Page 5 of Run of Ruin

Bex

The rhythmic movementof the train would have been soothing if I wasn’t headed to my death. The last time I had ridden any sort of public transportation was when Damien Westhold won that trial nearly fifteen years ago. That was the last time the Canyon Collective ever placed first in anything. After his win, the train lines came back to life. Buses were delivered from Praxis and ran on constant loops, day and night, ready to take you anywhere you wanted. I used to hop on just to ride, no destination in mind, just because I could. I’d never known that kind of freedom before, and I haven’t known it since.

People danced in the streets that year, their joy infectious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Collective that happy. Damien never made it back to witness it, though, he died in the electricity trial. But for one year, we all reaped the benefits of his sacrifice.

We haven’t won a trial since.

When we placed eighth in the transportation trial the next year, the buses vanished. The train still showed up once every three months, but no one boarded it, not unless they wanted to wait another three months to come back. So, for a moment I tried to ignore the twisting pain and fear in my gut and focus on the rhythmic hum and the gentle sway of the train beneath me.

Across the aisle, Ezra sat stiffly, his gaze fixed out the window as the desert of the Canyon Collective blurred by. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget, he just stared, unmoving. I took the opportunity to really look at him for the first time.

His hair was a mess of dirty blonde waves that fell onto his forehead and curled slightly above his ears. His jaw was sharp, tense, like he was clenching it to hold something in. He looked calm on the surface, but I could see the tight pull of his muscles, the way his hand twitched slightly against his thigh. His face was mostly turned away, leaving me to wonder, absurdly, what color his eyes were.

Before I could think too much about that, Nova appeared again, gliding down the aisle from the front of the train where she’d disappeared after we boarded. She wore a new outfit, just as shiny, just as metallic, but this time even more uncomfortable looking with spikes and beads.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, her heels clicking against the floor as she approached. She had a silver case in her hands. “Leave it to your Collective to give us absolutely nothing to work with. Silent and boring as usual,” she groaned, motioning for someone to follow in behind her.

The man who followed Nova onto the train car was tall. He had broad shoulders, and toned arms visible under the soft golden fabric of his short-sleeved shirt. It had the distinct shimmer of Praxis-issued gear, but his looked more functional, lived-in, nothing like Nova’s performative glamour. Cords andequipment wrapped around him like some kind of tactical vest, camera slung at his side, gear clipped to his belt, thick headphones over his ears.

He had cropped red hair, pale skin dusted with freckles, and a face that could have stopped people mid-sentence. He was undeniably handsome, annoyingly so.

But whatever flicker of attraction sparked was instantly snuffed out by the twist of nausea in my gut. Because he was one of them. Praxis. And no matter how pretty the wrapping, he was part of the machine sending us to die.

“This is Zaffir Stark,” Nova announced with a dramatic flourish, as if she were unveiling a prize instead of a person. “He’s your Collective’s designated cameraman for the duration of the Reclamation Run. He’ll be filming nearly every waking moment in the desperate hope that one of you does something remotely interesting enough to make the final cut.” She waved a dismissive hand in front of her face like she was already disappointed in us.

“He’ll also be filming your talking head confessionals now that the vote’s done.” She nodded at Zaffir, tall, silent, all business, as he began unpacking his camera gear and setting up lights without so much as a glance our way.

“Who’s feeling brave enough to go first?”

My head instinctively turned toward Ezra. He hadn’t moved. He stared at Nova with the same cold focus I’d seen on his face since the announcement. No flinch, no twitch. Just stillness. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, I’d have believed he’d turned to stone.

After a long, pointed silence, Nova let out a sigh. “Fine. Ladies first, then.”

Panic surged through me, hot and immediate. My palms dampened, breath catching in my throat.

“God, you look a mess,” Nova said bluntly, steppingforward and snapping open a sleek silver case that revealed an overwhelming array of makeup. “Zaffir, we’ll take hers first. Get some B-roll of the train while I make her camera-ready.”

Without a word, Zaffir obeyed, disappearing down the aisle with his gear.

Nova turned her attention to me, all efficient movements and sharp tuts of disapproval. She poked and swept and dabbed with brushes and powders I didn’t recognize, luxuries the Canyon Collective hadn’t seen in years. Hell, we couldn’t even win the basic resource trials, let alone anything extra.

After a few minutes of relentless dabbing, brushing, and smoothing, my skin felt like it had been sealed beneath a layer of carefully curated lies. Nova finally leaned back, admiring her handiwork with a satisfied grin.

“There we go,” she declared. “You might be the prettiest Challenger we’ve had from your Collective in a long while. They kept sending us homely looking men, who looked like they haven’t showered in days.” I didn’t interject to say that most of them hadn’t because they’d been sitting in a jail cell for days leading up to the election. “That face of yours will get us some screen time.”

She practically buzzed with excitement, but I felt cold and tight with nausea. It didn’t feel like the compliment she made it out to be. I glanced over, needing something solid to focus on, and found Ezra watching me.

Green. His eyes were green.

He studied me in silence, his expression unreadable, no smirk, no scoff, not even a blink. I couldn’t tell if he thought I looked ridiculous or if he was just curious what Nova had turned me into. His poker face was ironclad.

“She’s ready,” Nova announced, snapping my attention back. She grabbed my arm with a little too much flair andsteered me down the aisle to where Zaffir had finished setting up the shot.

Nova dropped me into the seat like a prop being set for a scene, then settled beside me with the elegance of someone who knew exactly how good she looked on camera. Zaffir, all quiet precision, adjusted the towering equipment in front of me. A blinding light clicked on, searing into my vision, and I instinctively winced. Without saying a word, he dimmed it slightly. I considered thanking him, but the words got stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

“All right,” Zaffir said, his voice low and warm, like honey stirred into tea. “Just look into the camera and answer my questions, okay?”

I couldn’t seem to make my mouth work, so I nodded instead, praying all the questions would be yes-or-no.

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