Island Challenge!, Part 2

The hedges thinned out ahead of them, the path broadening toward the last garden gate. The Conservatory’s glass dome showed over the next rise, roof refracting sun into strange, feathered shadows on the path. Andy, Kevin, and Matt Hawkins walked in an accidental triangle—Andy a head above both but content not to stride ahead, Kevin in the leftmost track, and Matt on the right, picking his way with an almost unconscious lightness.

It was Matt who broke the quiet, though it was the kind of silence that can only last for so long before somebody decides it’s become a dare. “So,” he said, “do you ever get the feeling we’re supposed to be foreshadowing something? If we don’t figure it out in the next hundred yards, the story will throw a boulder at us to force the issue?”

Kevin snorted, not looking up. “If there’s a boulder, you’re carrying it.”

“Fair,” Matt said, “but only if Andy helps lift. I’ve seen his climb. It was terrifying.”

Andy laughed, and the laugh came out real, even as he knew the next piece of the conversation wouldn’t be a joke. “I’ll take boulder duty. I’m used to it by now.”

They walked another few steps, gravel crunching under their shoes, until Matt said, “I’ve been meaning to ask something. It's a little uncomfortable thinking about it now I've met you in person, but I’ve read your season, Andy, in preparation for the wedding. I've seen where the narrative is pointed. What does it feel like, knowing exactly where this is all going?”

Andy turned the question over. “The general direction, yeah. Arabella’s been pretty clear about what she’s hoping for.” He glanced at the dome rising ahead of them. “She wants me to inherit what she has. The power behind all of this. She’s been carrying it for a long time, and she thinks I’m the one who takes it next. Which is a polite way of saying she wants me to become a god.” He said the last word like it still didn’t quite fit in his mouth.

He looked over at Kevin. “You’re further into your own season than Matt is. Do you see your endgame from here?”

Kevin shrugged, hands in pockets. “I think in my case it's less about the destination than it is about the direction.” He paused, peering off into the horizon as though trying to spot the road which led there. “The way things are going, I don't think I'm going to be done when Lily lets me go. I think I-we, really, my whole harem-we're getting set up to become something. A new set of myths. Like I'm supposed to become Hercules and they're my tasks. Except instead of the son of Zeus, I'm turning into the god of keeping the servers running and your local pizza place in business.”

Matt made a quiet noise of curiosity. “Myths, huh? Sounds familiar. Except I'm being set up as a dragon, not a god.”

Andy grinned, feeling the pressure between his shoulders loosen a notch. “You’re carrying it more gracefully than I do.”

Kevin gave a small smile, the kind that signaled he appreciated the compliment but had already moved past it.

Matt didn’t let the thread drop, but let the quiet grow and then clipped it off clean. “I’m not sure if you’re deflecting or if that’s genuinely how you see it.” He stepped to the side as the path narrowed, then said, “When you say ‘god’—you mean, literally? I'm pretty sure I'm only metaphorically a dragon.”

“No, I mean literally,” Kevin said. “I'm just not sure of the scale yet.” He offered a rueful smile and added, “Not every god gets to hurl thunder from Olympus, but I'm not sure what else to call it when I'm being pushed to reach in and mold the clay of someone else's legend.”

“I think the molding sounds more dangerous than the thunder,” Matt said quietly, then looked over at Andy. “What about you? If Arabella wants you to take her place, does that mean you’re stuck running this? Or do you think you'd get to shape your new domain?”

Andy kicked a pebble off the path and watched it vanish into the beds of creeping thyme. “You’re taking this remarkably well, Matt. In your place, I’d have written off both Kevin and myself as insane.” He offered a faint smile. “I don’t know. Arabella won’t say what’s on the far end, not in plain terms. The only thing she ever made unambiguous is that there are two exits for me. Option one, I take the power, the full scope of it, and move up to her level. Maybe I get to save everyone, that way, but it’s not a guarantee. Option two, I refuse, and the women and I, we go back home… but someone dies.” He kept his eyes forward. “I already know who.”

There was a span of thirty silent steps before anyone spoke again.

Matt said, “You think it’ll be Laura?”

Andy nodded.

Kevin said nothing for a long moment, then, softly, “What would either path do to the women? The ones who are with you.”

Andy didn’t answer right away. “If I ascend, they ascend too. They can’t choose otherwise. So we actually put it to a vote,” he said. “I didn’t expect it to be unanimous. Three said no, one of them changed her mind after a while. The other two—well. They sort of did, too, enough to give me permission. I respect them. I don’t think they’re wrong to be afraid of it. Or rather, of who pays the price if they do. We still haven’t found the loophole that keeps everyone safe.”

It was Matt, not Kevin, who winced. “That’s a hell of a thing to spring on someone. Especially if they thought they’d go home, and instead woke up a god’s wife.”

