Ambush!, Part 2

Sam found Andy mid-laugh, halfway through a story about the “greatest hotel breakfast fight of all time,” and steered him away from Mark and Laura Black with a quick, “Sorry, borrowed,” as if Andy was a library book overdue for the next reader. She moved him through the Hall with a hand at the small of his back, not bothering to lower her voice as she said, “The three of you can catch up at the MSA meeting, save something for the negotiations.”

She bee-lined for a table in the far corner, where a pair of men sat side by side, each occupying opposite ends of the casual/dazed spectrum. The first was built like the king of the chess club—short, bearded, and wearing a black polo that looked like it had been ironed with a waffle press. The second was long-limbed, dark-haired, and wore a suit jacket and a crisp button-down that seemed to fit him to a T. Neither man looked up until Sam announced, “Found the last one, so now we can start,” and nudged Andy into a chair between them.

She made the intros: “Kevin Burgmeyer. Legend. Groups line up to get him as their Dungeon Master.” Kevin opened his mouth to say something—protest, most likely—but she turned to the other: “Matt Hawkins. New guy. He’s been in for what, three days? Already getting his mind blown.”

Kevin ducked his head, embarrassed, but offered a hand anyway. “It’s not really a legend if you never finish the campaign,” he said. “And it’s just a fancy base setting. Not even a real world, just—” He shrugged, unsure if it was okay to say the rest.

“Your childhood fantasy?” Andy suggested, guessing the rest of the sentence.

Kevin nodded. “Pretty much.”

Matt gave a soft laugh and shook Andy’s hand in turn. His grip was firm, though his eyes were slightly unfocused, like someone reading a sign from too far away. “Great meeting you, I—” he said. Then he stopped, blinked, and looked at nothing in particular for a moment. “Sorry. I’ve had this—” he made a vague gesture near his ear, “—thing. Since this morning. Like something’s sitting wrong, but I can’t land on what.” He shook it off. “Anyway. The Host keeps adding plot twists. I just try and get us all through them intact.”

Sam said, “So what’s your theme? Do you know yet?”

“Stories.” He said it like he was still deciding if that was the right word. “It’s called the Storybook Castle. Tonnes of books about the other seasons, and probably more stories than I could read in a lifetime, no matter how fast a reader I can be.”

Andy was half-listening, brain snagged on the word “stories,” when he realized he already knew something about Matt’s set—and the knowledge made no sense, since Andy was sure he had never heard of Matt before.

The next thirty seconds of conversation were a study in how fast Andy’s brain could both multitask and self-destruct.

Sam was asking Matt if his set worked like a shared hallucination—“Like, does it run off the group’s consensus, or does your Host just pick the best plot hook and make you live with the consequences?”—and Kevin was nodding along, fascinated, the tip of his tongue just visible at the corner of his mouth like he was about to say something but not sure which nerd-snipe to pick.

Matt said, “It’s all real to us, but there are tropes we can trigger and they’re unpredictable. First time it happened, my wife Sarah and I play-acted through a divorce conversation, including mentions of children we do not have.”

He delivered this with the deadpan of a man who’d already prepared to write it up as an Amazon review.

Sam snorted. “Wait, so you’re saying your round is a literary roulette? If you walk through the wrong place, you find yourself in a trashy novel?”

Matt nodded. “Pretty much. Or a cozy mystery, or whatever else the trope is based on.”

Kevin said, “Do you think there is one where the story is just about getting breakfast?” and the joke was meant as a throwaway, but Matt went thoughtful and said, “Not yet, but it’s possible. Family breakfast is a trope in a lot of books.”

Sam turned to Kevin, delighted. “See? This is what I was talking about. He runs on pure game logic.” Then, to Andy: “If they had you in there, you’d break the loop by brute force. Or by seducing the bartender. Or both.”

Andy smiled, but it felt like he was watching the conversation from three inches above his own skull. He said, “Not sure I’d be good at the mystery rounds. I never solve the puzzle before the reveal.”

Sam grinned, “That’s why you always roll with the smart girl. Team Claire, right?”

Andy said, “Team Claire or nothing,” and left it at that.

