A Perfect Score

The hallway pulsed like blood moving through a vein feeding into the heart of the stagefront. The hallway leading towards the stage was actually quite dark, hundreds of bronzed backs flexing around. Some people trembled in slow rhythm to the crowd’s muffled roar beyond the turn. Every few seconds, a stagehand shouted a number and another contestant peeled away from their spot in line, it quickly replaced by the next person like clockwork.

Spray bottles hissed at nearly every moment. The floor stuck faintly under bare feet. Someone laughed too loud, trying to mask nerves; another whispered to himself, the words giving him strong conviction.

They passed a man whose shadow looked like a statue, then another wrapped in towels from neck to waist. A woman clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened, then exhaled and walked to the line. The hallway seemed to swallow her as she disappeared around the corner.

Further ahead, a stage assistant attempted to brush glitter off a competitor’s shoulders, but was promptly put in his place by the very sparkly man.

The monitors fixed along the wall displayed quick flashes of what waited beyond the turn: blinding stage lights, gold banners, judges seated in strict rows. Each contestant shown for only fifteen seconds before the feed cut back to the next entrance. It was actually surprising to see camera crews following the event, and even more so that it was live with over thirty thousand watchers as well.

Joren and Gus waited near the back, shoulder to shoulder, just two more faces in the muscley tide. The noise of the crowd reached them through the walls, growing and fading like the breath of some enormous beast. Every time the announcer called another number, they edged a step closer.

One man lifted a dumbbell one last time, veins rising like cords under his skin. A pair of twins rehearsed mirrored poses in silence. They were a duo competitor, which somehow was allowed.

The hallway opened into light.

Beyond the corner, the air turned blinding. Heat poured from the ceiling lamps in shimmering waves. The stage spread wide and gleaming, its black floor waxed to reflect even the dimmest light. Beneath the stage, the judges sat at their long white table, expressionless and uncomfortably professional. Not one spoke as a competitor strutted past, only lifting their score when the announcer’s voice thundered through the speakers that the fifteen seconds were up.

“Contestant 46: the Iron Poet of Dravenport!”

The man hit the lights with a practiced spin, glistening bronze under the heat. Every motion seemed rehearsed down to the twitch. The crowd screamed. Cameras panned from his face to his flexed silhouette and back again. When he finished, the cheers rolled like thunder, and he bowed low enough to touch the stage. He earned a combined score of only 34.6 out of 50.

Another replaced him. Then another. Each entrance followed the same ritual: light burst, name called, fifteen seconds of poses, exit. The crowd didn’t tire, they were eating this up.

From her spot in the front row, Willow leaned against the barrier, arms folded over the railing. The glow from the stage washed over her in flashes of gold and red. Her eyes tracked each contestant like she was watching a series of strange, half-serious theater acts, which was quite amusing for her.

“Forty-seven: the Twin Titans!”

The twins from the hallway strutted out in perfect sync, twisting into mirrored poses while the announcer hyped them like demigods descended from heaven. The crowd adored it. One of them blew a kiss toward the judges, earning a raised brow and a scribbled note. Their score was 38.2, which would have been 38.5 without the kiss.

Willow laughed under her breath. “They’re really taking this seriously.”

She turned her gaze to the massive screen above the judges as the broadcast feed flickered more camera angles, cutting between competitors and close-ups of the audience. Somewhere on that display, she caught a glimpse of Gus and Joren waiting in the line. They looked like soldiers before a hopeless battle.

Her smile softened. “At least they’re trying.”

Backstage, the hallway had grown hotter and sweatier. The air was thick enough to choke on. Every cheer came like a rolling wave that struck the walls, muffled but heavy, rattling Joren’s ribs.

Joren and Gus hadn’t moved much in the last ten minutes, though their nerves had done plenty of jumping around for them. A few less contestants were ahead in line now, and the stagehand’s voice echoed every time the next name boomed through the speakers.

“Contestant fifty: The Steel Shepherd!”

The crowd erupted again. Joren caught a glimpse of the monitor above the doorway, just flashes of a bronze figure striking strange poses, a flash of white teeth, a quick bow. Then it cut back to the next contestant number.

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, trying to shake off the sweat. “They’re really going all out, huh?” he murmured.

Gus grunted in agreement, arms crossed over his chest. “And we’re supposed to follow that? Great.”

“Contestant fifty-one…”

The voice lingered a moment longer this time, drawing out the pause for the first time.

