Ashley Jones, athletic single mother from Duluth, pulled herself upward, always upward along the rope. The blazing Australian sun didn’t matter. The uncounted millions of viewers who would be watching her through strategically placed cameras didn’t matter. George, suave accountant from Los Angeles, and her erstwhile ally, climbing thirty feet below her didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was scaling this particularly difficult route to the top of Ayer’s rock. Upward. Always upward.

George climbed up his rope, frantically. Ashley Jones was his one remaining competitor. Not for long though. Only a frantic struggle, a few more steps, and he’d have the prize. Ashley and he had trekked through the Siberian Tundra together, dodged the police in the People’s Republic of China-damn dirty trick for Mitch to play, planting heroin on them while the three were still traveling together- backpacked across central Asia and the Middle East, finally given Mitch what he deserved in the Saudi Arabian desert, when they held the water, and gone on through tribal wars, malaria, and, ridiculous as it seemed, satanic cults in Africa, only to be greeted with another desert trek in Australia. And that was only this season. The original teams had more or less broken up by the time they reached Brasilia last year, what with the debacle in Marseilles and all. And he was still trying to forget Bolivia.

But now it was all paying off. Looking back on it, most of the stuff had to have been faked by the producers. Still, that scarcely mattered now. Once they had hit Sydney, it was every man for himself. Debbie and Frank, the only other two who had made it that far, had both gone down in the desert, and now only Ashley stood in George’s way. After three seasons and almost circumnavigating the globe, it would finally pay off. Fifty million dollars. The largest prize in Television history. He pulled himself upward. Always upward.

Ashley pulled herself upward, only a few more feet, upward, she had made it! As she stood catching her breath George clambered upwards unto the top. Ashley didn’t say anything, didn’t curse him or scream, she simply leapt at him. A scrawny, sweat-soaked cameraman darted over to them, trying to get their fight on film. It wasn’t very impressive, though- a brief scuffle and George fell backwards over the edge. He bounced like a rag doll down the rock, producing a spectacular piece of footage from the mounted cameras. Ashley turned back to face her prize, only to face a faintly familiar-looking man, white-haired and wearing a gray suit with a scarlet tie. She thought he might have been a senator, or maybe a televangelist. A helicopter was perched on top of the rock.

“Turn it off, Wesley,” the man said in a faint southern drawl colored by years spent in Australia. The cameraman pressed a button, and a small light went off.

“Who-” Ashley started.

“Despite my best efforts, you may have heard of me in one of the tabloids.” The man said. “My name is Achilles Barnabas. I own a shipping firm. I have been financing this little endeavor for the Network- paying off governments, stationing plants. I even provided the prize money. The Network was only happy to agree to my proposal; their ratings have been slipping these past couple of years. It was the perfect deal- they get a boost in ratings, the lucky contestant, that is you, my lovely Miss Jones, gains untold wealth, and I, well, let’s just say that I gain the considerable pleasure of your acquaintance.” He was looking steadily over her right shoulder throughout the speech. The helicopter’s blades began to spin. Absently, Barnabas reached out and plucked a hair from Ashley’s head. Before she could respond, he continued, loudly, “Your prize. It is only a mere formality; we just want to get some nice, dramatic aerial footage.” Barnabas walked several meters away and withdrew a cardboard rectangle from his jacket pocket. The helicopter had taken off now, and was hovering, with Wesley leaning out the door. “Just claim your prize!” Barnabas shouted. Ashley ran to the piece of cardboard and snatched it.

“Perfect!” Wesley shouted in a thick accent. The helicopter dipped low, and Wesley pulled her up into it. It flew away, leaving Barnabas behind.

Five minutes later, in a helicopter over Australia’s Northern Territory, Ashley Jones celebrated her victory with a scream of excitement as she read the check for fifty million dollars. She would never have to worry about sending her kids to college again.

Fifteen weeks later, the finale of Super-Extreme Survival Elimination Contest swept the Nealsons, bringing in an unheard-of seventy-three-million viewers. The executives at the Network in Los Angeles celebrated with champagne and confetti. They were the number one.

A year later, on a small island in the pacific, as Washington, London, Jakarta, Tokyo, and countless other capitals around the globe fell to his army of Übermenschen, unstoppable soldiers with the blood of the fittest and most ruthless woman on the planet coursing through their veins, Achilles Barnabas celebrated his victory with a dry vermouth as he watched the sun set.