The others kept talking, but Andy’s brain was caught on the snag from a moment before. The way Matt described his set, it was bringing something to the surface. And now he was remembering it in stereo—on one channel, Matt’s voice in the present; on the other, a voice narrating the same scene as if it were a part in a story Andy wasn’t supposed to see yet.

Then for a moment, he found himself in a memory, seeing it from the outside: the corridor outside the Banquet Hall, a Mildred delivering memory-Andy a note from Norah, both Andy and Mildred leaving, then another Mildred emerging from a recessed doorway. Her uniform looked like a costume, she carried herself regally, and turned to stare directly at Matt, or at least, the direction Matt was currently sitting in. “Hello, Matt Hawkins,” she said, in a voice that shocked Andy for its warmth. “Glad to see you finally made it. An old friend of yours asked me to pass a few things along, since I happened to be passing through.” She considered her next words. “He said you should keep in mind that they're not as fragile as you think. None of them. And he advised you parse Scarlet's words carefully.” She paused, then looked directly at Andy. Her eyes flashed with something—worry? fear? fondness?—before settling into their dark violet depths. “You will find it,” she murmured, “if you look to the horizon.” She winked, then turned back in Matt’s direction. “And there will be fireworks at the wedding. I promise you that.”

The memory suddenly popped, like a balloon. Matt, Kevin and Sam didn’t appear to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

He said, “Ah, Matt, can I ask you something?” and the tone was just off enough to halt the breakfast banter mid-sausage.

Matt said, “Yeah?”

Andy hesitated, then went for it. “The first time you read about this place. Do you remember a… a Mildred, addressing you?”

Matt blinked. “You mean when I got here?”

“No,” Andy said. “Before that. The story. The book.”

Matt paused. “Yeah, actually. Somewhere in your third round. She called me by name.”

Andy said, “She said your name. She told you to stop thinking of the women as fragile, and to pay attention to how and what Scarlet says. Didn’t she?”

Matt stared, mouth slightly open. “How do you—” He broke off, face blank. “Wait, you read that too?”

Andy shook his head, “I saw the scene. Right now.” He watched the reaction as Matt recalculated the last few days of his own life.

Sam looked from one to the other, realized she’d missed a few plot beats, and said, “Wait. So, what, it’s like a prediction? Or did someone just hack The HH again?”

Kevin said, “I thought it was all supposed to be contained to the season. If we have to account for interference from other settings there's no telling when a stray rock is going to send things off the rails.”

Matt shook his head. He looked at Andy. “Wait. So you didn’t see it before. I got the book a couple of days ago. I arrived at the Castle something like three days ago. But the chapter’s dated two months ago, and the events only lined up when I arrived. And now you had a… vision that showed you the whole scene?” He looked like he’d just solved a logic puzzle in his own head and was a little proud of it.

Andy nodded.

Matt thought about it and asked, “And you don’t think that’s weird? Knowing your story is changing?”

Andy thought about it. “I’m not sure it matters. This place was always about the narrative, not merely the people in it.”

Kevin nodded, murmured, “People as a vehicle for a narrative that's going to play out regardless of who gets in its way.”

Andy let the group dynamic reassert itself. The conversation shifted back to safe territory. But Andy caught Matt watching him, once, twice, like he was checking if the secret handshake had been properly exchanged.

The trio had settled into an easy, slow orbit by the time Sam leaned in and said, “So, the reason I got you three together, is that the three of you are paired up for the morning’s Island Challenge.” She looked at Andy, then at Matt, then at Kevin, who shrugged.

Andy said, “I’m in,” and Matt echoed it.

Sam beamed, “Good. Because you didn’t have a choice.” She patted Kevin’s arm. “No offense.”

Kevin grinned, “Hey. I never let the party die. Even if I have to fudge a roll or two.”

Sam’s eyes went bright. “Now you’re talking my language.”

They started strategizing immediately.

