Marina Soleil's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Marina Soleil had four hours until the Wildcrown opening walk, and no face the judges would remember. She stood alone in the fitting room, staring at the rack of gowns her stylist had left. Six years her mother had told her she would never enter this pageant. Six years, and her mother had still not come to watch. Girls died in Wildcrown. Last year one quit mid-tank and was never seen on camera again. Marina planned to win anyway, and winning started at the door. If the judges did not lock onto her in the first three seconds of the opening round, she would be another pretty face drowned in the endurance tank before her name was learned. Every gown on the rack was beautiful. Not one of them was hers. She went upstairs to the lounge above the pageant floor, where the useful people drank before the cameras rolled. Velvet Mirage sat by the window with a glass she was not drinking. Omaha was on the low couch, tail flicking, ears tracking every door. Marina sat down between them without asking. "I need a look," she said. "Something the judges cannot blink past. I have until six." Velvet studied her over the rim of the glass. "Relax. I already know why you came." Omaha grinned. "Sweetheart, you walked in here wearing panic. That's your problem. Judges smell it." Marina kept her hands flat on her knees. "Then fix it. I have nothing to pay you with yet. I will owe you." Velvet set the glass down. "Owing me is payment." She looked at Omaha. "The black mesh. The one from the back room. And the gold hoop." Omaha was already standing. "On it. And she needs to walk in barefoot. Everyone else will be in heels. Bare feet make the front row lean forward." They worked on her for two hours. Velvet stripped the gowns off the rack and threw them in a pile on the floor. Omaha zipped Marina into a sheer black mesh piece cut in sharp diagonals across the ribs. One gold hoop, left ear only. Hair down, wet at the ends, so it would look like she had already come out of the tank and survived. No shoes. Velvet stood behind her and turned her toward the mirror. "When you walk out, pick one judge. Only one. Look at him like you already know his name." Marina nodded. Omaha licked a thumb and smudged the liner under her eye until it looked bruised on purpose. "There," Omaha said. "Now they will remember." At six, Marina stepped onto the opening walk barefoot, wet-haired, marked. The front row leaned forward. Two judges wrote before she reached the mark. She owed Velvet Mirage a favor she could not yet name, and the endurance tank was three rounds away.