(ty for reading :D you're much appreciated, and the little star appreciates you as well)

(EDITED)(Note to readers: Some chapters ahead may not be fixed to be in line with the new edits)

I knew my way around a bike because I had a knack for treading water.

That's a metaphor, by the way. It means: I knew how to play the game.

"I'm better with a knife than I am on a bike," I told Mercy as she waltzed away from me, leaving me on the TRAX with nothing but helmet and a silver flip phone. I was fifteen and stupid at the time, stuck in Arleta doing algebra by day and gutting strangers by night. Typical teenager. Can never keep their attention to one bad habit. "I thought I wasn't supposed to help you with your work."

"For compensation," Mercy countered. Her black eyes narrowed. "And how'd you hear that?"

"I can read," I argued, recalling the lengthy contracts and papers my father had shown me that bloody moment years ago. "It's of my own means or none at all."

"Well, pretty boy, you're in luck. Read my lips." She pointed a talon at her face. "Loophole."

"I'm not helping you rob for jewels for free."

"For jewels! I am the jewel," she laughed. "You know what I say you know, little ghost. All you have to focus on is driving that bike. You know these streets well enough by now."

I'd learned most shortcuts and alleys of a dozen cities by sixteen, and had driven nearly half of Southern California by seventeen. My compensation was, as promised, my life. Most of it, at least. And if I'd ever slipped on a job, taken the wrong route, slowed near the police, Mercy kept her word on that, too.

"Or what?" I snarled.

She grabbed the back of my neck and slammed my head down, only stopping a breath away from the thick metal handlebars. Nails dug deep into skin, pricked past it like microscopic needles. Her voice was full of vitriol at my ear.

"Or you'll be the next body up on that table like your thieving mother," she hissed. "I taught you. You think I don't know every place to cut a man where he won't die?"

I swallowed. I could feel the threads of my life, fragile as gossamer, stretch between her blue fingers and strain with the effort to hold on.

She grabbed my chin, forcing my gaze to her eyes, wiping the blood off my forehead with her fingertips. I spat on her cheek.

"Brain of a dog?" she inquired. "Brain of a...puppy."

"Then kill me," I snapped. "Why keep me alive when my father sent me to you to kill me anyway? That debt you hold over my head, all that money it takes to cover his tracks, why not do away with the evidence?"

"For someone with so much blood on their hands," she hissed, "you really don't want to live."

"The money you're snagging is mine." I reached up and grabbed her by the chin. Her eyes went wide. "Those bodies, these fucking jobs, it's mine."

She grabbed my wrist and wrenched me to the ground. Her heel pierced my chest, dug in deep enough to bruise my sternum. I gasped. Blood bloomed under the stiletto knife. 

"You are mine," she snarled. "You're a cast-off, Ghostie. A loose end they're burning off bit by bit until there's nothing of you left. You are a nobody. You are no better than the bones in the buckets we discard. Nothing is 'yours'. Not even you are 'yours'." She tilted her head to the side. "I gave you my dirty work. I let you race. I let you sleep here. Eat our food. Wear our clothes. Learn our teachings. Generosity at its finest! Where's my thank you? I can see who the smarter twin is."

"Fuck you," I snapped. "I'm not your dog."

"I. Own. You," she growled. "Your existence is contingent on my words. Your limbs are only intact because I say so. You only breathe because I have allowed you to. Hello? Hello! Houston, do we have a problem in there?" She pushed harder. I gagged. "You are not my dog, you are less than. I'm more than just your leash." Mercy pushed so far I feared she'd break my ribcage altogether. "I am your only lifeline, Ghost." She leaned down. "And that, is a promise."

It had taken another gruesome year of being her pawn for the privilege of attending Avaldi at all. She had only granted me access to it for me to study biochemistry, "good for the work" and all. 

"College for Ghostie, what a treat!" she announced. "Aren't you excited?"

"I'm going to help you," I snapped. "So, no."

"Well," she hummed. "At least you're honest. Isn't that something?"

I. Own. You.

Mercy was correct on one thing: I owned nothing. Not even myself.

She was wrong about her being my only lifeline, though.

I'd treaded water for a while.

But for the first time in six years, I had land to swim towards.

___________________

The University of Nevada, Las Vegas Rebels were twentieth in Division I square racing, not for their lack of skills, but for their absolutely vicious lack of sportsmanship, which held them in twentieth place for wins, yet first for number of flags on their record. They were credited for commendable offense, decent defense, and a whopping eighteen team members total, enough to replace each member on a track three times over.