A stray glimmer of sunlight, refracted through a champagne flute, caught on the ripple of a bare shoulder by the far doors. It was Felix, unmistakable even from halfway across the room: an 18-year-old kid with a swimmer’s build, unadorned by anything above the waist, the absence of a shirt not brash but more like a natural consequence of existing in the world with too many rules and never having any of them go your way. He was flanked by two men—a young man with short, unruly dark hair and a watchful squint, and a massively muscled guy with bull’s horns rising from a nest of pale hair, bovine ears, a tail, and a rather sizeable bulge in his pants, all of them braced against the current of the party by proximity alone.

Andy didn’t hesitate over the name this time. He crossed the room before anyone else could make the introduction for him, and Felix straightened as Andy drew up, surprise flashing on his face for a half-second before smoothing out to something more cautious.

“Hey,” Felix said, voice low and oddly apologetic, as if he expected to be in trouble for being visible. “Congratulations. Again.” He flinched, like the word itself might offend someone.

Andy smiled. “I was hoping to catch you before the schedule ate us alive. Is it alright if I…?” He gestured at the little orbit the three of them were holding at the edge of the traffic.

Felix nodded, his posture crumpling in on itself just a fraction. “Of course. This is—” He paused, and Andy could see the gears stutter, as if he’d only just decided that the rest of the world was real. “This is Van. Kevin. And Robert.” Van was arms-crossed, chin dipped, eyes sweeping the room with a lateral, alert movement that belonged more to a refugee than a party guest. Kevin looked up, took in Andy in a single measuring glance, then offered a hand to shake. Robert, a half-step behind the other two, gave a small, apologetic wave, like he was hoping to be introduced last and forgotten first.

Kevin’s hand was thick and beefy, his grip brief and surgical, the way a professional might test the strength of a scaffold before stepping on it. He had the kind of build that shamed even Mark with its thick slabs of muscle. The horns suited him—bovine, but with an almost architectural aesthetic, like they’d been engineered to hold up more than just his own head.

Kevin said, “Heard of you,” in a tone that wasn’t unfriendly, just pragmatic. “Mostly from watching the show.”

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Andy said, just to see what would happen.

Kevin shrugged. “Watched a stretch of your season. Didn’t get that far ahead, though.” He dropped the handshake and folded his arms, which made the conversation official but also made him look a little like a bouncer at the world’s strangest nightclub. “Didn’t get to the end of your run. Is it going to be a happy ending?”

Andy glanced at Felix, then at Van, and then said, “I’m still here.” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, hoping the subtext would land. From the way Kevin’s mouth twitched, it had.

Andy turned to Felix, who looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor, but Andy wasn’t going to let him get away with it. “I actually wanted to talk to you, specifically. Once I recognized your name, I thought I’d let you know I appreciated your letter. The one about luck.” He wasn’t sure how it would land, but he had to say it.

Felix’s ears went red at the edges, and his hands twitched at his sides. “It wasn’t anything special. I was just saying what I thought.”

“Doesn’t have to be special,” Andy said. “But it mattered.” He didn’t explain further, but he didn’t have to. He settled a hand on Felix’s shoulder for a second—just pressure, no squeeze—and then let it go. Felix went still under it, his chest rising and falling a little easier than before. For a few seconds, the group was just quiet, and the normal swirl of the Hall washed right up to their boundary and broke, unable to get in.

Kevin waited until the silence ripened, then cut in, dry as the inside of a salt shaker: “So is the emotional portion of breakfast over, or do we get a second round?”

Andy grinned, caught, but said, “One more.” He turned to Kevin, taking the measure of the man again, then said: “I wanted to check in on something. How’s Craig been, since the night Tyalangan had to intervene on Mona’s behalf?”

Kevin’s expression shifted, a flicker of surprise at the question—at the fact Andy knew to ask it—before settling into something resigned. “Last I checked, he still took shots at Tyalangan when he thought he can get away with it, but mostly he kept to himself. Which, for all of us, is better.” He paused, and the horns dipped in a slow, subtle arc. “He hasn’t tried anything against Mona. I’d know if he had.”

Andy nodded. “I already warned him. If he ever tries to hurt Mona, anyone in your group, or in Harper’s, again—” Andy shrugged, letting the weight of it hang. “I wasn’t kidding. I’ll deal with it personally.”

Kevin stared at Andy for a long second, then let out a sigh so resigned it was almost fond. “Glad someone else is keeping an eye on it.”

