Page 77 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter responds, his face devoid of expression. “And for you, madam?” he asks, turning to me.

“I’ll try the Cosmic Carbonara,” I reply, handing him the menu.

“And I’ll have the Martian Meatballs,” Cam chimes in last.

As the waiter glides away, his silver jumpsuit shimmering under the starry ceiling lights, we fall back into our earlier conversation.

“So about this collaboration,” I begin, leaning forward. “How exactly do you see it working?”

A wide grin spreads across Cam’s face. “Picture this: your light installation becomes the backdrop for our archery range. As people move through the space, they shoot at moving targets, which then trigger different light patterns. It’s not just about hitting a target anymore; it’s about creating a unique light show with every shot.”

“But what about your grand prize of a date?” Sly asks.

“We can still do that,” Cam says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But imagine how much more exciting it would be if the winner’s arrow triggered a spectacular light show to reveal the prize.”

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. “We could program special light sequences for bullseyes or near-misses. Maybe even have different color schemes for each archer.”

“Exactly!” Cam exclaims, his enthusiasm infectious. “And think about how it would look from a distance—a constantly shifting, glowing archery range. It would draw people in from all over the carnival.”

I can feel the excitement building in my chest, but I try to keep my voice level. “It would definitely be a showstopper. But we’d need to figure out the logistics. How to make the archery safe with all those people around, how to protect the light installations from stray arrows…”

“Leave the safety stuff to me,” Cam says, waving his hand. “I’ve been running the archery club for three years now. We know how to set up a range that’s secure.”

Just then, our waiter returns, balancing three plates that seem to defy gravity. “Your sustenance has arrived, earthlings,” he announces, placing our meals before us with robotic precision.

As we enjoy our meal, the conversation flows effortlessly, with Cam and I bouncing ideas back and forth in all directions. Sly sits quietly, his usual habit of arguing or interrupting absent for once, though he doesn’t offer any further input. The smile on my face doesn’t fade throughout the evening.

I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement about our new carnival plans. The fusion of art and archery seems like the perfect way to bring something fresh and exciting to this yearly event.

“You know,” I say, twirling the last bit of glowing pasta around my fork, “I think this could really work. We might actually pull this off.”

Cam grins, his teeth gleaming under the otherworldly lighting. “Of course we will. When have the Legacies ever failed at anything we set our minds to?”

Sly snorts. “And they sayI’mthe arrogant one.”

I interject, “No, everyone knows you’re the flirty one.”

“I believe the correct term is ‘slut’,” Cam adds with an unbashful smirk.

Sly clutches his chest in mock offense. “I prefer ‘connoisseur of affection,’ thank you very much.”

We all burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the dimly lit restaurant. As our mirth subsides, the waiter returns, this time with a sleek, silver tray holding what appear to be glowing orbs.

“Complimentary Nebula Spheres for our esteemed guests,” he announces, placing one in front of each of us.

Cam eagerly picks his up, examining it closely. “What exactly are these?”

“Molecular gastronomy at its finest,” the waiter explains, dropping his robotic act for a moment. “It’s a thin, edible membrane filled with a mix of fruit juices and a hint of vodka. You’re supposed to pop the whole thing in your mouth at once.”

Sly looks skeptical, but I’m intrigued. I pick up my sphere, feeling its delicate weight in my palm. The surface shimmers with an iridescent glow, like a miniature galaxy in my hand. I glance at Cam and Sly, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“Shall we toast to the Legacies?” I propose, holding my sphere out between us. They both grab their own spheres in agreement.

“To the Legacies,” we all say in unison before popping the orbs into our mouths. The thin membrane bursts immediately, releasing a burst of sensations—tangy citrus, sweet berries, and a subtle hint of alcohol. It’s like a supernova on my taste buds.

To be a Legacy, what a fortunate emptiness.

Chapter 17

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