"Everyone got that?" Coach said, setting her clipboard down to scan us all with a pointed look. "Good. Now, the actual team. Listen up, I'm really not repeating this part."

The main six representatives of the team were Ford, Manson, Jameson, Lee, Singh, and Baluyot, front port, front starboard, centerback, starboard tail, port tail, and center tail, respectively. Baluyot was their captain, a six foot four Class I Huang Alpha that likely ate smaller Betas for breakfast and Omegas as an afternoon snack. Bad left foot from an injury. Slow reflexes.

"Center tails are most protected," Coach said. "So he's usually their killing blow when they need it. So preserve your wits for as long as you can, and for your limbs' sake, don't let him get too close."

Everyone else were threats in their own respects. Ford was lightning fast on anything and with everything. Manson had modded his bike so much it could practically play the banjo and crush your teeth with the same button. Jameson was an instigator at heart, and a damn clever one at that. Singh was a robot for all their dirty bidding.

Coach said, "Keep your eyes peeled. This team might be below you, but they're above a hell of a lot of other people. Don't get cocky. That means you, Cruz. And you two." She pointed her pen at Wynter and Zoe. "This is your first game with us. So listen to what we tell you and do not panic at any moment, these players won't hesitate to be cruel. And please do not deviate from the game plan."

"We're done for," Zoe said. "We're actually done for."

"I'm gonna kill Nia," Wynter muttered. "Who told me I was allowed to chase my dreams?"

Meredith turned bright eyes to Coach. "We'll do our best."

"Do better," Kane said from his place on the locker room bench. His helmet hung in his hand, KING scrawled on the side like a white-knuckled crown. "What's the game plan?"

"Per Zahir's input, we're placing fifteen on this match," she said. "Their defense is slow, so Russo, Watanabe, Cruz, you're gonna circle around their offense, cut their paths off, while offense has the chance to swerve through the gaps. We're going for points the first round, so rack up every single one you can and miss the ramps if you can help it. If their offense ever breaks through, leave Watanabe and Davenport to Jameson and Manson, then focus on taking out Ford. We'll reconvene after. Got it?"

"Got it," we said.

"And you." She gestured at me. "Watch every second of this round. I want you to know all those players by tire marks by the time you get on there."

We nodded wordlessly. Coach clapped her hands and pointed out of the locker rooms. "Now get out of here. I'll see you all in the pit."

UNLV's white and red locker rooms were near inverts of Avaldi's purple and black ones, leaving the entire scope ten times brighter than we were adjusted to. Wynter and Zoe bid me goodbye before rushing off with the other girls to finish changing out. I stood in the row in my joggers and hoodie, watching Corvus as they readied themselves for the track.

"You ready for the first game, cobayo?" Diego said, smacking me on the shoulder so hard I nearly went reeling. "You never forget it."

"I can see why," I muttered.

"Stop talking and start changing," Kane called.

Kane, Kenzo, and Zahir scurried off to the other rows to change out, leaving Diego all the way down mine. Diego faced me.

"Hey, cobayo."

I paused. Diego was already nearly done with his gear, and stood with his black gloves in his hands, the metal knuckles like stars studding the leather. He cocked his head at me with an almost pitying look. He patted the bench beside him.

Diego strapped on his shinguards. I sat down next to him. "You know," he said. "I'm still somewhat hungover, but I'm a good soul at heart."

"Don't tell me anything, I can't help you with the police," I hurried.

"What? Qué estás diciendo, just let me tell you my very motivational story!" he snapped, strapping his leather armguards next. "Rosie threw up before her first game."

I gaped. "What."

He nodded, smiling, smug at the fact he got to be the one to tell me that. "Totally nervous, like, absolutely terrified. Not that she told any of us. She was still a little freshman, you know? Zahir found her and said something very Zahir to calm her down, but she ended up screwing up the entire first half of the game and nearly cried. I should've taken a photo."

"What."

"Anyway, she turned in her jacket the next day to Coach, even though we ended up winning by the skin of our teeth."

"And?"

"And Coach let her. Basically told Rosie she didn't want wimpy quitters on her team anyway, and that if she couldn't handle the team, she shouldn't be on it." Diego pulled on his jacket. "I was on cleaning duty, so I overheard it all."

"You all have some serious eavesdropping issues," I said.