Van hadn’t said a word through any of this, but Andy had been told once by Erin that it was rude to let anyone be a ghost in their own life. He turned to the third young man, waited for him to make eye contact, then said, “I know the outline of your season. Enough to understand why ‘Master’ doesn’t feel like it fits.”

Van shrugged, the motion so compact it was almost hidden. “How much do you actually know?” The voice was young, but without the fragility most people expected from a face like his.

Andy said, “Not everything. But enough. I agree with you, by the way: the title is a lie. You have good reason to hate what they imply it stands for.”

Van’s mouth twitched. “You believe that?” The question was almost a test, as if he wanted Andy to give the wrong answer.

Andy said, “I do. But that doesn’t mean the position itself is worthless. Even if you don’t want it, you’re responsible for keeping those women safe, and you’re in the one spot that actually lets you do it. Whether you call it Master, or anything else, that part’s real.” He hesitated, then finished, “You’re the only shot they have to finish what they started. And to end the Architect. That’s not nothing.”

Van didn’t reply at first, just chewed on the words. When he spoke again, it was quieter, the hardness in his jaw relaxing. “Thanks,” he said, and from the look of it, the word cost him more than it should.

Robert, who had said almost nothing since the introductions, cleared his throat like he was reporting for an inspection he expected to fail. “I’m, um—sorry, that’s not—” He caught the stammer, annoyed at himself, and started over. “I’m Robert. I don’t really have a letter you’ve read. I don’t think I’ve done anything you’d have heard about.”

“You’d be surprised what makes it into the fan mail,” Andy said. “But I do know you. A man who saw one of his contestants compelled to clean a stain on the floor, and knelt down to wipe the stain, to help her.”

Robert went pink to the ears. “That wasn’t—anyone would have done that.” He looked down at his hands. “It really wasn’t a big deal.”

“Sure,” Andy said, not pushing it, because he recognized the shape of that particular retreat. “I just wanted you to know somebody noticed anyway.”

Robert opened his mouth, closed it, then managed a small, real smile, the kind that seemed to catch him off guard every time it happened. “Thanks,” he said. “I mean it. Even if I don’t—” He waved a hand at the rest of the sentence and let it go.

The five of them drifted into an easier rhythm after that. Kevin started needling Felix about his tan lines—“You’re a walking UV experiment, I hope you put on sunblock”—and Felix, though he blushed, managed to turn it into a joke about the lighting in the Hall being better than the fluorescent lights of his bunker. Van didn’t say much, but he stayed present, arms less tightly crossed now, and Andy made a point to keep him in the loop of the conversation whenever it risked moving past him.

There was a moment when the world could have stretched out indefinitely, the five of them content to ride out the rest of the hour as a team of misfit background characters, but Andy sensed the time slipping, and that there was only so much air left before the next event. He made a point, before Sam or a Mildred or fate itself could yank him away, to look at each of them in turn and say, “I’m glad you came. All of you. Thank you.”

Kevin grinned, wide and quick, and for a second the horns seemed almost ornamental. “Likewise.”

Van nodded, the motion sharp but less defensive now. “You too.”

Felix looked like he wanted to object, but then just said, “Thanks. For reading the letter, I mean.”

Robert ducked his head and managed, “Thanks for—yeah. This. All of it.” It wasn’t much of a sentence, but nobody at the table seemed to mind.

Andy left them there, in their borrowed patch of sunlight.

Andy found himself drifting in the afterglow of a dozen half-finished conversations, orbiting the periphery of the Banquet Hall like a satellite looking for a landing strip. Someone had left a pyramid of croissants on the edge of a sideboard, and Andy took one for ballast, chewing absently while replaying his conversation with Adrien. In the sunlight, everything seemed sharper—every voice, every face, every tiny betrayal of posture in the swirl of guests who had never been in the same room before and probably never would again.

He was midway through a second croissant, using it as a pretext to duck out of the current of mingling guests, when Sam re-materialized at his elbow. She had an empty juice glass in one hand and a folded napkin in the other, and she wore the look of someone who was about to ask a favor but wanted to pretend it was a spontaneous suggestion.

