Chapter 13: Variety Show Chaos

Daiichi Chrome Studios occupies a converted textile factory in Minato-ku. The building dates from 1956, its concrete frame retrofitted with enough broadcast equipment to power a small nation. The loading dock where the van deposits them smells of diesel and old fabric—industrial ghosts that no amount of renovation can fully exorcise.

"Endurance Castle," Sora reads from the call sheet. "Four-hour recording block. We're segment three of seven."

The show is a staple of Japanese variety television—physical challenges, humiliation games, the kind of programming designed to make audiences laugh while making performers sweat. Hana has watched recordings during her research phase, cataloging the format the way she once cataloged assets: identify the target, understand the rules, exploit the gaps.

Today she is the target.

"Wardrobe in twenty minutes," Sora continues. "Then briefing, then wait time until our segment. Standard format."

"What's the segment?" Rei asks. She's already stretching, preparing her body for whatever abuse the producers have planned.

"Trust fall challenge." Sora's voice stays neutral, but her shoulders tighten. "Multiple rounds. Escalating platforms. Last team standing wins."

Trust, Hana thinks. What a concept.

The wardrobe room is a converted storage closet, barely large enough for the five of them plus a harried costume assistant named Yamamoto-san. The outfits are color-coded—standard variety show protocol that lets cameras track individual performers—and unflattering in ways that feel deliberate.

Hana's is bright orange. It makes her look like a traffic cone.

"The color represents energy," Yamamoto-san explains with practiced cheerfulness. "Very popular with audiences."

"I look like I'm directing traffic."

"Yes! Very energetic!"

Miya appears beside her, already changed into her assigned yellow. The color washes out her already pale complexion, making her look younger and more fragile than usual.

"You okay?" Hana asks quietly.

"Tired." Miya's smile is automatic, professional. "Three performances yesterday. Recording today. Press interviews tomorrow."

"Have you eaten?"

The pause before Miya answers is a fraction too long. "Breakfast. I had breakfast."

She's counting again, something in Hana notes. The edamame. The calories. The invisible math that governs her relationship with food.

"Make sure you eat lunch," Hana says. "You need the energy for the physical stuff."

"I will."

Neither of them believes it.

The briefing happens in a conference room adjacent to the studio floor. A production assistant named Tanaka—different from the makeup artist, common name—walks them through the segment structure with the efficiency of someone who has delivered this same information hundreds of times.

"Trust fall challenge. Five rounds. Each round, the platform gets higher and the catching team gets smaller. First round is standard—one meter drop, four catchers. Final round is three meters, one catcher."

"And if someone doesn't catch?" Rei's voice carries an edge.

"Safety nets are in place. No one gets hurt." Tanaka's reassurance sounds rehearsed. "The drama is in the moment of falling. Will they trust? Won't they trust? Audiences love the tension."

Audiences love watching people fail, Hana corrects internally. The tension is just the setup.

"Any questions?"

"What if we need to stop?" Miya's voice is small.

"The safe word is 'pause.' Say it clearly and the cameras cut to another segment. But"—Tanaka's smile is apologetic—"using the safe word affects your ranking. Networks notice who needs breaks."

Of course they do.

Wait time stretches for two hours and forty-seven minutes.

Hana occupies herself cataloging the studio layout. Two main stages, separated by a movable partition. Twelve camera positions. Seven exits, though only three are accessible without triggering alarms. The control room overlooks the floor through reinforced glass—production staff moving behind it like fish in an aquarium.

The trust fall platform dominates Stage B. It's a modular construction—metal scaffolding with padded platforms at one, two, and three meter heights. Safety nets ring the base, thick enough to cushion a fall but clearly intended as last resort rather than primary protection.

Three meters, she calculates. Fall time approximately 0.78 seconds. Impact velocity roughly 7.7 meters per second. Enough to cause injury if the catch fails.

Why are you calculating this?

Because calculating is what I do.

"Prism5, five minutes to set."

The studio lights hit like a physical force.

Hana has experienced stage lighting before—the Music Station appearance, the smaller showcases—but variety shows operate under different rules. The illumination is harsher, more penetrating, designed to capture every expression and magnify every reaction.

The host is a man named Yamamoto Kenji, a veteran entertainer with thirty years of experience making guests look simultaneously competent and ridiculous. His smile is warm. His eyes are calculating.

"Our next challengers are Prism5!" His voice booms through the studio speakers. "The idol group that landed a plane! Let's see if they can catch each other!"

The audience—three hundred people packed into bleacher seating—cheers on cue.

"First up, standard round. One meter platform. Four catchers. Who wants to fall first?"

They've discussed this backstage. Sora goes first, demonstrating leadership. Then Rei, showing fearlessness. Miya follows, proving the group protects its youngest member. Yuki catches for everyone, her reliability on display.

Hana falls last.

"And our newest member!" Yamamoto's voice takes on theatrical interest. "Hana-chan, the mysterious American pilot who saved two hundred people! Are you ready to trust your teammates?"

"Yes." The word comes out flat. Professional.

Be bubbly, something whispers. Be cute. Be the idol they expect.

I don't know how, she admits to herself.

The platform is solid under her feet. One meter—barely taller than she is. The safety net waits below, but between her and the net are four women she's known for three months. Four women who share her impossible situation.

"On three! One... two... three!"

Hana lets herself fall backward.

The sensation is brief and absolute. Gravity takes her. Her body wants to tense, to turn, to find the ground before it finds her. She forces herself to stay loose. Trust. The word feels foreign.

Hands catch her. Eight of them, distributed across her shoulders, back, and legs. The impact is controlled, professional—the result of three run-throughs during the briefing.