Diego waved that off. "She told her that Corvus doesn't win because they want to race well. Corvus wins because they want to win. There's no other reason for the sport. Square racing is victory-based, victory-fueled." Diego gave me one of the only solemn looks I'd ever seen him don since meeting him. "I know you're not racing, not for a few matches, but it's not what you think. You're here because you won, cobayo. That's why we kept you in the first place. Trust yourself, yeah? You know how to race already." He stood up. "So you'll know how to win."

He walked away, leaving me with those words floating somewhere in the canals of my middle ear. I leaned over with my elbows on my knees. My breath disappeared into locker room dampness and the thunder of incoming crowds.

Whoever won anything by taking what you're given?

If racing was made for the victors, I'd climb hell and high water just to make sure I stood alongside with them.

Square racing was, like all good sports, point-based, and only time-based if a match came to a tie. It consisted of two intervals, forty five minutes each, with a fifteen minute halftime. But time only mattered if you got shifty with your points.

With the trusty help of good old-fashioned magnetic detection, every obstacle you passed counted anywhere from one to thirty points for your team, depending on how likely you were to die trying to get through it. The easiest points were low hangers, pillars, ramps, and half-mile marks. Logs, tunnels, pole series, and chicanes were the step-ups. Winning depended on your points, sure, but time was your K.O. Any match with a fifteen-or-less point gap between the teams resulted in basing the winner on time. If even by a second.

Are you sweating? I'm fucking sweating.

Here:

The sweet cream of the game was in the cash.

Forty percent of all the money bet in matches was by the teams while the other sixty percent was allotted by sponsors. In D1 matches with the top racing team in the country as one of the parties, eight digits was only courtesy.

I stood in the canopy to watch the stadium. Corvus had already gathered below with their bikes being tended to by a dozen other workers. They were ink splotches in a sea of red and white paper. I looked towards the other pits. It didn't take much effort to spot the Rebels, tall as redwoods, staring straight back at us. Their jackets were littered in logos and brand stamps, and their names were painted stripes up their left arms. I pushed the base of my palm into my chest to ease the pressure.

The Vegas Silvers Stadium of UNLV contained a roughly three and a half mile track with five chicanes, five ramps, one bridge, and a max total of one hundred points to be earned throughout its entirety, from log piles, to pole series, to an infamous addition of two rare "corridors" that consisted of equidistant columns in tunnels, shadowed of all light, that you were to simply pray you didn't die trying to get through. They accounted for a whopping twenty points each.

"Tell me not to be nervous," Wynter said to Zoe.

Zoe's breath hitched. "Be bloody nervous," she whispered.

I looked up ahead to the giant mesh stadium screen posted on the farthest north wall. HOME held the Rebels name in red, Corvus on AWAY in white. Below them, VICTORY read a piping hot 21,100,000 USD.

My stomach threatened to break into my liver, split the peritoneum, leak into my lungs' inferior lobes. I choked on my words before managing to cough up, "What the fuck."

"I'm hallucinating," Wynter said. "I'm fucking hallucinating."

"Maybe it's a glitch," Zoe said.

"A three zero glitch?"

"What are you three babbling about?" Edwards, in a dark purple suit overtop her Corvus hoodie, her cap gone to let her dirty blonde waves pile atop her head in a ponytail that showed off the black headset around her ears, situated herself next to us, her clipboard replaced with a Janchi tablet, a map of the stadium on the screen.

 I didn't know if it helped the already-debilitating gravitas of the match, but at least we could look pretty before our deaths.

"Damn, Coach," I said. "You clean up."

"Watch it, kid, or I'll make you an obstacle on that track."

I said, "What happened last time you versed them?"

"Nothing good," Edwards muttered.

I shuddered. Wynter said, "Are you sure you want us in there? I'm a great cheerleader, you know."

"We've got cheerleaders," Coach snapped. "Are you telling me you've undergone all those grueling hours of the past two months just to chicken out?"

"Yes," the two said.

She dismissed that with a flick of her wrist and pointed at the Rebels. "Let me tell you something," she said. "You get so caught up in everything you don't have against a team, you're paving the way for yourself to lose. Stop thinking about what you can't do and start thinking what you can. Think your way out of it. Forty five minutes goes by fast."

It sounded more like a promise than a warning.

