Chain Gang All Stars

It was a room of men and women. Twelve of them, all white, except for the vice president and director of public relations at ArcTech, who was also one of only three people in the room under the age of forty. His name was Kyrean and he was Forest’s Black friend, a fact that they joked about when they’d link up for drinks or throw parties on Forest’s yacht. The only other relatively young person was Lucas Wesplat, one of Forest’s oldest friends and the ArcTech heir.

Forest sipped from his cup at the table. His father, George Woley, sat to his left laughing about something with the brownnosing broadcast director. Henry, one of the other Wesplat sons, was chairman, and so he did the chairman thing:

“I’d like to make a motion to approve the agenda.”

The agenda hung in the air in front of them, projected from the boardroom table.

Forest scanned through it, trying to look engaged enough that he wouldn’t embarrass his father but bored enough to convey to Kyrean that he knew this whole thing was bullshit.

Board of Directors of Chain-Gang Unlimited Agenda

Debrief on current trends and engagement

Revenue breakdown

Season 33 Chain-Gang All-Stars rule change review

Announcements

“Seconded,” Forest’s father said.

“Okay, so those in favor,” Henry said. Forest had once seen Henry sniff/lick cocaine off the sweat-damp skin of three different people in a minute-long rush.

Several hands shot up, including George’s. And what his father did, so did Forest. Though he noticed with interest and a jolt of embarrassment that Kyrean had not raised his hand.

“I think we need to throw the Tracy Lasser situation on the agenda,” Kyrean said. Ky had been friends with Forest since their time together at university. It was pretty safe to say that their friendship was a large contributor to Ky’s professional ascent.

Forest watched as Lucas frowned in Ky’s direction. Lucas was Ky’s boss. Forest called Lucas’s father Uncle Rodge.

“We definitely plan to speak about that. Just didn’t give it its own agenda item since it’s not really as big a thing as some of the others that we’re working on,” said Mitchell Germin, the broadcast director. “We’ve been hard at work planning out A-Hamm’s upcoming Hub City stay in Old Taperville, you know. Figuring out logistics for the farmers market event.”

Henry looked around the room, saw that Kyrean’s hand was now in the air above his head. “The ayes have it,” he declared.

“But I’m glad Kyrean brought up the Lasser stuff,” Germin continued. “We’ve been tracking the situation closely and based on our initial inquiries across most demographics, whatever she thought she was doing has only marginally affected viewership and potential viewership. In fact, we’ve seen some evidence that across our already engaged viewers, her outburst has deepened interest and willingness to participate in hard action-sports networks. Many survey participants who identify as regular viewers feel strongly that Tracy Lasser was significantly biased in her views due to her personal friendship with Hamara Stacker and…”

Forest looked over at his father, who was staring at Germin. It was extremely rare, Forest thought, for them to acknowledge in this room that there were people who hated them and what they were doing. They spoke about trends and outcomes. They rarely talked about the actual matches or said the names of the Links who made the whole thing go.

In this way, at least, Forest was not like his father. He knew what was happening. He knew the Links had names. He knew there was a reason Tracy Lasser had done what she’d done. And he knew that there were reasons he was doing what he was doing too. She believed punitive entertainment with rehabilitative potential was wrong, she believed in being soft on murderers and rapists. He believed justice couldn’t be pretty for everyone. He believed the law always got blood on its hands.

“I told Gerald not to let that girl anchor,” George Woley said. Gerald Haskinson, the CEO of SportsViewNet, was one of George’s golf buddies.

Forest looked at Kyrean, hoping to commiserate, but Kyrean’s eyes were locked on George with a clenched jaw and a look that made Forest feel hot. Lucas, he saw, was staring at the agenda.

“Regardless of what the focus groups say,” Kyrean started, a new seriousness in his words, “we should put some real consideration into changing up the season thirty-three launch. So much focus on Staxxx and Thurwar. A match between the two of them—it’s just not a good look right now.” He seemed to be settling down a bit, appealing to logic rather than anything else.

“I actually agree, it’s…it’s not tasteful. I think we should reconsider the new rules too.” Forest was surprised to hear this from the self-proclaimed most electric voice in hard action-sports, Micky Wright. A man who more than any of the others in the room was, to the world, associated with Chain-Gang and all that came with it. They were still moving through waters they rarely trod. Forest’s father spoke about hard action-sports as the natural and obvious extension of his own work, corrections, which was what the family had built its fortune on. And when George Woley spoke about corrections, he spoke about a God-given responsibility to keep the public safe. He spoke about absorbing the world’s negativity so that the good could shine through. At his last company speech he’d said, “A knife is always only so far from your neck. A man of ill intent is always only so far from your children, your daughters or sons.” And that was the way George Woley thought of the games too.

“Tasteful?” George asked, confused.

“Yes, tasteful. You should get acquainted,” Wright said easily and casually.

The room looked at George, and because he was sitting so close to his father, Forest felt their eyes calling for an adequate response.

“We aren’t changing our plans because one bitch on SportsViewNet told me so. She can kiss my ass,” George said.

Micky Wright shook his head and laughed. Kyrean stared hard at Forest.

“Maybe we can compromise somehow,” Forest said weakly. His father seemed disappointed. “Compromise” was one of George Woley’s least favorite words.

“Right,” Lucas said.

Forest knew his father wanted to say something but saw him think better of it. This board of directors, together they decided the direction of the Chain-Gang universe. And while that universe was growing, made millions, for George Woley, it was just a small extension of a larger industry. But Forest was not his father; he understood that they ran what could be the biggest entertainment product in the world. That’s what he was in it for. He wanted to be a part of something big, something new, something he could grow. An industry for him. He would worry about taste after he’d gotten out of his father’s shadow. But for now he was grateful his father was there. This board was his incubator and George was there to groom Forest for the future.

“Well, if you mean perhaps there are opportunities for eliminations prior to the Season Launch, certainly there are ways we could potentially make things more”—he paused, searching—“add potential obstruction regarding Thurwar, given the current climate.”

Forest smiled. At least this way, they’d have tried. He looked to Kyrean for affirmation of his success, but the other man’s brown, clear skin and frowning fat lip were a portrait of disgust.

Forest looked away, toward his father. George Woley nodded.

This was the incubator. Forest would grow. Kyrean was his friend, yes. But was he really? No, he was an associate. A classmate. A person he worked with, who could always be replaced.