Chain Gang All Stars

He watched.

“You have any lactose-free stuff?” Staxxx asked as she offered herself in the form of a big hug to Melanie Deane, who smiled and hugged back. The tiny woman disappeared in Staxxx’s arms. She was beaming when Staxxx released her. Next, Staxxx kneeled down to shake the hand of their eight-year-old.

“I’m Jim,” Jimmi said.

“Big Jim,” Staxxx said immediately. “Who thinks I’m third place.”

Jimmi smiled with his whole body.

Thurwar greeted Jimmi’s mother, then she and Staxxx addressed the other young man at the stand, who wasn’t smiling at all. “Hi, handsome,” Staxxx said, and Thurwar smiled at him and offered a hand, which he accepted without a trace of glee.

There were a lot of people watching this happen. In fact, his people had heard that there were over eight thousand unplanned guests outside the farmers market. And inside the farmers market, there were supposed to be nine hundred and thirty-one paying patrons cycling through over the course of four hours.

But now, at the start of this Civic Service sequence, fewer than four hundred had arrived. That was troubling, certainly. That was why he was there. There were a lot of people watching, yes. But none watched like him. His outfit was curated by the same stylist who had dressed their hosts for years now, though his clothes were far simpler, more mundane than anything a fight host would wear for a cast. The idea was to be just the opposite of television-ready. He smirked to himself, his eyes hidden behind the shining dark of his wraparound sunglasses. He’d already spotted three different patrons wearing just the same sort, with a fourth passing by now. “That’s a win,” he said to himself.

“What?” Rebecca, who was stationed in the back of one of the soldier-police vans, said.

“Nothing,” he said, touching his glasses, which were also a two-way communication device the ArcTech people had thrown in during their last product demo. And that was when they’d expected a group a fourth of this size to show up. He had assured the board that things were fine and now he was here to see with his own concealed eyes how big a lie he’d told.

He felt the breeze against his calves. He’d paired his glasses with brown khaki shorts and a nicely ironed teal polo and a headband that said ThurWAR! to complete the ensemble. He was standing at the edge of the crowd watching Thurwar and Staxxx become acquainted with the rules and regulations of Deane’s Creams and a single word came to mind. A single word was the foundational bedrock of his approach to the work he did, this art he manifested in real time all around the world: elegance.

His name was Mitchell Germin, and he was the director of content and broadcast management. That was his title, but to the people on his team, especially his assistant directors, like Rebecca, he was a master of creating elegant and sustainable entertainment ecosystems. And sometimes, like right then, as he watched two of his prized mares try to make nice with a frowning teen, thousands of unpaying lunatics yelling all around them, his job required him to become a freaking spy.

But when he wasn’t doing ground-level reconnaissance, trying to get the temperature of a scene, to make sure the product wasn’t being compromised, he was a man who helped orchestrate the most elegant sports program the world had ever seen. More than a sports program—it was the most real of the reality casts. There were stakes in this show so deep audiences were literally addicted to outcomes. But that always had been true. What he’d done was twofold: He’d introduced Blood Points, the currency that now had entire podcasts dedicated to its use, and he’d also realized that when you emphasized the fact that everybody involved in the Chain-Gang Circuit was a criminal, companies became more and more willing to advertise with the organization. Once they’d started identifying each Link by their crimes, their deaths no longer held the same weight to the viewers. The nut to crack in any criminal-justice sport was to separate the criminal from the human. When humans saw other humans, they felt “bad” for whoever had gotten sliced up that week. When humans saw a criminal die, well, that was different.

“That’s really them! They’re taller than I thought,” a man standing next to Mitchell said, his voice drenched in awe. Mitchell shifted his weight a little, then spoke.

“Six foot one and five foot ten, but taller in their boots.”

“It’s really something,” the man said. He was about Mitchell’s height, meaning that both of them were significantly shorter than either Staxxx or Thurwar.

This man was one of so many. And here was another piece of elegance. He clearly felt awe and respect for these two women but also was not bothered by the fact that they lived a razor’s edge from death. He knew it likely helped that they were Black women; market research found that the public generally cared less for their survival. In the center of the complicated nexus of adored and hated, desired but also easy to watch being destroyed, it had to be a Black woman. Thurwar, and Melancholia Bishop before her, had taught audiences the feelings that he wanted viewers to have for all of the Links.