The crowd flooded in by the hundreds, filling the rows like schools of fish being carried by the currents. Footsteps shook the concrete. Voices drew fault lines in the concrete walls. With a hundred thousand eyes, a camera lens on every move, and stadium lights so bright you'd think you were nothing but a bug beneath the glare of a microscope stage, a fact stared me so fiercely in the face I swear it devoured me: there was nowhere in the stadium to hide.

Kane and Meredith turned around to glance up at the terrace. 

"You think he's nervous?" Zoe said as she began to head down.

I almost laughed. "No," I said. "I think he's excited."

An ear-piercing buzzer shrieked and yanked everyone's heads to the screen ahead. A flash of black wiped the score to present a performative animation of a crow and a cowboy facing head to head with the words READY TO RACE? flickering across it. The crowd roared thundering approval.

"Hello, Las Vegas!" an announcer yelled over the loudspeakers. "Welcome to Vegas Silvers, hosting the match tonight between square racing teams, Corvus of Avaldi University, and the Rebels of University of Nevada, Las Vegas!" More screams. More queasiness. "I'm your announcer for tonight, Nathan Roe, and stoked to see this match go down! Now, who's ready?"

The roar was deafening.

"As a reminder to all our racers, this is a good and fair match. All shots, strikes, or maneuvers are permitted except for head shots, equipment tampering of any kind, blocking any racer horizontally, or using gear or bikes as projectiles. You must stay within the white fencing at all times, and any breach of the fencing will end the lap as a lap foul. No drugs, alcohol, or any unauthorized substances are allowed on the track, along with weapons or tools of any kind. If you're found with any of these during the match, you and your team will be immediately disqualified."

I stared at the white metal fencing lining the track the entire way around. "Think they'll know Diego is slightly hungover?"

"What was that?" Edwards snapped.

"Nothing," I hurried.

"With that, racers! To the starting line! The match will begin in precisely one minute."

The countdown appeared on the screen as the bikes were hurriedly rushed to the neon red starting line. Corvus strapped on their helmets tight. Kane readied to do so, but he stopped when Baluyot began to make his way for him. 

Baluyot wheeled his bike up next to him. Rosalie made a move but Zahir pushed her back onto her bike and shook his head. He got up to intercept Baluyot, but he was already there. he said something that made Kane's face go rigid, as if he'd seen a ghost. Baluyot looked delighted, his lips curling, his eyes hidden by thick black curls. Zahir came to stand between them, and Baluyot shrugged. He turned on his heel. Kane looked ill.

"Five! Four!"

Kane hurriedly strapped on his helmet. He mounted his bike. The sound of engines, of hunger, of burning embers, crackled like bolts of electricity across the concrete. But Baluyot wouldn't leave my head.

"Three!"

"Get ready," Edwards said to her mic.

"Two!"

"Ready," I muttered.

"One!"

The race began with gunshots to the stars.

I watched them chase the bullets.

It wasn't the first half that mattered in racing. The first half was for playing, for gaging, fucking around with your opponent to see where they broke and in turn, leaving yourself open to be fucked around with to see where you broke. It was the opening move of a chess match; shit was just getting started.

It was the second half things started to matter. And with 21 million dollars on the line between two top-ranking NCAA racing teams, I suppose I should've known it would not have gone down easily.

The first half consisted of some of the nastiest body and bike checks I'd witnessed in real time. Rosalie had been trapped between a racer and a wall one too many times to have come out unscathed. Zoe was fighting for her life to manage both the obstacles and the walls the defense had trapped her into. Zahir had become too closely acquainted with the stadium walls for comfort. Wynter had taken elbows both to the face and ribs at every half-mile. Kenzo had nearly lost his head against Jameson's merciless swings. Meredith had held up close to nothing under Manson. Ford was hell-bent on breaking Diego's neck. Lee and Singh were nothing less than rabid on Kane.

Our lead was only by four points thanks to a clever round-up of pole series by Zahir and Kane, as the Rebels excelled more in violence than they did technicality. But time was ticking fast, and Coach had wanted a ten-point gap by the mid-way point in second half, whose chances were slimming by the second.

"King, are you deaf?" Coach snapped into her mic. "I said watch your left, not watch Singh. She's crushing you, get out of the corners."

"It's a square," he snarled.

Coach shook her head. "I can't watch."

I didn't agree; I couldn't take my eyes off it.

As nasty as the Rebels were, Corvus had plenty to prove for why they held the number one spot. They moved faster than the light could catch them, maneuvered between each other like a perfect braid; it was difficult to tell where the racer stopped and the bike began. Shifted or not, they were beasts.