“Or a deity themselves,” Andy said. “I don’t know how it works. Maybe it’s just power, with no obligation, and maybe it’s not. I don’t know which would be worse.”

Kevin lifted his hands together and started to crack his knuckles, one by one, not even seeming to realize he was doing it. “One of the mistakes I see new DMs make most often is thinking that going along with something is the same as consent. They'll think that because the rules say ‘anything goes,’ that means they can blindside their players with a curveball and everyone will be OK with it.” The words came out slowly at first, but as he went on he picked up momentum. “What they miss is that there's a difference between people being willing to accept something as necessary to get what they want and being invested in it happening. Knowing what your players want and making sure they understand what you're going to ask of them is the difference between a mediocre game and a great one. You can't skip that, even if it means ruining the surprise, because if you don't agree on where you're going you're never going get there at all.”

Andy turned that over. “You ever tell your women? What might be waiting?”

“Not yet, not all of them at least,” Kevin said. “Nobody should have to carry a future that isn’t theirs, not if they don’t want to.” He turned to Andy. “So what happens if you just refuse? Say you walk away from both endings. What then?”

Andy remembered the exact wording, the one Arabella used when he tried to opt out: “It’s either one or the other, at this point. And if I walk away, the power will not sit idle. It will either seek another, or it will degrade into a thousand smaller disasters, or it will run backward to the Producers, and they will find their own use for it.” He didn’t say the rest. “All I know is that it won’t just dissipate.”

Matt let out a breath, low and steady. “So you’re saying even if you don’t want the power, you still have to find a way to shepherd it. There’s no version where you get to just hand it back.”

“I don’t know, yet,” Andy said. “I’m not sure if I would have any say, in that case. And I’m not sure it makes things any lighter.”

Kevin shook his head, the motion slow but final. “It never gets lighter. The only thing you can do is make sure the load doesn’t break the people under you.”

Matt cracked a smile, then ruined it with, “You know, I've networked with some pretty powerful people, but a bachelor party with two gods in the making is a new one.” He looked from Andy to Kevin, then back. “Or I think so, at least. I mean, I could have shaken your hand in a supermarket and never realised it. Would a full-blooded god be any different?”

Andy didn’t have to think. “The first time I met Hermes, I had no idea. The same with Inanna. Ereshkigal, I met her at the Fifth Challenge and danced with her before realizing who she was.” He glanced at the others, checking for recognition. “It’s never obvious until you see what they do.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

Matt had gone quiet in a different way than before. He was looking at Andy with the expression of someone who had read the transcript of a disaster and was now standing in the actual rubble. “I read your season,” he said, after a moment. “All of it. But you just said those names like they’re people you ran into at a conference.” He shook his head, not in disbelief, but in the slow recalibration of someone updating a model. “They're not just characters in a book. That’s going to take me a second.”

Kevin’s fingers drummed on his thigh, then stilled. “You know, there was a day—a weird one, that's a little hazy even now. Our Host got replaced, just for a while, by a woman who called herself Ishtar. Not Inanna, but if I remember my mythology there's some overlap there. She took our whole group, and it was like she'd glanced at a Wikipedia summary of roleplaying games and put us in one styled after the legend of Gilgamesh. It was supposed to be my day with Blue, and for the whole day, it was like Ishtar had put an Enkidu-shaped coat on her.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I think that’s what Hosts do. They take people and assign them roles, and sand them down until they fit. Once you figure out the story, though, you can start to see the shape of the ending before it comes.”

Andy considered that, and said, “Transformations, too. Meant to fulfill a role. And if you figure out the pattern, you can figure out the role. Sometime’s a sexy stereotype, sometimes… sometimes it’s a god.” He thought of Erin, the most obvious example.

Matt, dry as a toast crumb, said, “I can’t compete with the theology, but my whole season is stories. And every good story’s ending has its foreshadow, its clues in the text. For the reader, that's just suspense. You can't change the next chapter even if you know exactly what's coming. For someone inside the story though?” He looked at Andy. “Maybe if you can map the outline of it, you can find the path that leads to the happy ending.”

Andy smiled. “It’s the only thing keeping me moving, at this point.”

Kevin said, “Same. I don’t care if I get a world of my own, but I want it to be a place I’d want to visit.”

Matt’s face went a little tight at that, but he nodded. “I respect it.”

The last of the hedges broke open, and they stepped into the bright, trimmed silence of the Conservatory’s outer lawns. Above them, glass arched into the blue, birds gliding from trellis to trellis on the updrafts. The air was thick with the smell of orange blossom and honeysuckle, and the wide green sweep of the path drew them forward.

Kevin looked at the dome, then at Matt and Andy. “You know, Matt, Andy, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Matt snorted. “If we’re lucky, the next boulder is a metaphor.”

Andy grinned. “If not, I’ll catch it.”

