Page 15 of Run of Ruin

Nova’s god-awfulscreeching woke me before the sun had fully risen. Her voice pierced through the cabin walls, shrill and merciless, yelling something about it being “time to get up,” as if any of us had slept well enough to deserve that tone.

The morning light was beginning to slip through the slats of the blinds, casting sharp, golden stripes across the floor. Beneath my feet, the train’s momentum shifted, slowing, easing us into the final stretch. Praxis was close.

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face before tossing the covers aside and hauling myself upright. The cot in this glorified closet of a cabin wasn’t built for someone my height, and my spine reminded me of that fact with every reluctant pop and crack. I took my time stretching, dragging my arms overhead and twisting until the ache dulled enough to stand without grimacing.

I moved toward the outfit Nova had laid out for me thenight before, black dress pants and a slate-grey button-down. Standard Collective issue. Dull. Lifeless. A walking eulogy to the system that chewed us up and spit us out. Meanwhile, Praxis would greet us in their flashy metallics like God descending from the heavens. We looked like the shadows they left behind. And that’s exactly how they liked it.

For a second, I considered putting my old clothes back on, the ones from the vote. But after days in a cell, those clothes were more grime than fabric. The shower on the train had been a gift, and I wasn’t about to ruin the feeling of being clean again. No matter how badly I wanted to tell Praxis and their issued clothing to fuck off.

So, despite the stubborn part of me that didn’t want to make anything easy for Nova Lockeley, I slid into the outfit she’d provided. Might as well look like her perfect little Challenger, even if I had no intention of playing the part.

I didn’t plan to speak during my confessional. I really didn’t. But the cameraman just had to askthatquestion, ‘what did I hope to do for the people of my Collective’?

The same people who convicted me. Who heard the evidence against me and locked me away anyway. Who sentenced me to die.

I wasn’t going to stay silent after that.

I didn’t care about dying. Hell, at this point I’d probably welcome the sweet release of death. But I didn’t want them to think they’d gotten away with it without a fight.

I watched the segment last night. One of the lounge cars had a mounted TV, and I needed something to dull the growing fire in my chest. I saw the lineup, each Collective parading their picks like prized livestock. The same Collectives that always won had strong, polished candidates who gave the camera a proud smile and fed the masses bullshit about “duty”and “honor.” I rolled my eyes so hard I almost gave myself a headache.

Then came the lottery picks. That was a different story. Fear practically oozed off the screen. I saw elders with fragile hands and sunken eyes, children barely old enough to tie their shoes. Now, being sent to die for their Collectives. The camera zoomed in on their trembling fingers, their darting eyes.

One Collective got a whole segment because their elected Challenger’s twin brother was chosen in the lottery. They did their confessional together, the elected was a little more reserved, a soft smile on her lips. But her brother? He was full of swagger and confidence.

A lucky family, they called it.

I called it losing both children in one fell swoop.

And then... It was Canyon’s turn.

And there I was.

The brooding silent type. The wildcard. The candidate with the dark attitude and even darker past. They painted me like I was some creature to be tamed. The red-haired cameraman worked with barely a scrap of footage and spun it into prime Nexum propaganda. I almost had to applaud the bastard for it.

Almost.

Up until last night, my plan was simple… fail the trials. Let Canyon lose. Let them feel every ounce of the consequences for casting me aside. If I was going to die, at least I’d drag their precious hope down with me.

But then…

Then she happened.

Bex.

Now I had a reason to make it to the medical trial. A reason to fight, if not for Canyon, then for her.Maybe I needed to survive long enough to give her a shot at getting home.

Maybe I had to play the game.

Last night as I watched the screen, I tried not to focus on her. I didn’t want to get involved. Didn’t want to think about the person from my Collective who’d be just as dead as I was in a few weeks.

But then her face filled the frame, eyes like the sky. Haunted. She got more screen time than anyone, clear shots of her tearful interview, and her touching goodbye with her brother. That was good. She’d need to rely on that kind of sympathy when it all turned to blood and smoke.

I couldn’t listen to another second of the Nexum-fed lies, so I slipped away for a drink. Something to silence the noise in my head.

And that’s when I found her.

I groaned, trying to ignore the way the thought of her standing there in that thin fucking silk nightgown made my cock stand at attention. I saw the way her breasts heaved as I neared her, the way her nipples jutted through the fabric of that night dress. I had to force myself not to bend down and taste them right then and there.

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