Manson rode for Meredith. She dodged, swerving left around a column just as he pushed something to release bulbous spikes from his wheel. 

Rosalie didn't give him the chance to use them. She rammed her bike's front wheel into his back one and he flew right. She shoved herself against him to knock him into the side of a tunnel. The crash was deafening, his head cracking left. With no other protests, his body sprawled onto the concrete.

A yellow flag was called immediately for a foul, sending everyone in uproar of justified anger and unjustified relief. Wynter cursed.

"The refs are bullshit," she said. "They've done that to us twice now and they let them go."

"Head crack," I explained. "Technicality."

"What about the damn spikes?"

"Loophole." 

"Bullshit."

"Same thing."

Coach lifted her hand and called a time-out. She beckoned Corvus to the pit.

I watched Lee, who had been the only one of the Rebels to play civil for the entire match. He ignored the rest of the Rebels subs' roars of approval at their messy playing in favor of sidling up next to Baluyot. He pointed at Corvus in the pit, then at his own shoulder.

Edwards wasted no time. "Are you all stupid? Did a few months off take out every concept of racing from your heads?"

Corvus tore off their helmets, and I hissed in sympathy. Gashes, burns, and concrete cuts marred their skin with the yellowed bruising and red blood to show for it. Although if their faces said anything, they were relatively remorseless about it. 

"They're just trying to wear us down," Kane said. He wiped the blood dripping from a gash across his brow. Sweat gathered in his hair and upper lip. "We still have five minutes."

"In the entire match," Edwards said. "You're all playing like you can't bear to talk to each other."

"Their strategy is the same as last time," Meredith huffed. "They're gonna wear out our offense to rack up points in second half. We need to try and get in between them more."

"We need the refs to call their fucking fouls," Rosalie spat.

"They're not going to anytime soon," Diego laughed weakly. "They're a lot meaner than I remember."

"Let's snake," Zahir said, glancing at King. "It's the best method. I'll take Lee through the corridor at the three-fourths line. I think he's got a bad left shoulder."

I turned my head back to the Rebels. He patted his left shoulder, held his arm out. Baluyot stared at us. He cocked his head, and nodded. I thought of Manson's move on Rosalie, Jameson's constant swings at Kenzo.

Think diagonal.

"Right," I said.

No one paid me any mind at that, except for Meredith, who frowned. "What?" she said.

"Their front starboard," I said. The rest of Corvus glanced at me. "He can't out-maneuver. It's why Manson's bike is so over-modded. He can't overturn, he doesn't know how."

Being pitted against a wall was nothing new, it was inevitable in racing. Because of it, there were a thousand and four ways to turn out of such a trap. Manson didn't need the spikes. And Jameson didn't have a reason to take Kenzo out before he went for Kane or Zahir. Ford was fast, was calculated, but she had only earned a fourth of the points compared to Baluyot and Singh, who weren't even supposed to be heading points in the first place.

It was like a smokescreen dissipating.

"It's not their defense that's weak," I said. "It's their offense. Their defense is standing back to make it seem like it's them, but they're just cleaning up behind them." I craned my neck. "It looks like they're scoring the points, but neither of them know the basic maneuvers. It's a trick." I pointed at Lee and Baluyot. "They're trying to push you left, so they can trap you on the right."

They blinked at me. Rosalie said, "How do you know for sure?"

"Lee leans left. No one with a bad left shoulder would do anything to strain it more. He trusts his left side to catch him." I pointed at Manson. "He's never gone through a pole series. Ford's back wheel skidded when she tried. But their tails," I gestured at the three of them, from port tail to center tail to starboard tail, "haven't even flinched."

Corvus glanced at each other. Diego was smiling about something or other. A whistle sounded, calling sixty seconds until time-out was over.

Kane looked at me. "You want us to switch."

"I don't think they will first," I said.

"Switch?" Rosalie exclaimed. "Are you out of your mind?"

"They'll never expect it," I argued. "You, Kane, and Zahir will get rid of their offense easily, Zoe and Wynter can worry for points, and it gives you a gap of time of the tails chasing them before you can switch back."

"Switch back," she exhaled. "You want us to play coin flip with these people? There's five minutes."

I glanced to Coach. "It's just an idea."