All three of them walked forward, into the light.

---

Past the edge of the Main Beach, the garden path vanished into salt-crusted rock, and then into a platform of basalt where the coast curved toward the Lagoon. Here the sea and wind owned the world. The morning sun was a hazed coin above the Lagoon’s glass, and the volcanic spur carved a black scythe into the horizon. While Mark scouted forward, trying to figure out where the other teams were, Harper found Mildred perched at the edge, facing the open water, a climbing rope in her hands.

Harper stopped a few paces back, letting the breeze flatten the last of her coat against her legs before she said anything at all. Mildred had selected her seat like a sniper picks a perch: a flat, crystalline plate of basalt overlooking the chasm where the island’s reef rolled open toward the deep, as if she were waiting for a message or a target. She was coiling a length of dull-pink climbing rope, a professional-grade dynamic, thicker than the sort you’d find in any civilian sporting goods shop. Each loop was a carbon copy of the last, aligned with a focus that was almost devotional. Harper had never watched her prepare for these “team-building” events, never moticed quite so much attention to the mechanical side of things. She wondered if it was compulsion or the anticipation of failure that made every motion so meticulous.

She waited, arms crossed, fingers idly drumming at her own elbow. The rope wasn’t for show—Harper knew they’d need it for the spur, where the actual vertical would matter—but it was hard to shake the sense that Mildred was coiling more than cord. She was wrapping up the day in advance, packing the event into an archive she could carry behind her back, ready to retrieve at a moment’s notice and just as ready to dispose of if it turned out to be inconvenient.

Harper’s thoughts knotted and unknotted, looping back to the same place each time. There were two questions she wanted to ask, and neither was something you could say out loud without changing the shape of the conversation. The first: Are you the horror they caught? The one they kept? The answer to that seemed obvious, but she needed to be sure. The other: How do you actually kill something like you? She’d rehearsed a dozen ways to start, and none of them survived contact with the morning’s sun and silence.

It was Mildred who spared her the trouble, eyes still on her work. “Did the letter reach your household?” she said, voice syrupy and neutral, pitched for privacy and not invitation. “Arabella has asked to be kept informed.”

Harper nodded, though Mildred couldn’t see it from the angle. “It did. Thank you.” She watched Mildred’s hands, each coil so exact the tail never overlapped. “Is it just you, or are there other Service today?”

Mildred’s smile was visible only as a quirk at one cheek, but her voice stayed even. “I am the only guest.” She looped the rope once more, then stopped, holding the coil as if it might unspool itself if left untended. “You have questions to nourish.”

It was not an accusation. It wasn’t even a dare. Harper felt like she was being given permission to ask.

She drew in a breath, aware of the way the salt on the wind rasped at the back of her throat, and started with the only thing that could be said with witnesses around: “Mona’s challenge.” The Mistress of Harper’s season. Not that the world needed reminding. “We asked for advice from Arabella, Herman, and Anna, with all the annotations.” Harper’s thumb rubbed at the back of her other hand, grounding herself in motion.

Mildred nodded, one eye on the rope, still, as if bracing for static shock. “And?”

“I want to be sure I understand the options,” Harper said. “Arabella claims that weapons don’t work. Not as a matter of the Host’s power, but as a matter of category error. That a sword needs a target, and a target needs a body that minds being cut.” She was watching the water, talking to herself as much as to the woman on the stone. “She says a gun would just make it louder. That what works is…” She fished for the right phrase, remembered it exactly: “Making it question itself. Because a thing that’s never had to justify its own existence has no antibodies for uncertainty. She wants Mona to hesitate, not to wound.”

Harper said it, and let the words hang in the air for a full beat. She half-expected Mildred to react—snort, correct, shift the conversation into safer orbit—but the woman just finished a loop of the rope and set it precisely beside the last, eyes never moving from the view over the drop.

After a while, Mildred said, “A thing that has never failed at being itself does not consider alternatives. Doubt is always fatal to purpose.” She flexed her gloved hands, and the rope creaked softly. “What the Host proposes is possible. Whether it is survivable is a separate problem.”

Harper nodded, letting her own breath escape. “That’s what Anna mentioned. That Mona and her harem don’t have to be stronger. They just need to be more interesting than the thing they’re facing, for a few minutes. To give it something it’s never had to deal with before.” She tilted her head, squinting into the wind. “I’m not sure if that’s mercy, or cruelty. Or both.”

“It is efficient,” Mildred said, looping the rope tighter. “I admire efficiency. Also improvisation, when it is possible.”

Harper pressed on, “That’s only the first part. Anna had two points. The first is that these things—your kind, if that’s the right word—feed on the awe that comes from not being understood. When someone figures out even a piece, it’s like a virus, it eats at the body.” Harper watched Mildred carefully, hunting for a twitch or flicker, but she could have been talking to a statue with a lovely manicure. “So Mona’s job is to close the gap between what she knows and what she doesn’t, until the horror is as much a puzzle as a monster.”