“Hey,” she said. “You have two minutes, right?”

Andy nodded, mouth full. “Sure. What’s up?”

Instead of answering, she pointed her juice glass at the nearest group—Felix, Kevin, and Van, arguing about which animal transformation was the most dignified, with Robert stuck refereeing and clearly regretting it. Van looked deeply uncomfortable. “You see that table? You’re about to make their whole day.” Then, without waiting, she set her glass down, caught him by the wrist, and towed him toward the central axis of the Hall.

He caught on fast, but not quite fast enough to avoid the moment where the entire room’s attention refocused itself, like a spotlight swinging to catch the unexpected lead in an amateur play. Laura Black raised a glass, sharp and predatory. Mark flashed a wolfish grin. Nick, halfway through his own juice, caught Andy’s eye and looked like he was trying to send a telepathic “good luck.” Even the various Mildreds seemed to sense the shift; those not ferrying platters had paused to cluster at the periphery, some leaning against door frames, others lingering in the shadow of a potted palm.

Sam steered Andy into the open, cleared her throat, and then, with a voice that easily bested the murmur of the crowd, announced: “The man of the hour would like to say a few words.”

Andy nearly choked on a crumb. “That’s not what—” he started, but Sam shot him a look that said, Go. Now. Or I’ll start for you.

Andy set the croissant down. The gravity in the Hall shifted a click closer to real.

He cleared his throat, aware that he was on display for a crowd composed of: his last three years of therapy, most of his actual therapy, the most formidable friend group a person could inherit, and a solid cross-section of people who would one day have to tell his children how he handled this exact moment.

“Uh, hi,” Andy said. It was not a good start, but it was honest.

A beat, then the smallest ripple of laughter. He pressed on: “This is—well, this is the first time I’ve been at my own bachelor party.” The laugh was louder this time. “And I want to say thank you. Not just to the people who put this together—the ‘people’ being Sam over there—or those whom I know from my birthday party or even earlier, but to the ones who came here even when it must have felt like… showing up to a stranger’s party and realizing it’s all much more bizarre than you could have imagined.”

He scanned the faces, looking for a safe harbor. Laura, raptor-grin in full effect. Mark, arms folded, waiting to see if Andy would crash or stick the landing. Harper, radiant and poised near the back wall. Adrien, unreadable as ever, but present, and that alone felt like an endorsement.

Andy said, “I’m still not sure how I ended up at the center of this, but I’m grateful. I know a lot of people didn’t get to choose what happened to them—” here, a brief glance at Felix, at Van, and at Robert, all three of whom looked away in quick, practiced motions—“and I want to say, for the record, I understand how it feels, but it gets better, if you focus on what you can do to help.”

A quiet, but present, shift in the Hall. Someone coughed. A Mildred gave the tiniest nod of approval, which was like a Michelin star in this context.

Andy felt his face heating, but kept going. “This is supposed to be a wedding weekend, but I already feel like I’m getting away with something. If nothing else, I wanted to say I know I wouldn’t have made it to today without several of the people in this room.” He caught Sam’s eye, who grinned, and then pivoted: “Some of you I only met today, or maybe once before, but you matter. This place has a way of making even strangers into people you can’t imagine the world without.”

He was halfway to his next point when he saw Harper, standing just out of the direct glare, her hands clasped behind her back, looking as put-together as ever. The last time they’d spoken was via letter, and Andy realized, with a jolt, he’d spent all morning meeting new faces and had not said a single actual word to her.

He broke his own speech to say, “Sorry—I need to do this before I forget. Harper.” She blinked, once, but did not shift. “I know we’re supposed to save the emotional stuff for later, but… I wanted to say thank you for the letters. You’ve been my oldest friend in this insane show, and I want to make sure we have time to talk, later.” The words were awkward, but he meant them, and Harper gave him a little salute in return, her expression amused and only a little embarrassed.

Andy pressed on: “I’m bad at this kind of thing. I get nervous. I ramble. I overthink. But I want to do it right this time. So… thanks. To all of you. For being here, for celebrating with us, and for showing to each other that even in the madness of this coercive sex show, we can still be decent people and help each other.” He thought to lift his glass, realized he didn’t have one, and pantomimed it anyway. “To weddings, and weekends, and even to weird mornings. May we survive them all.”

