As he passed, they greeted him with easy smiles and familiar words, and he returned them without thought. Nearby, children played across the ice, their laughter carrying on the cold air, untouched by worry or fear. The sight settled something steady in his chest. This was what mattered. Their safety, their peace, their unshaken trust in the world around them. If entering the Games was the price to keep it that way, then it was a price he would willingly pay.
Chapter 3
Mara
She was on a big spaceship heading to an unknown destination. Her father messaged her twice since she left. She had one more transmission to send him before all home communications would be blocked.
The ship’s interior was all metal and steel, white walls washed in bright light that made everything feel too clean. The air was cool, almost cold, brushing her skin as it circulated nonstop, carrying the faint hum of the ship through space.
There was a smell to it, too. Not bad. Just… strange. Sharp and clean, but not like anything she recognized. Not oil. Not chemicals. Something in between that made her aware she was far from anywhere human.
There was no art. No color. Nothing meant to soften the place. It felt built for efficiency, not comfort—like the ship didn’t care who walked its halls, only that they kept moving.
Mara hadn’t seen any of the other players. In fact, since she boarded the ship, she had only seen a handful of people. They were employees of the Galactic Survivor Games. All the players were being kept in separate areas of the ship. Fourteen players in total, all different alien species from across the galaxy.
The GSG staff kept them busy. Her first two days she had to go through a stream of medical exams. They scanned her so that they could create a biosuit specific for her human anatomy. It would monitor her vitals throughout the games, track her progress, and would help her adjust to all sorts of environments she may encounter.
Another day was what the staff called a press junket. She sat in a room for hours, being interviewed by one reporter after another. They asked all kinds of questions. Some wereridiculous, others were intrusive. Many were repetitive. She gritted her teeth at recalling what that was like.
“Miss Sinclair, why did you want to join in the Galactic Survivor Games?”
“It’s one of my favorite shows. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”
“Will you use it to travel or buy something extravagant?"
“It will give me freedom to do many things.”
“Isn't it true that your father is dying? That’s really why you want to win, for the money.”
She did her best to keep a smile on her face. “Of course, the money will help greatly in paying for his treatment.”
“That is a noble endeavor indeed. May the fates guide you."
She didn’t know about the fates, but she hoped for a lot of luck. “Thank you.”
Today, she was spending time reviewing previous broadcasts, pausing and replaying them while she took notes on the different species who had competed before her—strengths, weaknesses, patterns. Her father always said knowledge was power. He would know. He was a professor, after all.
Even during their summer travels, he never let learning stop. Campsites became classrooms. He taught her how to read the wind before a storm broke, how to tell when a forest had gone quiet for a reason, and how to notice the small details most people missed. The places they visited, the people who had lived there long before—everything had a story if you paid attention.
To this day, she relied on something he’d taught her almost without realizing it.
One of the challenges she watched pinned two competitors against each other—a Bestial and a Sorian—forced to cross a narrow bridge strung between two mountain peaks. No railings. Nothing but open air and a long fall.
This time, she paid attention to how they moved.
The Sorian relied on speed. He darted back and forth, shoulders squared, strides long, burning energy with every showy feint. His confidence was loud enough to waste breath. The Bestial was clearly stronger. He didn’t rush. He paced himself, conserving energy, watching. When he struck, it was brutal—each punch sent the Sorian skidding backward, boots scraping for balance.
But he missed as often as he hit.
There was no way the Bestial could match the Sorian’s speed or catch him outright. Instead, he waited. Tracked him. Let the Sorian exhaust himself.
The same instincts her father had drilled into her around a campfire slid into place. Watch first. Act second. Trust came last—if it came at all.
She replayed the footage, slowing it down.
The loud one relied on intimidation. Big movements. Big presence. He expected fear to do half the work for him.
The quiet one counted on chaos. He waited for mistakes, for the moment when confidence turned careless.