Mildred’s eyes, black and bottomless, flickered just once to Harper’s own. “That is correct,” she said. “In the time before this, most things which believed themselves immortal were simply never sufficiently interrogated. They believed in their own myth.” She smiled, thin. “Ex-Contestant Inanna is more dangerous than she lets on.”

Harper half-smiled at that. “She said the ones that look invincible are almost always the ones no one has ever seriously challenged. They confuse the lack of opposition for a proof of concept.”

A tick in Mildred’s cheek, the first crack in the mask. “That is also correct.” She set the rope down, neat as a blueprint, then immediately picked it up and started again, like she couldn’t stand the idea of a task with no final form.

Harper kept her voice as even as Mildred’s, but let a note of dry warmth into it, just enough to be real. “Herman’s advice was different. More blunt. He said Mona’s going to be terrified, and that’s normal, and that the only ones who fail are the ones who never learn that the terror is part of the process, not a signal to bail. The thing isn’t going to let her keep any part of herself unless she insists on it, every second, every time.”

Mildred stopped, rope frozen in a half-coil, and said, “That is… correct.” The pause before the last word was almost visible.

Harper went on, “Herman also said that things like this have a weakness for being addressed directly, for being called by a name instead of just being a storm or a shadow. That you reduce them by making them specific, by speaking to them and not around them. Mona should give the thing a name, or find it, even if it doesn’t want one.” She watched Mildred for the response.

Mildred’s lips parted as if she were about to protest, or laugh, or scream, but she only said, “He is as wise as I thought.” Then she set the rope down, slowly, hands folded over it.

Harper didn’t stop. “Arabella said one more thing. She said that they managed to trap one, here at the Hotel. That it’s working in Service now, making beds, pouring coffee, that it has opinions about fabric softener and laundry and thread count. She said it wasn’t an accident, that destruction was always an option, but they decided instead to make a lesson out of it. A horror made mundane.”

Mildred’s mouth twisted, almost a grimace. She didn’t deny it. “It is a better punishment,” she said, voice so even it could have been a lullaby.

Harper looked at her. “Is it you?” It was the question she’d brought all the way up the rocks, and now that it was out she felt a peculiar sense of relief, like she’d set a burden down and only noticed the weight after the fact.

Mildred didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she took the rope and began uncoiling it again, as if the answer required a full reset before it could be said aloud. “Mildred is from Service,” she said, at last. “That is all I am allowed to say about myself.”

Harper didn’t let it go. “Arabella said containment was the smaller decision, that it costs less than ending a thing like you, but you know that’s not true. Containment takes everything from the thing being contained. Ending it outright takes everything from whoever tries. But there’s a difference.” She let that hang, watching to see if Mildred would break.

Mildred’s hands slowed, the last loop of rope trembling before she made herself set it down. “Ending one is never simple,” she said. “It is never clean. There are always viscera to cleanse. The flesh-beings who try to do it are usually gone before the story has time to explain why they tried.” She looked up, meeting Harper’s eyes fully. “That is the actual reason it is almost never done.”

Harper took that in, then nodded. She let her own fingers drum against her thigh for a moment. “Is it survivable? If Mona tries, I mean.”

Mildred’s answer was immediate. “Containment is survivable for the container. Ending may not be.”

Harper nodded again, slower. “That’s what I thought.” She tried for a smile, but didn’t force it. “I’m sorry. I know you know why I’m asking. I’m sorry it has to be you.”

Mildred’s eyes went soft for a moment, the edges of her gothic-mascara makeup suddenly less theatrical, more smudged with fatigue. “It is no burden. Service is my task. If Mona wants to win, she must understand that the victory is never final. And neither is containment.”

Harper picked up the half-coiled rope, finished the last few turns with hands that were not nearly as steady as they usually were, and offered it back. “You’re not what I expected,” she said, and it was not unkind.

Mildred took the rope, gentle, and said, “Neither were you.”

Harper looked at the ocean for a long moment, the black arc of the volcanic spur, the glassy stillness of the Lagoon. “If Mona wins, and it works… what happens to the thing on the other side? What’s left of it?”

Mildred was very quiet. “A horror made ordinary does not stop being a horror. It only stops announcing itself. The name gets smaller. The purpose gets smaller. But it does not die.”

Harper absorbed that, then nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

She started to turn, but Mildred said, “Is that what Mona wants?”

Harper stopped, hand on the outcrop. “To win?”

“No,” Mildred said, softly. “To still know herself, after.”

Harper looked at the woman, really looked, and saw the precise angle of the head, the exactness of her posture, the way even exhaustion was measured and controlled, the performance of it as real as the function. “I hope so,” Harper said. “I really do.”