“Rico, the Reigning Champion!”

The crowd didn’t cheer. They erupted into a chant.

It wasn’t applause anymore, it was like divine worship.

The hallway trembled from the sound of it, a booming roar that swallowed the air and everything in it. Joren could barely hear himself breathe. The vibrations rippled through the floor under his feet, making even the lightbulbs buzz overhead.

Gus took a step back, blinking. “What the hell kind of reaction is that? Guy's a damn legend to them.”

They couldn’t see him, but they could hear the difference. The announcer’s voice rose to keep pace with the noise, shouting Rico’s titles like a resume, “Nine-time champion! Master of form! The Pride of Pulleytown!”

The cameras must’ve zoomed in then, because the crowd’s volume spiked again, followed by the steady, rhythmic booms of the audience chanting his name.

Riiico. Riiico. Riiico.

A pause followed. The near-silence after that uproar felt surreal.

Then, the walls quaked with a final, unified shout that nearly drowned out the judges’ scores flashing onto the monitor: 49.9 out of 50.

Gus muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for mercy. He was already the leading score and would hit finals no problem, not that anyone could beat 49.9 out of 50.

Joren stared at the monitor, unable to blink. Even without seeing him in person, it was clear that Rico was in another league.

“Forty-nine point nine,” Gus spoke, his voice thin. “They didn’t even give him a fifty because they’re scared of running out of numbers.”

Joren gave a weak laugh that died in his throat. His pulse thudded in his ears. “Guess we’ll just... do our best?”

“Yeah,” Gus said, stretching his neck with a groan. “Our best, sure, against near-perfection no less.”

The next contestant’s number echoed down the hall, swallowed by the crowd. The roar rolled again, far lighter this time but still plenty. It wouldn't be long until they would be up.

66 contestants later, our two last hopes found themselves near the front of the line.

“One seventeen, clear!” a stagehand barked. Another cheer followed, then he called the next number. Only two more before Gus went out.

He rolled his shoulders again, the motion stiff and mechanical now. “Two more,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “That’s fine. Two’s not bad. Two gives me time to—”

“Next up!” the voice interrupted, sharper this time.

Gus shut his mouth. His jaw tightened, and his hands found his hips like he was trying to mimic Bart’s impossible confidence. Joren could tell it wasn’t working, but he reassured Gus that he would do fine.

"NEXT!" the stagehand yelled again.

The final man ahead of them went out for his fifteen seconds, leaving Gus to stew in the implication that he was next.

The stagehand raised his hand, signaling. “Alright, you’re up next. Be ready.”

Gus took one last breath, closed his eyes, and nodded. “Right. Time to flex my way into history.."

The stagehand’s voice thundered again. “One nineteen!”

And just like that, Gus stepped forward, quickly swallowed by the light.

Now Joren found himself in the same place Gus was just a moment ago. Being next to Gus, he was able to not focus on what actually was about to occur for him, which hit like a brick wall.

The noise beyond the turn didn’t sound like a crowd anymore, but like a storm. You see, due to Gus's pseudo-celebrity status, he is known by a variety of aliases and nicknames that plenty know him by, which is what prompted Gus to choose his name 'The Porcelain Prince of Glazebend' at the registration table when they first arrived.

Joren glanced up towards the monitor to see Gus. He was shining under the lamps, moving through each pose with stiffness and awkwardness that might’ve been focus, but earning a respectable roar from the viewers regardless. Even the livestreamed viewers were pumped hearing the surprise guest make his way to the competition.

Joren swallowed as Gus’s score flashed across the screen: 39.9. Respectable, but not even close to the champion’s 49.9. That score, however, did slot Gus into eighth place for finals, so long as he wasn’t beaten out by three others.

Joren exhaled through his nose, trying to steady the rhythm of his breathing. His palms were slick. His legs itched to move, but he felt cemented in place. Every second dragged like an hour.

"You're up next, kid. Get ready." the man spoke to him. "Contestant one-twenty!"

Joren took a single step. Then he took another. He found himself already nearing the exit to the stagefront.

The glow ahead felt unreal, like stepping into another world made entirely of bright light and noise. The heat ate at his skin before he even reached the corner. The announcer’s voice echoed through the walls, his stage name rolling off the speakers with exaggerated grandeur, yet all of it sounded distant, warped through the pounding of his pulse.

“And here comes contestant one twenty: Starfall!”