"Perfect!" Yamamoto beams. "Prism5 passes round one!"

The audience applauds.

Two more rounds, Hana thinks. Then whatever fresh nightmare they're saving for the finale.

Round two increases the platform to two meters and reduces the catchers to three.

Hana catches this round while Yuki falls. The timing is different at this height—more time in the air, more velocity on impact. Yuki lands in their arms with a grunt that might be pain.

"You okay?"

"Fine." Yuki's smile is strained. "Just... faster than I expected."

Round three reaches the full three-meter height. One catcher.

"Rei will catch," Sora decides during the brief strategy huddle. "She's the strongest."

"I'm not the strongest," Rei protests. "Hana—"

"Hana's the newest member. If she drops someone on national television, the narrative becomes 'American girl can't handle Japanese teamwork.' Rei catches."

The logic is sound. The stakes feel impossible.

Miya climbs to the three-meter platform.

She looks impossibly small up there—doll-like, fragile, her yellow costume bright against the industrial scaffolding. The studio lights cast her in harsh shadows. Her hands grip the railing with white-knuckled intensity.

"Ready, Miya-chan?" Yamamoto's voice echoes through the studio.

"Ready." But her voice wavers.

"On three! One... two..."

The platform shifts.

Hana sees it before anyone else—a slight wobble in the scaffolding, the kind of movement that shouldn't happen with proper equipment. Miya feels it too, her balance disrupting, her grip failing.

She falls early.

"Miya!"

Rei is in position, but Miya's trajectory is wrong—angled instead of straight, tumbling instead of controlled. The catch that should be clean becomes a collision. Bodies tangle. Someone screams.

Hana moves without thinking.

Her body takes over—the hours of training, the years of physical conditioning, the reflexes she's honed through repetition rather than magic. She crosses the three meters to the impact zone in time to get hands under Miya's shoulders as Rei's grip fails. The force transfers through her arms, her core, her legs. She absorbs it. Pivots. Swings both of them away from the concrete floor and into the safety net.

The impact knocks the breath from her lungs.

For a long moment, there is only the net's rough fabric against her back and Miya's shaking weight against her chest. The studio is silent. Even Yamamoto has stopped performing.

"Did you catch—" Someone from production, voice high with panic.

"She's fine." Hana's voice comes out steady despite her racing heart. "She's fine. I've got her."

"That was—" The same voice, cracking. "How did you—"

Too fast, something in her mind calculates. You moved too fast. Human reaction time is approximately 250 milliseconds. You responded in maybe 150.

Maybe less.

"Hana." Yuki is at the edge of the net, her face pale. "Hana, that was... incredible."

"Luck." The word tastes like a lie. "I just reacted."

"That wasn't luck." Rei is there too, rubbing her arms where the failed catch left bruises forming. "That was inhuman."

Inhuman. Yes.

Miya is crying now—silent tears that track through her stage makeup. Hana holds her, says nothing, lets her body provide the comfort that words can't.

"Special effects!"

Yuki's voice cuts through the murmuring. She's turned toward the production team, her expression the picture of innocent confusion.

"That was the special effect, right? The one you mentioned in the briefing?"

Silence.

"The one where if someone falls wrong, we practice the rescue move? Because that's what Hana was doing. The move you taught us."

The producer—a heavyset man who has been watching from behind camera three—exchanges glances with his assistant. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding to something that might be gratitude.

"Yes!" His voice carries forced enthusiasm. "The rescue protocol! Very well executed, Prism5. That's exactly what we wanted to see."

The lie ripples through the studio. Staff nod along. The audience, sensing the change in energy, begins applauding.

"What an exciting demonstration!" Yamamoto recovers with professional smoothness. "Prism5 shows us that idol groups aren't just about music—they're about trust, teamwork, and being ready for anything!"

More applause.

Hana helps Miya out of the net, keeps an arm around her shoulders, plays the role of supportive teammate for the cameras. Inside, something cold calculates the implications.

They saw. The producer saw. Even if Yuki's cover story holds, there are cameras everywhere. Someone will review the footage.

You exposed yourself.

You saved her.

Was it worth it?

The van ride back to Residence D is silent.

Miya sleeps against Hana's shoulder—genuine sleep this time, not the exhausted half-consciousness of usual van rides. Her breathing is slow and even. Her face, cleaned of stage makeup, looks younger than her sixteen years.

"I don't know what that was." Rei's voice is low, directed at no one in particular. "What you did. How you did it."

"Training." The word feels inadequate.

"That wasn't training." Rei meets her eyes in the van's dim interior. "I've trained my whole life. I know what trained reflexes look like. What you did... that was something else."

Sora watches from the front seat, her expression unreadable.

"The bloodline," she says finally. "What Kae mentioned. What Artemis tested."

"Maybe."

"Is it getting stronger?"

I don't know, Hana wants to say. I don't know what I am or what I'm becoming.

"I don't know."

The van continues through Tokyo's night traffic. Brake lights flash. Pedestrians cross. The city moves on, indifferent to impossible reflexes and goddess trials and the question of what happens when you stop being purely human.

The producer calls Ren at 11:47 PM.

Hana knows this because her apartment shares a wall with the hallway, and sound carries in Residence D. She hears Ren's footsteps. Hears her door open. Hears the muffled cadence of a one-sided phone conversation.

"Yes... I understand... No, there's no special effect protocol... Yes, I'm aware of what the footage shows..."

A long pause.

"I don't have an explanation. But I'll get one."

The footsteps approach Hana's door. Stop. A moment of hesitation.

Then, slowly, they retreat.

Hana sits in the dark of her apartment, laptop glowing with trading data, and waits for morning.