Mildred picked up the rope, stood, and let the wind whip her hair back. Harper nodded, then started for the course, still thinking. She’d only made it three steps before a heavy, percussive impact rattled up from the Lagoon side, loud enough to echo off the Spur and back again. A shout followed, too distant to make out, but urgent.

Both women turned toward the sound as one, the conversation behind them left exactly as it was, unfinished.

---

The sun above the Volcanic Spur felt different—harsher, sharper, almost personal, as if it wanted to see who would blink first. Laura Black reached the base of the climb with her team a full minute ahead of the next group, her seven-foot frame casting a shadow so clean it looked painted on the rock. She planted her shoes and scanned the face, not because she needed to but because every muscle in her body itched for a real challenge. Heels and power suit or not, she was enjoying stretching her aura.

“Looks like forty feet, vertical the last third,” said Kevin McAllister, already analyzing the ledges and breaks. His bull’s horns glinted in the sunlight, and his hands moved as if outlining routes on invisible graph paper. “If we go up the left, we’ll get boxed out at the seam. Middle’s faster, but—” he glanced at Laura—“if you’re planning on flying, you’ll need a better excuse.”

Laura grinned, sharp and bare, and stretched her wings just enough to make a statement. “I’m not a cheat, Kevin. But I do think you’re slow.”

Next to them, Herman stood with his arms folded, looking up at the cliff like a man evaluating a minor pothole. “I’ve jumped higher than this in the city,” he said, voice so mild it was hard to tell if he was flexing or just being literal. “If you want, I can catch you on the way down.”

Laura shot him a look, then caught herself. She didn’t have a read on Herman yet. There was a patience in him that made her feel like the rest of the world was running on fast forward and he’d opted for slow motion. She wondered if it was a bluff, then decided she didn’t care.

They were about to start when a boulder the size of a chest of drawers flew past Laura’s head, missing her by inches, and slammed into the volcanic rock behind them with a deafening crack. Dust and pebbles rained down. Herman didn’t flinch. Kevin McAllister sighed as if someone had dropped a tray in a cafeteria.

Mark Garret’s heavy step hit the dust behind them a moment later. Laura didn’t turn. She didn’t have to.

“Would you look at that,” Mark said, stopping just at the edge of personal space. “I thought we’d have the place to ourselves, but I see the circus got here first.”

Laura turned, all seven feet of her, and met his gaze directly. He was taller—barely, though—but she thought she was probably faster. He was in full form: black dragon horns and tail, biceps like cinder blocks, jawline set to “brick wall.” Laura clocked the taunt, then let it sail overhead. “You’re late,” she said, “but at least you’re wearing the right outfit. I knew you’d go for horns, but the tail is a nice touch. Makes you look like you have balance.”

Mark shrugged, unbothered. “I thought about flying, but then I remembered it’d be unfair. You can’t even handle a breeze without getting your wings in a knot.”

Harper and Mildred rushed up just behind him, a study in opposites—Harper in her blue coat, eyes sweeping the Spur with detached appraisal, and Mildred so perfectly in black that the sun seemed to avoid her. Harper gave a casual wave. “Nice spot for a brawl,” she called, “but let’s keep it within the line, alright?”

Mildred just looked at the cliff, then at Laura, and then at Mark, as if she already knew how the whole thing would end and was only here to watch the rerun.

There was a pause, the kind that in other circles might have been awkward, but here was just an invitation. Herman, still unfazed, said, “If we’re going to do this, I’d like to get it over with before lunch. The rocks only get hotter.”

Kevin McAllister, always the referee, chimed in: “I propose a fair race. No using powers, just muscle and technique. Winner takes the combination.” He pointed at the small, red lockbox zip-tied to a post at the summit, barely visible from where they stood. “First one up can read it out. Losers buy drinks tonight.”

Harper grinned, “That’s all the motivation I need.”

Mark made a show of cracking his knuckles. “That, and the fact I hate losing to suits.” He glanced at Laura. “Or dragons.”

Laura gave him nothing but teeth.

On “go,” the world snapped forward: Mark took the middle route, all raw pull and loud confidence, while Laura chose the seam to the left, a slightly longer route but with more reliable grips. Kevin hung back, letting the two giants eat up the lead, then started up the third route—lower, slower, but with better purchase.

Harper and Mildred stood off to the side, heads tilted, arms crossed in perfect mimicry. Harper’s face was all delight. Mildred looked bored, but there was a hungry quality to her eyes that said she was counting every micro-mistake.

Laura gained a meter on Mark in the first three moves, then lost it when a chunk of obsidian broke off under her grip. She cursed, flexed her wings just to steady her body—she wasn’t a cheat, but she wasn’t suicidal—and kept moving. Mark, meanwhile, scaled with the reckless strength of someone who didn’t think consequences applied. He reached for holds two sizes too far, trusting in his leverage to close the gap.

