The upper sheets came off the bed in a single decisive pull, and the gesture released a cloud of dust that had been minding its own business. The dust rose toward the ceiling with lazy confidence, then seemed to reconsider the plan halfway up.
Proxy lowered himself onto what the sheets had been hiding. What he found there was dust of a different classification.
Still, he had slept on worse surfaces in worse circumstances, and the alternative option available in the room was the floor. By comparison, the mattress won by technicality.
He leaned back, placed a champagne glass carefully on his chest, and looked at the ceiling.
The bathroom door was partially open by a small gap. Steam was slipping by in thin curling threads that the ambient lighting intercepted and turned a warm shade of gold.
"The water's warm," she called through the door.
"Good."
"Very warm."
"I gathered that from the context."
There was a pause. Then she spoke again in a tone I had come to recognize as preparatory. The tone of a tigress ready to pounce on a prey.
"There's room~"
"There is usually room in a presidential suite shower," Proxy replied. "That's one of the features they advertise. The resort is very proud of it."
"I meant-"
"I know what you meant."
Another pause. This one shorter. It contained the unmistakable acoustic signature of a smile.
"And?"
"I'm comfortable," he said.
Which was, objectively speaking, an interesting application of the word.
Proxy was lying on a dust-covered mattress in a televised death match, and he still had his shoes on. Yet the word "comfortable" remained technically defensible.
"By laying down on an old bed like an auntie with a glass of champagne?"
"I'm keeping my options open."
"Your options," she said, warmly enough to imply a conclusion, "are very close by."
Proxy looked back at the ceiling.
It is possible to be aware of the situation without looking directly at it. In fact, avoiding direct acknowledgment of it requires a specific kind of attention.
This conversation had been traveling in a consistent direction since roughly the moment they entered the suite.
Proxy had known Nyx long enough to read her like a book. That book had received an unexpected sequel over the course of the day.
The earlier version of Nyx, the one he had know before this morning, contained the following descriptors. Warm, devoted, slightly clumsy, and reliably attached to his sleeve.
None of those entries were inaccurate.
They were simply incomplete in ways that had recently become relevant.
She was dangerous.
Dangerous in ways he had not yet fully understood.
And the devotion.
Proxy had always treated it as a background condition. Like furniture. Something stable that existed in the room whether you noticed it or not.
Recently, however, it had begun to feel less like furniture and more like the room itself.
A room that was slowly becoming smaller.
Which, unhelpfully, was not an outcome Proxy could entirely object to.
He was being cautious.
More precisely, he was aware of being cautious. And that was performing its job with moderate success.
"You know," he said, "a certain baseline of awareness is what is keeping us safe. I can't distract myself from the-"
"Proxy."
"Yes."
"You're doing that thing where you say technical bullshit because you are too embarrassed."
Proxy held the champagne glass against his chest and declined to respond.
She made a small, pleased sound on the other side of the door.
Then the island spoke.
The voice arrived through every external speaker simultaneously. It wasn't startling, exactly. They had been expecting it since the greeting earlier.
But its reach was wide enough that ignoring it was impossible.
"Let's get the business out of the way."
Proxy sat up slightly.
"Two more contestants were terminated today. We confirm: Dust. And Rig."
The names landed without ceremony.
"Thirty contestants remain. You're off to a lovely start."
"Now, the rules."
"You were each implanted with a subcutaneous compliance device during transport. Attempt to leave the island by any means and the device resolves the problem. We mention this not to frighten you, but because informed contestants make better television."
Proxy looked at his wrist for a moment.
He had suspected something similar. The sedation during transport had provided more than enough time for a minor surgical procedure.
His deck couldn't detect anything.
Whatever the device was, it sat beneath his scan capability.
"The game continues until we say otherwise. This may mean one survivor. It may mean several. We haven't decided yet, and frankly, that's part of the fun."
A brief pause.
"Alliances are permitted. Alliances are encouraged. Alliances are historically entertaining to watch dissolve."
The voice paused again, as though genuinely amused by its own observation.
"Supply drops will occur at our discretion and at locations of our choosing. A final exclusion zone will be announced when the numbers warrant it. Until then, the island is yours."
"Good luck out there. We're watching."
Then the speakers released the night back to silence.
Proxy settled down again and resumed looking at the ceiling.
Well.
There it was.
He had correctly predicted the general structure of the situation, which is a kind of correctness that rarely feels like a victory.
The corporation decided when the game ended.
They could run it for a week.
Or a month.
As long as the audience remained interested, the show continued. When interest declined, the ending would arrive immediately.
Survival, therefore, required more than staying alive.
They had to stay alive in a way that entertained the people watching.
He considered the implications.
A netrunner who could fry circuits that fancied themselves to become a human nervous system.
And Nyx.
The not so stable edition.
That combination likely possessed a certain broadcast value. Audiences that paid for spectacles like this wanted violence, certainly.
But they also wanted novelty.
A man who never reached for his gun and a girl who looked like a pastry but moved like a natural disaster probably tested well with focus groups.
It wasn't much.
But it was a trope?
And at the moment, it was the only choice available.
Proxy was still examining his wrist when something warm and soft pressed against his left side.
He hadn't heard the shower stop.
He hadn't heard the door open.
She was simply there.
Nyx tucked herself against him with the casual certainty of someone returning to a place she had already decided belonged to her. Her head rested on his shoulder. One hand closed loosely around a fold of his shirt.
Her hair was clean, damp, and loose. It spread across his shoulder and down her back.
She smelled completely different than she had ten minutes earlier. The metallic scent of the day's violence had disappeared entirely.
In its place was something faintly floral, almost certainly whatever fragrance the resort's complimentary shampoo department had chosen for its brand identity.
The smell was doing something noticeable to the room's temperature.
Proxy elected not to investigate that phenomenon too closely.
The towel around her was long, white, and decorated with the resort's monogram near the edge.
And (un)fortunately very tight.
Proxy continued looking at the ceiling.
Nyx tilted her head upward. Her face was very close to his now.
Her eyes were soft, warm, patient.
"What are you thinking about?"