He could hear the crowd getting amped up. The scrape of chairs, the rumble of voices. Somewhere beyond that turn, thousands of eyes were ready to see him, judge him, and laugh, maybe.

Joren’s hands trembled once before he clenched them. He thought back to Bart’s absurd training, the star pose, the speeches about drama and glory. Every flex is a cannon shot, Bart had said, every pose, a story.

Joren exhaled once more, forcing calm into his chest as he made it out to the crowd, to his spot to pose.

Joren froze for a half-second, blinking against the brightness as he strutted out. His mind went blank. Then, through the ringing in his ears, he remembered Bart’s voice again, “You’re not a scarecrow, you’re a constellation. You hold up that sky.”

He took position.

For the first pose, he lifted his arms wide, it was the 'Star Pose'. Joren made a last second addition to his pose, just like many other contestants did to gain an edge. He shot out dozens of his mini light orbs, as if he were the sun and they were his planets. The crowd ate it up.

Next, he shifted into the 'World Pillar', Bart’s favorite. His stance widened, back bent, arms flexed as though carrying invisible weight. The pose looked absurd, but the crowd erupted anyway. Maybe they thought it was art, maybe they just liked the confidence.

For a brief moment, Joren forgot the noise. All he felt was the pulse of his heartbeat and the tension in his body as he held the final pose.

Then the buzzer sounded.

His fifteen seconds were over.

Joren straightened, lowering his arms slowly as the lights dimmed back to their normal warmth. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, every muscle in his body trembling from the effort of just standing still.

The crowd was still going with a steady, approving thunder that rolled across the hall like distant waves. Some were clapping, others were whistling, a few even chanting his stage name: Starfall.

He looked towards the judge panel for his score.

He had to double check to make sure his math was right. He added up the scores again.

43.8.

He gave a small nod and turned to leave the stage.

It wasn’t first place. Not even close, but the number glowed bright enough to earn a few impressed murmurs from nearby people watching from the exit tunnel.

Joren exhaled, the air shuddering out of him in relief as he turned into the hall. He wasn’t sure if Bart’s ridiculous training had worked, or if the crowd had just been caught up in the theatrics, but it didn’t matter. For the first time since entering that town, he felt like he’d done something right.

When he noticed Joren, Gus lifted a hand and grinned weakly. “Forty, wait, thirty-nine point nine. Beat that.”

“Forty-three point eight." Joren said, the faintest grin tugging at his lips.

Gus groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “You’re kidding me. I actually trained for that and you still beat me?”

Joren chuckled, slumping beside him. “Guess Bart’s snake-arm routine paid off after all, just not as much as my poses.”

“Yeah, maybe we should tell him he’s a genius,” Gus said, voice muffled behind his hands. “Or maybe not. His ego’s already halfway to orbit.”

A new roar rose from the crowd, shaking the hallway. One of the final contestants must’ve gone out. It was the tall woman who shattered that mirror, if Joren remembered right. They both leaned toward the glowing monitor fixed on the wall, watching for the score.

“Forty-eight point two,” Gus read aloud. “Not bad.”

The crowd’s noise dimmed, replaced by a familiar silence that hung heavy, like everyone was holding their breath.

The stagehand’s voice echoed faintly through the speakers:

“Final contestant… number one twenty-two. Make way for the—”

The announcer stopped midsentence, like even he didn’t believe what he was reading. A ripple of laughter and confusion spread through the crowd.

Then, his voice came again, louder, almost incredulous.

“...the Cheesemonger of Gloryhollow!”

Joren’s head jerked toward the monitor. “He didn’t.”

Gus’s jaw dropped. “He did.”

The feed flickered, showing the golden edge of the stage. A lone, short and pointy silhouette appeared against the glare.

Bart.

Not in his usual patched-up coat or his absurd festival clothes, but oiled, bronzed, and wearing a competition speedo that defied the laws of modesty. The fact that he was wearing a speedo or that he was bronzed up wasn't even remotely the wildest part, not by far, it was what Bart had been hiding underneath his getup this entire time.

Joren’s breath hitched.

For a second, he thought the monitor was glitching. The figure that stepped into the light wasn’t Bart. It couldn’t be.

The camera panned slowly upward, revealing a sight that shattered logic.

Bart wasn’t muscular, he was mythic.

His chest could have been a continent, his stance a religion.

The crowd went dead silent, not out of boredom but sheer disbelief.