At the third ledge, they came level, side by side, the air tight with competitive hatred. “Wings getting tired?” Mark taunted.

“Your arms are shaking,” Laura shot back, and as if on cue, his hand slipped an inch, dust trickling down. She planted a foot, braced, and shot up a full half-body length, getting her shoulder even with his.

Herman, from above, called, “You know, there’s a much faster way, if you work together.”

Neither of them answered. Kevin, two ledges down, yelled, “If you fall, I’m not catching you!”

“Don’t need you to,” Mark called, and then, with zero warning, he did exactly what he’d always threatened in gym class but never had the guts for: he grabbed Laura Black around the waist and, with a single motion, hauled her clean off the wall. For one insane second, both of them were airborne, Laura’s feet free, Mark’s hand clamped around her midsection, and she felt a jolt of absolute, unfiltered exhilaration.

He let go at the apex, and Laura arced out over the edge of the Spur, high enough that for a heartbeat the island vanished and there was only wind, sun, and the horizon. She didn’t scream. That wasn’t her style. Instead, she snapped her wings out, caught the air, and twisted into a glide. The force of the catch made her teeth rattle, but she managed to level off, circling once before landing on a lower outcropping like a pro. Behind her, Mark watched, grinning like a maniac.

On the beach below, Harper grimaced. Mildred gave the tiniest, professional clap.

Kevin McAllister, momentarily stunned, looked from Mark to the spot where Laura had landed and then let out a genuine, delighted laugh. “You’re both insane,” he said, and started up after them, not bothering to compete but just wanting to see how it ended.

Herman was already watching with interest from the top of the cliff, somehow.

Laura, already on her feet, looked up at Mark—who now had two meters on her but had to cover open rock to reach the summit—and said, “I hope you enjoyed that. Because payback’s a bitch.”

She spread her wings, pumped them once, and launched herself straight up. The updraft and the power in her back carried her in a steep, controlled arc that put her even with Mark in three beats. He reached for the top of the wall, expecting her to go for the flag or the win, but instead, Laura kicked off the rock, swung around behind him, and with both arms, wrapped him in a full grip and yanked him backward off the wall.

They fell together, a tangle of arms, tails, wings, and curses, before Laura let go at exactly the right moment, sending Mark tumbling into a soft drift of volcanic dust below. He landed with an “oomph,” rolled once, and sat up coughing. Laura landed beside him, not bothering to hide her delight.

Harper, arriving at the base, doubled over laughing, her green hair falling into her face. “Is this what we’re doing now? Full WWE?”

Mildred, who’d made it up the last third with complete composure, said, “It appears to be effective.”

Kevin McAllister arrived second, hands dusty, and looked from the heap of Laura and Mark to the box on the summit. “I guess we all forgot about that?”

Laura, dusting herself off, said, “Not at all,” and she spread her wings to leap upwards, but Mark grabbed her ankle and slammed her into the obsidian. Laura’s aura, much like Mark’s body, meant she couldn’t get hurt even by that, but she climbed to her feet in annoyance, looking at her torn and dusty clothes. “Fine,” she growled, “let’s see who’s the strongest here.”

Harper watched as Mark lifted a boulder the size of a pony and prepared to smash it on Laura’s head. She heard a commotion behind, turned, and saw Andy approach with Kevin Burgmeyer and Matt Hawkins, the latter two wide-eyed at the scale of the fight.

“Huh. Started earlier than I thought,” Andy commented with a faint smile, watching Laura and Mark trading blows, both of them clearly enjoying themselves immensely. To the side, Sam had arrived and was already hefting a stone, studying Kevin McAllister’s massive form.

“Should we break it up?” Harper asked, and Andy shrugged.

“To be honest,” he said, picking up a slab of rock with affected nonchalance, “I wouldn’t mind some exercise.”

---

Van heard the chaos before he saw it—a low, dull percussion like distant thunder, then the sharper snap of rock on rock, then voices. He slowed as they rounded the last ridge, signaling with one hand for Felix and Robert to do the same. Felix, walking point in a pair of battered cargo shorts and nothing else, froze mid-stride and went so still that for a second Van thought he might have stopped breathing.

Robert, at the back, barely changed pace. He walked forward with a resigned, slow certainty, as if he’d expected something like this all along.

The instant Van crested the saddle, the world resolved itself into a looney-tunes panorama: six colossal idiots fighting atop the ashen Spur, each one cartoonishly overpowered, apparently hell-bent on settling childhood trauma through blunt-force trauma. Laura Black was the easiest to spot—her wine-dark wings caught the sun like glittering garnet, and she fought with a gymnast’s precision, picking her footholds as if each atom of leverage might be the margin between victory and humiliation. Mark Garret—identifiable by his obsidian horns, the tail that lashed when he was mad, and the way he moved like a linebacker with a grudge—matched her, block for block, blow for blow, with the unyielding faith that only a man who’d never met his own limits could muster.