“We can teach our audiences who to view as important,” he’d said five years ago, in his first official meeting with the board, the subject of which had been the mounting protests against action-sports. They’d been common then. But since he’d been hired they’d all but disappeared. That was, of course, before last month, when that bitch newscaster undid so much of what he’d worked for.

But every problem could be fixed. All she’d done was shat in a room he’d kept clean for years. Now he was in the process of power-washing her stench away. Getting things back to how they were, to the new truth he’d nurtured and grown.

He focused back on the stand, where William and Melanie Deane were frowning at their eldest kid. When they’d done the family background check he’d noted that the eldest son, William Jr., was not actively participating in or subscribed to any official Chain-Gang content, which all but guaranteed that he, and by extension his entire family, was an undesirable in terms of Civic Service placement. But the letter William Sr. had attached to the application stating just how much it would mean to his family, how he couldn’t afford tuition for his son and having Links to help out would certainly mean he’d make the month and then some in sales with the rest going toward furthering his son’s potential—Mitchell had always considered himself a man with a good heart, so he’d allowed Staxxx and Thurwar to be placed with the family. This was how he was being rewarded.

“You don’t have to help us. This is bullshit that you’re being forced like this,” Bill Jr. said, just loud enough that Mitchell could hear. The crowd of protestors was churning near a barricade about twelve feet behind the Deane family.

Staxxx and Thurwar looked at each other and then at the kid. Thurwar leaned in and said something Mitchell could not hear. He cursed the GameMaster Board’s collective decision not to record during Civic Service. He touched his glasses on the right side.

“Hey, Rebecca,” he said.

“What’s up?”

“Make a note to reconsider Link audio/visual isolation during Civic Service.”

“Copy. Anything else?”

“I’ll keep you posted.” He let his hand casually drop to his pocket.

“Junior, please don’t make this harder for them. They’re working to pay their debts and I think you should be mindful of that,” William Deane said. He looked at Thurwar apologetically and Thurwar met his eyes. It was hard to tell what she thought of him. But all these interactions, undesirable though they might have been, reminded Mitchell of the nuanced ecosystem he had installed and the synergetic pulse of a program that now was a cultural mainstay.

The next few minutes felt calm as Thurwar and Staxxx were shown the flavors and given aprons of their own. A line had formed at the table, the longest of any in the market.

Hamara matters! Loretta Thurwar matters!

Thurwar was his symbol. Thurwar had elevated the entire landscape of the games. He’d known from the beginning that people had to know that a win was possible. There was no joy quite like conquering, and he knew that viewers needed to believe it was possible for their favorite Link to win, to achieve High Freedom. So he’d created a golden boy, a former killer turned better killer turned freed member of society. Enter Nova Kane Walker. He’d gone from murderer to number seven on the “America’s hottest men” list. But Thurwar was about to do it on her own. She was believable because she was real.

Elegance was the game.

Because that was the last part of it. Being invisible. Prison wasn’t sexy or cool. Chain-Gang was both of those things. Chain-Gang was adventure, openness. It was beautiful women who sometimes killed people handing out ice cream. It was compelling, easy watching or the most visceral viewing experience ever conceived. And so here he was. One of the conductors, invisible to all, watching as the people gathered to see what he had made and maybe get some ice cream.

“I won’t be a part of this,” Bill Jr. said. His parents got red at the ears and cheeks. Bill Jr. walked away from the family and Mitchell thought, Fine. Still a win.

But then Bill Jr. turned toward the barricade behind him and walked forward. Loud boos and fuck-yous rained down on him. He accepted them without pause. He screamed out into the crowd of black, filled his chest and let his voice loose: “B THREE IS NOT FOR ME!”

The protestors exploded into cheers.

He climbed and was pulled over the barricade. William Deane, Sr., looked sick.

“Fuck,” Mitchell said.

“What is it?” Rebecca said into his ear.

“Fuck.”