The light hit him and bent, casting halos across his form. People gasped as if they’d just witnessed creation itself.

And for the first time in living memory, even Rico’s name was forgotten, sidelined even.

His arms bulged with celestial geometry, veins even tighter against his skin than Rico's. When they first observed Rico, Joren thought he probably had a body fat percentage of 3%, which was staggering, but Bart was at probably 1-2%.

Then came the first gasp.

Someone screamed. Another person began to sob. Many people began to sob, actually.

“Oh my god,” a voice from the front row trembled, “he’s beautiful!”

It spread like wildfire.

Men dropped their drinks. Women clutched their hearts. A stage assistant fainted near the curtain, overcome by what they were witnessing. Somewhere in the crowd, a priest interlocked his fingers and whispered, “We are unworthy.”

Even the announcer’s voice cracked, barely managing to recover. "Ladies and gentlemen... the Cheesemonger of Gloryhollow appears to be… transcendent.”

In the front row, Willow clutched the railing so hard her knuckles went white. “Holy shit,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Is that... Bart?”

On-screen, Bart tilted his head slightly, the gleam of his giant forehead catching the golden light in perfect symmetry. He raised his arms slowly, as if calling upon the heavens themselves to bear witness. When he struck his first pose, the twin snake arms that Gus had performed only a minute prior, a tremor rippled through the audience.

Beside Willow, two women swooned into each other’s arms, whispering his title like it was a prayer. A man yelled, “This is art! This is divinity in motion!”

Then came the next pose, one Joren knew all too well.

Bart bent his knees, arms curling behind him, every muscle in his back coiling like a dam about to break. The World Pillar.

The crowd collectively gasped as the lights dimmed to a single spotlight. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he truly was carrying the heavens on his back. His veins shone like scribbles drawn across bronze skin, each fiber in his body actually moving like they were trapped to his frame and trying to escape.

Someone in the front row screamed, “He’s holding up the world!”

Another shouted, “He’s the axis of creation!”

The announcer’s voice cracked again, breathless. “I—uh—ladies and gentlemen, the Cheesemonger appears to have achieved godhood!”

Willow could only stare slack jawed, eyes wide with both horror and awe. “That idiot actually made it look good...”

When Bart straightened, slow and deliberate, he brought his hands together in a single, thunderous clap that shattered the bulb overhead.

The crowd lost its mind.

Backstage, Joren and Gus could only watch the monitor, utterly dumbfounded.

Gus whispered, “We were trained by a god.”

Joren just nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “And we didn't even know it.”

Bart looked around once, nodded to the crowd, and then pointed skyward, silent and humble, as though dedicating his triumph to some higher force.

The judges were sweating bullets, unsure if they could even properly score what they just saw. The judges, stunned beyond reason, began lifting their scorecards one by one.

10.0 — 10.0 — 10.0 — 10.0 — 10.0

A perfect fifty.

The announcer’s voice cracked into a near-yell. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER, A PERFECT SCORE! THE CHEESEMONGER OF GLORYHOLLOW HAS STOLE THE SHOW!"

Willow pressed a hand to her forehead, torn between laughter and disbelief. “We’re never going to live this down.”

The myth of Bart had just become reality.

The monitor flashed to a cutaway picture of the scoreboard.

1st — The Cheesemonger of Gloryhollow (50.0)

2nd — Rico, The Reigning Champion (49.9)

…and further down the list…

7th — Starfall (43.8)

...a few more...

10th — The Porcelain Prince of Glazebend (39.9)

Gus squinted at the monitor. “Wait. I made it?”

Joren nodded, still trying to process everything that had happened in the last five minutes. “Yeah, you did. You’re the lowest score that still qualifies for finals.”

Gus let out a long, relieved sigh, wiping his forehead. “Well, guess that means I don’t have to listen to Bart or Willow nag me for the rest of time. I’ll take it.”

Joren’s lips quirked into a ecstatic smile. “We’re going to the finals, Gus!”

Then his gaze drifted back to the glowing 50.0 at the top of the screen, his smile faltering slightly. “But I think we’re competing against something… no one else can touch besides Rico.”

Out on stage, Bart was still waving to the crowd, radiant and utterly invincible. The crowd was chanting his name now like a hymn.

“Bart! Bart! Bart!”

Gus groaned. “If he ever asks us to do something crazy like this again, I’m running for the hills.”

Joren nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

But neither of them could stop smiling.