Page 8 of Rat Race

Randomized process.As-fucking-if. It was well known that the so-called random algorithm took into account how likely you were to beat the maze, potential popularity with viewers, and your Legacy status when it came to choosing how early you’d be able to enter the arena.

Which meant that finally,finally, I was about to effortlessly beatherat something. There wasn’t a chance in hell that I’d be anything but first heat. Massive social following, physically fit, conventionally attractive, and… Well, I wasn’t a fucking Legacy, but what did that matter?

I didn’t need to have a genetic advantage to know that this was going to be child’s play.

Pings filled the room like popping bubbles, players letting out excited noises as they read out their assigned lots. Mytracker remained lifeless on my wrist, not a ping or a vibration in sight.

I frowned. Maybe it was faulty? Bringing the device up to my face, my frown quickly turned into a scowl as the screen lit, the cheery yellow waiting smiley face greeting me like a taunt.

Maybe they’re starting from the last lot,I told myself, trying to keep calm.

The stylist returned with a pair of platform boots that I tugged on as ping after ping went through the room.

I counted the rounds of sound.

One.

With my boots secured, I returned to the mirror, using my nail to sharpen my liner impatiently before dousing my face again with setting spray. This shit needed to stay put for hours of running. If I could, I’d have brought a powder puff in there with me too.

Little MissVoguesauntered past, scowling at me in what would’ve been her clothes. “See you in there, Barbie,” she snarked, dragging her thumb across her throat in an obvious threat.

I laughed, waving her off. “Good luck, Skipper.” Ah yes, Barbie’s much less cool brunette friend. Seriously, hadn’t she gotten the memo? Blondes had way more fun. “You’ll need it.”

“We’ll see about that.”

If I had time after dealing withher, maybe I’d deal with that one too before crossing the finish line.

Two, I counted as more pings filled the room.

There was no reason for me to be anything other than first lot. So what thefuckwas going on?

I curled a few more strands of hair before placing the iron down, applying a quick layer of hair spray, and smoothing down any flyaways.

Three.

Anxious whispers began to break out through the rapidly thinning crowd. There were only five heats in Rat Race, the fifth entering the race dead last—so much harder to win not only because you were so far behind the first group, but also because the rest of the players had first pick on any helpful items. Like water, weapons, or first-aid supplies.

Four.

My tracker vibrated, the soft melodic ping chiming happily. The number four flashed back at me in the mirror, my mouth dropping open in shocked horror.

Four?!

How the fuck did they decide that I was in lot four?!

Second to last?!

It was an insult. It was the Architects telling me I wasn’t flashy enough to be put in the first few lots. That I was fucking ordinary.

Anger boiled inside me and was only exacerbated by the knowledge thatshewas likely in an earlier heat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

If I wasn't the first, she was sure to be.It always happened that way. No matter how hard I tried, she was always one better. Just a breath out of reach.

I could win the Nobel fucking Peace Prize and this cunt would manage to be the first woman on Mars or some other equally insane bullshit.

And if by some miracle she’d been knocked down a peg? She would damn well make sure that I was knocked down even further.

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