Page 78 of Fable for the End of the World

“Mm-hmm,” Zetamon says. “Chat is going crazy right now, by the way. They’re spamming that clip of you knocking her out.”

Zetamon switches the camera to screen-capture mode and replays the clip. Melinoë throws her knife, pinning Luka to the tree. He snarls at her—bitch—with such venom that it makes my skin prickle. And then she’s wrestling me to the ground, hands around my throat, but the cameras linger on Luka, watching him tear himself free. Grabbing the rifle. Thrusting it against her temple.

The violence of it is sickening, and my stomach turns. This is the moment that made the audience fall in love with him? Melinoë was right—they hate her.

But as Zetamon replays the clip, I realize it’s even simpler than that. They just want blood spilled. It doesn’t matter whose. It’s not like they were cheering just as hard for Luka when he helped me to my feet.

There’s something about a man—because Luka looks like a man, even if he’s only sixteen—beating a girl that’s especially exciting to them. Something about watching her degradation. As Zetamon plays the clip for a third time, I have to squeeze my eyes shut.

They talk through the rest of Luka’s time during the Gauntlet, until the moment that Caerus picked him up. I get to watch that clip, too. Blood running from a gash on Luka’s forehead, him too dazed to protest as two Masks descend and shove him into a helicopter.

And then, at last, the conversation turns to me.

“It’s obvious to everyone watching how much you and your sister care about each other,” Zetamon says. “And you’ve been watching the rest of her Gauntlet, too, yeah?”

Luka nods.

“So if there was one thing you could say to your sister, what would it be?”

Finally, Luka lifts his head and stares directly into the camera. He swallows hard. Then, slowly, he reaches into his pocket.

He takes something out, closed tightly in his fist. When it’s inview of the camera, he unfolds his fingers. Resting in the palm of his hand is the compass, Dad’s compass, that fits the broken case I kept. That feels like an eternity ago.

Tears gather in my eyes. But the cameras are on me, too. I tell myself not to cry.

“I would tell her I want her to survive,” Luka says, as he holds the compass out. “For both of us. That I don’t want to lose her. That I don’t...” He stops, and for the first time in years, I see tears gather in the corners of his eyes, too. Looking just like mine. “That I believe in her. That I know she’s strong enough to make it. Please, Nesa.”

“So, wow,” Zetamon deadpans. “Powerful stuff.”

The video cuts off abruptly. The screen goes completely black.

Without speaking, I set down the tablet and examine what remains in the box. There’s only one item left: a rolled-up length of white fabric. I unfurl it.

It’s a dress. Long-sleeved, slightly old-fashioned looking. I turn it over in my hands, examining every inch.

Inside the bodice, along one of the seams, are words stitched in black thread.

Wear this and he lives.

We carry everything into the cabin in silence. Every time a word rises in my throat, I remember that the cameras are on, and I swallow it down again.

Melinoë has the replacement hunting suit draped over her arm. When we get inside, closing the door behind us, she lifts upone of the sleeves. Attached to it is a new timer. Ticking down the seconds until the end of my Gauntlet. I cross the room with heavy steps so I can see how long I have left.

Two days. Seven hours. Fifty-two minutes.

Azrael has accelerated the timeline. He knows the audience is on the edge of their seats. I sit down in one of the chairs. My legs feel boneless, my knees weak. Melinoë stands, gripping the edge of the table so tightly her nails could splinter the wood.

There are a thousand things I want to say, but none I can risk with the cameras on. The knowledge that they’ve been on this whole time makes me sick—a full-body, hot-blooded sickness, an amalgam of anger and fear and hate. I hate Caerus for doing this. I hate them all for watching, for typing out their smug and casually cruel comments.

The force of my loathing surprises me. I never blamed the other Outliers for our circumstances, or even the City dwellers, with their decadent Damish accents, but now I understand: There would be no Gauntlet without an audience.

Maybe I’ve finally become a person Dad would be proud of. A person full of righteous, stomach-churning hate.

Dad.

I reach into the pocket of my coat, and my fingers close around the case of his compass. I’d forgotten about it, until Luka held his half up during the interview. As I touch the cold metal, I feel another sickening jolt of anger, remembering how Dad left us with nothing except this worthless piece of junk. Nothing except—

The tiny scroll of paper. With the cameras on, I’m too wary toremove it from my pocket, but I clamp my fist around it. It seems to somehow warm my skin.

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