He set his invisible glass down, already wishing he could sit, but a real round of applause cut him off before he could escape. It wasn’t thunderous—just a sincere, multi-table echo, and even the grumpy side of the room seemed to be in on it.

Sam reclaimed the spotlight without missing a beat. “Alright, alright, he survived, so we can get to the important part.” She grinned, big, and the Hall rolled with it. “Here’s the deal: It’s time for the Island Challenge.”

There was a synchronized groan from the two tables with the highest muscle mass, and a delighted whoop from the section with the fewest shirts per capita.

Sam continued, “It’s a three-person event, so crews have been picked for you. You’ll find them posted at the start. Doesn’t matter how fast you are. What matters is teamwork, precision, and not getting distracted by the scenery.” A few people snickered. “The course is marked, you’ll know it when you see it, and I strongly recommend you don’t eat too much before you start. Trust me.”

She glanced at the door, and right on cue, a Mildred appeared. This one wore the same black dress as all the others, but had a small red pennant affixed to her left lapel. She held a matching red flag in her right hand, which she raised with the unhurried dignity of a train conductor about to announce last call.

“Follow the flag,” Sam said. “You’ll find the course.”

Most of the crowd peeled off instantly, tables dissolving into knots of threes and fours, people jostling to secure their preferred allies or to avoid being on the same team as their season nemesis. At the buffet, Harper zeroed in on Adrien, who nodded once and fell into step behind her, leaving Nick to be scooped up by the nearest pair of party-lifers. Felix, Van, and Robert were absorbed into Kevin’s gravitational field almost by default, and Andy realized that with Sam working the crowd and the rest of his friends absorbed elsewhere, he’d be following the pack solo.

He was about to make his move when he noticed that not everyone was moving. Off to the side, by the doors, Kevin Burgmeyer was not part of the migration. He stood with his hands behind his back, his posture ramrod straight—a dramatic departure from the casual slump he’d worn at the table. His focus was on the Mildred who was apparently part of the bachelor party, and she was returning it. Her gaze was fixed on him, posture equally taut, and the energy between them was palpable: not a grudge, exactly, but something older, like two dogs who’d once fought over the same piece of meat and were waiting for round two.

Andy watched as the rest of the guests drifted out, the buzz of their voices and the click of their shoes fading to a steady background hum as they followed the red-flag Mildred.

Kevin finally moved. He approached Mildred, paused exactly two paces away, and just stood, hands behind his back. It was a stand-off, but not an angry one. If anything, it was… well, Andy couldn’t say what it was. The two of them watched each other, a silent battle of wills playing out in the bandwidth of micro-movements: the way his jaw flexed, the tiny adjustments she made to the hem of her skirt, the way both of them seemed perfectly content to out-wait the other.

After a full minute, the silence was so thick you could have spread it on toast. Andy, caught in the crossfire and uncertain whether it was polite to interrupt, decided to risk it.

He walked up, keeping his pace slow and non-confrontational, and said, “Hey. Everything okay here?”

Neither of them blinked. After a second, Kevin said, “Perfectly fine.” His voice was stripped of all affect, as if he’d rehearsed this line for weeks in advance. “Just waiting for the signal.”

Mildred, without turning her head, said, “It is not time yet.”

Kevin blinked, then shrugged.

Andy wanted to ask if this was a bit, or if there was some secret plot going on, but the level of seriousness radiating from both participants suggested otherwise. Without further conversation, Kevin and Mildred both turned towards Andy, as if expecting him to lead them out.

Eventually, the Hall emptied out, and the only sound was the faint clinking of plates being cleared by service Mildreds and the distant crash of waves beyond the window.

Author's Note: The vision Andy has, referring to Matt, is a meta insertion added to [Chapter 186] and a message needed to be delivered to him by the strangely kind Mildred. The vision Andy has almost entirely mimics the meta insertion, with the exception that this vision includes a secondary message for Andy himself. That's right, I meta-ed the meta!