Van stopped dead, scanning the broad tableau for threats, but the danger here was so laughably obvious it didn’t count as “hidden.” He counted, quickly: Kevin McAllister, twice as wide as Van, arms like telephone poles, horns gleaming in the sun; Sam, all angry kinetic energy and fast feet, using every trick of body mechanics to make up for her size disadvantage; Andy, quiet and unassuming at a glance, but standing his ground at the foot of the Spur, acting as though he’d been hired to supervise this farce and intended to get overtime pay, grabbing any boulders that flew too far or threatened the other guests; and Harper, arms out, palms humming with visible distortion, running active scans or maybe just drawing power from the chaos.

The next tier out, a squad of spectators: Matt Hawkins, restless and unable to keep his hands still; Kevin Burgmeyer, who looked like he could have been leading a Bible study if not for the present context; Nick Reynolds, who wore his emotions like a very breakable mask; and Adrien Moore, arms folded on his chest, watching the show with a small smirk on his face, like someone who has seen it all before and knows he’ll see it again.

Mildred was present—a “stillness” Van wouldn’t have noticed except for the way all the debris seemed to flow around her, as if the universe itself was giving her a five-foot buffer. Next to her, Herman reclined on a rock, not in any hurry, just observing the physics of violence and cataloguing it for later. The whole scene had the ambiance of a gladiatorial pre-game show, except nobody was actually bleeding, and half the participants were laughing.

Van checked for hidden dangers (none), known dangers (flying boulders, obsidian shards, uneven terrain, super-strong men and women lobbing rocks at each other like they were tennis balls and, twice now, catching them back out of the air without looking), checked for points of egress (multiple, mercifully), checked the face of the Spur for anything that would impede a non-superhuman climber (the path to the summit was clear and not under direct fire). He calculated that the melee would continue indefinitely unless interrupted.

The first true impact came moments later, when Mark Garret, teeth bared, caught Laura Black around the waist, spun her once for good measure, and hucked her off a four-meter ledge. She didn’t even flail—the wings snapped out, caught the updraft, and she banked hard, firing back a chunk of volcanic glass at terminal velocity. It bounced off Mark’s chest with a sound like a baseball bat smacking a cinder block. No blood, not even a wince. Mark stumbled back one step, grinned, shook the dust off, and lumbered up to the next chunk.

Van summarized: kinetic threats were all above and visible, nothing coming from below, no one in a posture to attack the newcomers. He exhaled, sampled the wind for scent, found nothing but ozone and the chemical aftertaste of hot dust. He watched as Sam and Kevin McAllister squared off at the rim of the Spur, trading punches that would have meant hospital time in the old world; here, the only casualty was Sam’s pride, and she spat once, reset, and clocked him square across the jaw. Kevin took the hit, toppled backward, and lay there, rubbing his jaw and grinning like an idiot, while Sam crowed about her victory to no one in particular.

Andy, at the base, fielded a low-flying boulder with one hand. He didn’t even look up, just let the stone hit his palm, absorbed the force, then set it down at his feet, delicately, as if handling a child’s toy. Harper, watching from the periphery, offered a low whistle of appreciation.

“Is this the line for the combination, or do we have to take a number?” Van yelled, picking a gap between boulders and projecting his voice with professional clarity.

Matt Hawkins detached from the spectator cluster, jogged over, and offered a hand. “Hey. You made it.” He flicked a look to Felix, then to Robert, then back to Van, as if checking for concealed weapons or other surprises. “Do you want to join, or are you just here for the view?”

“Yeah,” Van said, “and we already have the keys. We just need the combo.” He glanced at the lockbox, saw that it was still attached to the summit post, and nodded. “Is there an actual point to this, or do we just enjoy the floor show?”

“We’re here to finish the climb,” Van replied, voice even. “Need the combination for the lockbox, then we’ll get out of your way.”

Matt snorted. “Good luck. They’ve been at this for twenty minutes. Nobody’s even close.” He jerked his chin at the brawl, where Laura and Mark were now wrestling for dominance at the highest ledge, wings and tail and arms a writhing study in negative space. “It started as a contest, then got a little… intense.”

Felix, without shifting his gaze from the fight, said, “Is it always like this?”

“Only on nice days,” Matt deadpanned. “I think they just like the sound of rocks breaking.”

Robert folded his arms, watching the brawl with something like admiration. “They heal up quick?”

“Instant,” Matt said. “No pain, just bruised egos.”

Van glanced up. The lockbox was still zip-tied to the post at the summit, undisturbed despite the low-grade war raging around it. He clocked the angles, the routes, calculated the probability that anyone up there would notice a bird, let alone a person, moving past them. He made a decision.

