think the Grove was the real test, then?”

“Part of it,” Kevin said. “If I was designing this, I’d make the first bit just hard enough to weed out anyone who wasn’t serious, but not enough to knock anyone out. Second obstacle—now you start splitting the field. Anyone can jump a wall, but not everyone slows down to check for traps. You get teams self-sorting by how they handle that.”

Matt said, “So what’s the next one, then? There’s only so many ways you can escalate an obstacle course before it turns into a wipeout show.”

Kevin shrugged. “Could go a few ways. You could do a logic puzzle—force teams to coordinate, maybe solve a code before they’re allowed through. Or you could do a trust test. I always liked those.”

Matt grinned, “You’re not talking about trust falls, are you?”

“I mean, not literally. But if I was writing the adventure, I’d want to see if teams are willing to let one person take the hit for the others. Maybe there’s a bridge that looks safe, but you need someone to walk it first and prove it isn’t.”

Andy chewed on that. “So, trust in the team. Or willingness to make a call even if it’s risky.”

“Exactly,” Kevin said. “You set it up so there’s no perfect solution. Whatever they do, they’re making a choice that says something about how they operate.”

They walked on, the day getting warmer as the sun chased them through gaps in the hedges.

Matt said, “You know what I'd do if I were running the game? Make the next obstacle something ridiculous, so anyone who's trying too hard gets caught off guard. Long range trifle assembly: throwing handfuls of custard and whipped cream into a bowl on the other side of a canyon.”

Andy snorted. “That’s not even physically possible.”

Kevin shrugged, “You'd be surprised. I once ran a puzzle where the safest solution was to eat the entire thing. One of the party members figured it out in the first five minutes, but it took her almost two hours to convince the rest to let her try. I had to end the session early so she had enough time to gloat when it worked.”

They traded more ideas as they walked. Andy started to see how the structure of the course was less about the obstacles themselves and more about what they revealed about the people running them. It made sense. Every round, every transformation, even every morning coffee at the hotel—Arabella had been tuning them all like an algorithm, pushing toward some outcome she’d never quite put into words.

After a while, the speculation ran out of steam, and they just walked. The garden was beautiful, even with the weird, semi-magic tricks layered under every hedge and bough. Andy had always liked this place. It was one of the only spots on the whole island where you could forget, even for a second, that you were supposed to be performing for an invisible audience.

Ahead, the path dipped down, shade turning from green to a blue that felt almost underwater. In that hush, Kevin finally spoke. “Alright,” he said, “so what sort of narrative would any of these support?” The question didn’t seem rhetorical, even though it could have been.

Andy thought for a moment, feeling the answer tug at something he hadn’t wanted to examine. “In any good story, you need a payoff. You can’t just keep raising the stakes forever, or people stop caring. You need a climax that matches the buildup, and a resolution that lets the characters actually grow from the experience.” The words came out more honestly than he’d intended.

Matt cut in, dry. “Or not. Sometimes people just don’t.”

“True,” Andy agreed, but there was something in the way Matt said it that felt heavy. Not bitter, but not a joke, either.

They walked in that newly fragile silence, almost reverent, past a series of stone benches and a small, artificial waterfall that made the air feel even cooler. For a second, Andy lost track of where they were in the course, and just walked for the sake of walking.

After a minute or two, Kevin said, “I always thought there was a kind of mercy in stories that let their characters choose to change. Most people are too afraid to, in real life. They cling to what they are and what they know and tell themselves that God, or fate, made the choices for them.”

Andy felt that, deep in his teeth. He looked at the back of Kevin’s head, the angle of his neck as he squinted at the path, and found himself weirdly grateful for the way Kevin could say things like that without flinching. “I think you change either way. The only difference is whether you notice.”

Matt, for the first time, sounded unsure. “Do you really think that? That people even notice, I mean?”

Andy shrugged, but the gesture was more vulnerable than he intended. “I think most people only notice at the end. They look back and realize they aren’t who they started as, but in the moment, it just feels like improvising.”

They passed under a low archway of citrus trees, sunlight filtering through and making everything smell like summer, and Andy almost forgot they were supposed to be racing.

The path narrowed again, and the three were forced into single file. Andy, in front, felt the conversation like a current at his back.

Kevin, now directly behind him, said, “Consider what it means to have a story written around you. If you’re the main character, do you get to pick the ending? Or do you just get to react to whatever gets thrown at you?”

Matt surprised Andy by answering first. “It’s weird that I’ve got to think about the narrative arc of my own life now,” he said. “My Host even told me I needed to go through some character development before I’d be able to figure out one of my current... problems.” The word “problems” hung in the air, obviously standing in for something Matt wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Andy wanted to offer something—comfort, or just acknowledgment—but he didn’t have it ready. He just walked, letting the idea settle.

“Do you think it’s the same for everyone?” Kevin asked, more gently than Andy expected. “Or just the ones who get picked for this?”

Matt gave a half-laugh, “I don’t think I’m that special. Probably just means I’m stubborn.”

They went a few steps further before Andy said, “Maybe the point isn’t to figure it out. Maybe it’s just to keep moving, see what happens next.”

“Could be,” Matt said, but he sounded unconvinced.

They walked in silence after that, the only sound the crunch of gravel and the occasional caw of a bird from the deeper parts of the Garden. Andy turned the conversation over in his head. Kevin had said it himself: every story needed a payoff that matched the buildup. And Andy had enough data points now to see the shape of his own.

“You know what’s weird,” Andy said, after a minute of listening. “At this point, I’m so close to the endgame that I can actually see how mine ends. Not the details. But the structure.” He paused, not sure how much to say. “Arabella basically confirmed that there are two versions. One where I find the loophole—and it turns out the loophole is godhood, for me and everyone who stays with me. We become something else entirely, something that goes pretty far past anything I’d have signed up for.” He let that sit for a second. “And one where I don’t.” He paused again, softer. “And in that version, I lose someone.”

Matt said, quietly, “Laura?”

“Maybe.” Andy shrugged. “Maybe someone else.”

Kevin didn’t say anything. Neither did Matt, after that.

They reached the far end of the Garden. The path turned, and Andy could hear the distant noise of the other teams filtering through the hedges.

He looked at the two of them. They looked back. In their faces he found something he recognized—not quite confidence, but kinship.

Andy grinned. “Next obstacle?”

“Lead the way,” Matt said.

And Andy did.