Page 59 of Storm of Stars
“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on, Ezra. Please.”
“Stark.”
I jerked my head up. A producer stood near another terminal, her dark eyes scanning me too closely. I snapped back into the practiced cool I wore like armor. Hoping she couldn't see the cracks.
“Yeah?” My voice was hoarse but steady. Trying to focus on her face and not the endless flatline coming from the screen behind me.
“You got the victory feed ready? For your team?”
The Victory Montage. A propaganda-laced highlight reel that aired whenever a Challenger survived the Reclamation Run. A heroic story, a manufactured anthem of triumph over terror.Each year, they played one for each survivor, crafted from their best and bloodiest moments.
I’d spent weeks pulling footage. I’d poured myself into it. Every frame, every cut, every beat of music. But not for Praxis. It was for them. My team. My family. My Wildguard. Their battle deserved to be remembered as the spark that changed everything.
Brexlyn and Briar’s song played under the edit, layered with moths flitting across burning trees and stars falling like embers from the sky. The whole montage screamed rebellion. Screamed Runaway. The minute it played they would know that Rebellion was coming.
“Yeah,” I said, voice thick. “I got it.”
“Well, plug in. If they survive, we’ll need it on standby. The stream’s going to be basically uninterrupted from here on out.”
If.
That word sank into me like a blade. She said it casually, but it echoed like a death knell.
“And get Ezra Wynstone’s death montage ready too, just in case he doesn’t wake up.”
The words made me nauseous. My eyes burned, but I kept my expression steady, nodding slowly, pretending I had everything under control. I’d been putting off that montage for weeks. It should have been nearly finished. Ready. If I were a good editor, it would be.
But how do you cut together the last moments of someone you love? Create a highlight reel of their best moments only to lead to their bloody and horrific end? How do you score the end of their story? I never started it, because some stubborn part of me still believed none of them would need one.
“Please, Ezra,” I whispered.
I turned back to the screen, just in time to see Bex press harder into Ezra’s chest. The flatline beep stretched on, endless and merciless.
Then…
A sound.
A blip.
A heartbeat.
I gasped quietly, my whole body shaking with the exhale. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. Around me, no one even seemed to notice the miracle.
He was alive.
Barely, maybe. But alive.
I walked to my terminal and loaded up the montages. One for each of them. Ready to go, should the universe show mercy. I lined up the files, fingers trembling.
On the screen beside me, live metrics scrolled in dizzying waves. Millions were watching. More than ever before. The numbers just kept climbing. People all across the Collectives and hell maybe even beyond were seeing what Praxis was doing.
Were they moved by it? Were they sickened? Were they finally ready?
Were they going to meet us at the gates tomorrow?
I didn’t know. But I knew this, if my team survived this trial, if they made it through the hell Praxis threw at them, then I was going to make damn sure the world saw them for what they really were.
Not just Challengers.