Coach shook her head. "Absolutely not, not with five minutes on that clock. I appreciate the insight, Yun, but not the plan. If their tails are so strong, then defense needs to up the energy and cut them off from the offense further back. Offense needs to stop worrying about the people behind them and start racing with their heads straight. Got it? Got it." The buzzer sounded, beckoning the racers back on the track. "Let's go."

They grabbed their helmets, filing back out to the track. As they did, Kane looked between me and the Rebels, face unreadable. He headed down with Corvus. 

We watched them position themselves at the start line. But then Kane pointed at Rosalie, and gestured in front of him. I watched the lines rearrange themselves before us. Our fronts were tails in seconds. The Rebels looked between each other in silent question.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Edwards said. "King, what the hell are you doing?"

The ref shrugged that off, raising his flag high in the air. He brought it down like a knife cutting through bone.

A foul start meant the Rebels got a twenty-second head start, to which they were perfectly happy to take advantage of. They shot off like rockets, and I watched them like a hawk just to prove I hadn't imagined my theory. In my peripheral, I could see Coach doing the same.

Manson went for the log piles, clearing them quick and easy, just as Ford ducked under a low hanger, swerved around a pillar to the left. The chicanes came for them.

I watched sparks fly in Ford's wake. Manson took a ramp. Lee cleared it without a scratch in sight, Baluyot and Singh not far behind. Singh fell back, and slowed.

"You're right," Coach said. "The fronts are avoiding. But how do you know if Lee has a bad right or left shoulder?"

"Kane has a bad left," I explained. Coach sent me a significant look at that. "He does the same thing."

She blinked. She turned back to snap into her mic, "If you do a coin flip, I swear to God—"

Corvus shot off at the twenty-second mark and raced for high hell.

Zoe, Wynter, Diego, and Meredith zipped forward, dashing past and around the obstacles with ease, zig-zagging through the chicanes like breaking through water. Kenzo remained alongside Rosalie, Kane, and Zahir behind them, like waiting tigers waiting to pounce.

"What is this?" the announcer yelled. "It seems like Corvus has made a last-minute decision to switch their lines completely! This is not a move Corvus has ever executed before. What's their plan?"

The distance between Corvus and the Rebels began to shrink by milliseconds. Meredith headed forward for the fronts like a blazing, black comet. She broke through them in a blink. She rammed her wheel into Manson's.

Defense, per expectation, broke apart, slowing down to head after them. Baluyot smashed against Zoe, who swerved her wheel in a clean half-moon to crack against a nearby pole. It catapulted her against Baluyot, side by side, and she slid dangerously low to take him out from under. Baluyot's bike stuttered, screeched, and smashed its right side into the concrete wall.

Diego went for Lee like a madman, chasing him with inches between them as they raced for the tunnel. They entered, and we turned our gaze up to the screen to watch the action within.

"Are you sure about this?" Rosalie asked.

"No," I admitted, and held my breath.

Lee swerved his bike to the right, but his left arm gripped the side of the bike as he tilted nearly forty five degrees. Diego followed behind. Lee's left arm grappled the handlebar.

"How are we supposed to get his right side?" Diego yelled.

"Go upside down," I said.

"What?" they snapped.

"Use the circle," I urged. "Swing around and catch him on the right before he traps you in the left, he's counting on you to wait. You have to catch him before the tunnel closes."

"Oh, cobayo, your crazy bullshit better be right."

Diego turned his bike nose down to swing up the side of the tunnel. The crowd screamed as he went up, up, up, upside down. With a shuddering, bone-chilling sound, his front wheel came down the other end, and collided with the exposed metal tubing at the right side of Lee's bike in one perfect half-circle.

Lee's right hand took a blunt of the force and he went careening backwards. He flew right off the wall and skidded into the wall. When he crashed into the stone, his bike skidded away from him in a disaster of sparks and smoke. He didn't get back up.

The entire stadium thundered with approval, screams ricocheting off every corner of the stadium.

"Lee's out!" Diego called, hooting. "Someone take care of Singh, I'm done with my crazy shit."

"You not only switched lines, you switched sides?" Edwards yelled.

"Hey, never doubt us, Coach."

She pinched the space between her eyes, and sighed heavily.

Baluyot and Zoe were still neck and neck. His swings were intent on permanent damage, crushing into leather and metal wherever she dodged them. Her path began to waver. 

"Someone take out Singh," she said. "Baluyot won't hold."

"On it," Meredith replied.

She swung around. Singh was up on the wall behind Manson as he clumsily swerved his dilapidated body and bike through the track. A perfect, pathetic pair. 

