Page 4 of Stream & Scream
I’ve been watching them all day, noting alliances forming before we'd even signed the final paperwork. Brooke Miller, nineteen and wide-eyed, gravitating toward the older contestants like a lost puppy. Maxine Hart with her dyed red hair and undercut, looking like she'd rather be literally anywhere else—a kindred spirit, maybe, if I believed in such things.
The others blend into a charade of ambition and desperation—Gym bros, people carrying themselves like they’ve already won, a girl nervously laughing too loudly at everything…
And then there’s Gwen Lancaster, older than everyone else and serious. She’s the only other person here who seems to understand that this isn’t a fucking joke.
But here's the thing that struck me during that sterile briefing—nobody asked the right questions. Nobody wanted to know about medical personnel, emergency procedures, or what happens if someone gets seriously hurt. They were too busy asking about camera angles, streaming numbers, and whether their social media followers would get notifications when the show went live.
Sheep. Every last one of them.
The other contestants cluster together now, their fake confidence shimmering around them. I recognize the dynamics immediately—the alpha personalities positioning themselves at the center, the followers gravitating toward anyone who seems to have a plan, the wild cards like me staying on the periphery and watching it all unfold like a nature documentary about human stupidity.
Riley Torres catches my attention first—shirtless despite the cool afternoon air, his abs glistening with what I'm pretty sure is actual oil. He's performing for the drones, his white-toothed grinso practiced it probably has its own agent. "Yeah, baby! Give the people what they want!" he calls out, striking another pose that shows off his ridiculous physique.
I want to vomit.
The thing about Riley is that he's exactly the kind of guy who peaked in high school and never got over it. I can practically smell the desperation rolling off him, masked by whatever cologne he's probably bathed in. During the briefing this morning, he kept interrupting the production assistant to ask about "audience engagement metrics" and "brand partnership opportunities." Like this is his audition tape for a protein powder commercial instead of a survival game.
Lexie and Tara hover near the cameras, already bitching about the lighting. Lexie's bleached hair catches the afternoon sun as she tilts her head at various angles, trying to find her best side. "This forest lighting is going to wash me out completely," she whines to Tara, who's busy adjusting her pixie cut and nodding along like this is a legitimate concern.
"We should demand better positioning," Tara agrees, her voice carrying that particular brand of entitlement that makes my teeth ache. "I have two million followers who expect quality content. This amateur hour setup is going to tank my engagement rates."
She’d croak if she saw my setup at home.
I stay back from the group, shoulders tense, watching everything. While they're preening and posturing, I'm looking for exit routes and terrain advantages. I also don’t miss the unsettling fact that I don't see a single production assistant, medical personnel, or safety coordinator anywhere.
That should probably worry me more than it does.
The forest around us feels old, untouched. Massive oak and pine trees stretch toward a sky that's already starting to dim. Thick canopy blocks most of the sunlight, creating pockets ofshadow that could hide just about anything. The undergrowth is dense—ferns and thorny bushes that will tear up anyone stupid enough to run through them.
I can smell the dampness and decay, the rich earthiness of fallen leaves and rotting wood. There's something else underneath it all, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It's too quiet. Even with fifteen people chattering and posturing, the forest feels like it's holding its breath.
The loudspeakers crackle to life, and Milo Vane's voice booms across the clearing. I've seen this show—slick production values, manufactured drama, contestants who'd sell their souls for fifteen minutes of fame. His voice has that media polish that makes everything sound like a commercial.
"Welcome, contestants, to Stream & Scream!" His enthusiasm drips through the speakers like syrup. "You've signed up for the ultimate survival experience, and trust me, you're about to getexactlythat."
There's something about his tone that makes my skin crawl. Too cheerful, too excited, like he knows something we don't. Which, considering we're the ones about to be turned loose in the woods for his entertainment, he probably does.
"Now, I know some of you are probably thinking this is just another reality show, another chance to build your brand and gain some followers," Milo continues, and I can practically hear his smirk through the speakers. "But let me be very clear about something—Stream & Scream is different. This is raw. This is real. This is survival at its most primitive level."
Chase Durant, the surfer boy, laughs and calls out to one of the drones, "Bring it on, dude! I've been preparing for this my whole life!" He flexes his moderately impressive biceps and grins like he's posing for a magazine cover.
Idiot.
"The rules are beautifully simple," Milo continues. "Survive in the zone until sunrise Monday morning. That gives you approximately sixty hours to prove you have what it takes. Reach the safe zone marked on your devices before dawn, and you could walk away with half a million dollars."
Half a million dollars. The number hits all of us as we look around, sizing each other up. But it reminds me exactly why I'm here dressed like a discount ninja and surrounded by human peacocks.
My medical bills don’t magically disappear. Six months of treatments, specialists, experimental therapies that insurance didn’t cover—all of it piled up. The credit cards I maxed out trying to keep myself afloat when I was too sick to work. It was years ago, but the bills have hardly diminished.
Then there are the student loans. Sixty-eight thousand dollars for a degree in English Literature that qualifies me to do exactly jack shit in the real world. I can analyze the symbolism in Victorian poetry until I'm blue in the face, but that never paid rent or kept the electricity on.
Five hundred thousand dollars would solve everything. I’d be free for the first time in longer than I can remember.
I need this.
So here I am, playing survivor for an audience of strangers who probably hope I'll cry on camera.
They'll be disappointed.