“Can anyone just claim the combination?” Van asked, making it a test.

Matt shrugged. “Sure. If you can get up there, it’s yours. But you have to survive the crossfire.”

Adrien Moore, who’d been silent up to now, stepped forward and extended a slip of paper. “Save yourself the trouble,” he said, voice flat. “It’s 6-9-6-9.”

Van took the paper, checked it—just to be sure—and nodded. “Thank you.”

Felix, who’d been tracking the trajectory of a particularly menacing rock, took that as their cue to move. The three of them wound their way around the periphery, Van leading, Felix tilting his head to keep line of sight on the melee, Robert bringing up the rear with the kind of steady gait that said this was probably the most fun he’d had in weeks.

As they left the Spur behind, the noise faded: the thuds, the yells, the occasional high-pitched sound of volcanic glass meeting bone. The last thing Van saw, looking over his shoulder, was Laura and Mark locked together in an aerial grapple, both of them laughing so hard they barely remembered to keep fighting. Van allowed himself a microsecond of envy—not at the strength, but at the freedom to express it.

The trail to the Pavilion dipped down into a stand of wind-stunted evergreens, the needles rattling like beads in the dry updraft. The route was less treacherous than the approach to the Spur, but still required attention: slick volcanic pebbles could roll an ankle, and the loose sand at the margins was a notorious trap for the inattentive. Van led at a brisk but sensible pace, one eye on the terrain, the other rotating through the tactical sweep: no movement in the trees, nothing on the ridgeline, just the distant echo of the fight and, below, the shimmer of the Pavilion’s mirrored roof.

Felix kept his stride light, scanning for ambushes, though Van suspected the real danger here was boredom rather than violence. Robert, for his part, seemed to be absorbing the scenery, eyes sweeping over every odd lichen, every unnatural twist of stone. When they reached a break in the trees and the Pavilion came fully into view, all three stopped in near-perfect unison.

---

The Pavilion of Bonds was empty when they arrived, the sweep of the terrace unbroken except for a table at its center and the line of banners overhead, each stitched with a contestant’s name and icon. Van checked again for surprises, found none. He walked straight to the table, Felix and Robert following, and set the tide-pool key into its left-side slot.

Felix, wordless, took the second key and slotted it into the right. The fit was perfect. He held his fingers there a second too long, then let go like he’d been burned.

Van handed Robert the combination slip. Robert read it twice, then worked the dial on the lock: six, nine, six, nine. Van double-checked the numbers before Robert turned each. There was no ticking, no warning. The lid gave with a tiny click, softer than Van expected, and the box just sat there, unlocked.

For a moment, none of them reached in. Van waited for a trick, a noise, a flash—nothing.

Felix said, under his breath, “That’s it? We did it?”

Van said, “We did.”

They were still staring when Mildred—same Mildred as the morning, red-flag pin and all—stepped through the Pavilion archway, clipboard in hand. “Congratulations,” she said, professional but not unfriendly. “You are the winners of the First Inter-Season Island Challenge.” She didn’t clap or linger, just made a note and left.

Van ran a mental check for the step he’d missed, found none, and then finally looked inside the box. The prize was a cheap plastic trophy—spray-gold, with crooked engraving: WINNERS, 1ST INTER-SEASON ISLAND CHALLENGE. Next to it, an envelope with twelve coupons, each reading ONE FREE TRANSFORMATION, with a tiny asterisk and an even tinier note reading redeemable on the bearer's own season, upon delivery of this coupon to the Host. Subject to local Host’s terms and regulations. This coupon does not guarantee a boon transformation, and under those, a thin, hand-bound booklet, its title lettered in black marker:

SAM’S GUIDE TO SURVIVING HAREM HOTEL: TIPS AND TRICKS

Van picked up the booklet and paged through it. The handwriting was Sam’s—neat, all-caps, each line written to be read at a glance, no wasted words. Every page was a guide to making it through the show intact: when to trust, when to run, how to spot the “safe” transformations, which Hosts could be bargained with, and which to avoid at all costs. There were jokes, but most of the content was blunt, practical, and weirdly personal. Van read the last line aloud, softly, for the other two to hear:

IF YOU’RE READING THIS, YOU’RE NOT DEAD YET. IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, YOU HAVE TO KEEP GOING.

Felix laughed, once, sharp and a little surprised. “That’s so on-brand. I love it.”

Robert just looked at the booklet, quiet. Then he reached into the box and took the trophy, turning it in his hands like he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or the real thing. His mouth twisted, and then—slowly—a real smile broke through, small and bright.

Van put the booklet back in the box. He looked at Felix, at Robert, and then at the terrace. For a second, none of them said a word, the Pavilion all theirs, and the only sound was the slow, irregular crash from the Volcanic Spur, echoing up from a battle that already felt like it belonged to another lifetime.