"Starboard," we yelled.

"Starboard," she replied, and zipped forward.

Three minutes.

Singh spotted Meredith in seconds. She dived down to zoom for the bridge. Meredith followed on her heels. She raised her hands above her bars.

"What's she doing?" Coach asked.

"Something cool, hopefully," I said.

Meredith raced beside Singh until they were parallel. Singh swung wide and smashed her against the railings. They were running out of bridge. Singh got sick of her bike and swung her fist fast. But Meredith didn't bother to dodge it, and took the swing square to her shoulder.

She grabbed Singh's outstretched arm and swung them both clear over the side of the bridge. Meredith grasped her bike by the handlebar, yanking it onto its side as the wheels screamed bloody murder along the road, barely holding Meredith aloft.

Singh was less lucky.

She went flying over the Meredith in a perfect arch, nothing to hold her to the ground but Meredith. Her bike dived face-first into the concrete without anyone to hold onto it. With an unceremonious plunge, she dove down into the dark waters below.

"An incredibly close feat by Russo!" Nathan cried. "With a crash and fall that incredible, Singh is likely out for this half!"

Meredith hung from the bridge by nothing but her bike's handlebar and shaking grip. She used her other hand to pump a triumphant fist in the air. "I looked it up," she said. "Echo's right. No rules against throwing someone off a bridge."

"Russo," Diego said. "You're fucking awesome."

My heart sang adrenaline in my ears. I held my chest to take a deep breath. When my face hurt, I thought it from the thunder in my bones. But when I reached up, I felt a skin-splitting grin all over my face.

Two minutes.

"Offense, the real one," Edwards said. "Get on it. We've barely got a three-point lead. Rack it up, you've got two minutes."

Kane, Zahir, and Rosalie, with most of the Rebels' defense out now, took the opportunity to surge ahead. Manson and Ford were zipping through obstacles, banking on as many points as they could in the shrinking time they had left available. But Manson had been through too many hits to be anything better than clumsy, and Ford had used most of her energy in the first part of the half. 

Wynter and Zahir went for the two. Wynter knocked Manson into a pillar, then grabbed one of his flying limbs and yanking hard. Manson pressed something to activate a blue flame thruster emerging from the bike's back wheel, but Zahir was already swerving around to ram his front wheel into Manson's back one. Wynter cracked her back wheel against the nose. Manson's thruster sent him reeling in the other direction, right into a waiting log pile. In a dizzying, unenviable show, he crashed into the logs, and didn't get back up.

"Manson is down! A minute- thirty is left on the clock," Nathan said. "But only three points divide the two teams. It's too close to call yet, folks!"

Kane trailed Ford like a cat playing with a mouse. She swerved left. He gave her a second, then swerved after. She dodged for the ramp. He let her, then rammed his front wheel into her back one. It took several moves for me to realize what he was trying to trap her towards.

"He's gonna take her in the corridor," I said.

"What? How's that supposed to help our points?" Rosalie asked.

"It's a right-adjacent corridor," I explained, pointing at the three fourths one. "He's counting on her panic."

Per my assumption, they disappeared inside.

Fifty seconds.

We looked to the screen. Both of our points began to rise as Kane and her went left, right, left, right, right, right, left.

My fists clenched. Heat beaded on my skin as I didn't dare to breathe.

A spark appeared as one of Ford's handlebars skimmed a pillar. Just one. But Kane didn't hesitate.

He yanked his bike up and smashed her into the lefthand pillar, trapping her at a diagonal. Kane pushed her so far down that she began to circle around it, her wheels scalding concrete in a whirlpool. When he let her go, he jerked his bike right, and escaped into the depths of the corridor. Ford, with nowhere to escape and a second too late to figure out a better maneuver, went crashing into the wall in a starburst collision. Her bike fell to the ground with her. 

Kane barely missed a beat. He was a black bullet, a flying crow, his bike and him a knife slicing in and out of the wind as he raced through the corridor's innards. When he came out the other side without a single to spark to bring him down, the crowd roared him on towards the finish line. 

I pushed my palm to my chest and reminded myself to breathe.

Ten seconds.

Corvus sped up like their lives depended on it. It was debatable if the sensors could even pick them up.. Not even light itself could hold a match to their momentum. 

Seven seconds.

Corvus crossed the finish line with triumphant fists. Kane wasn't far behind. I couldn't take my eyes off him. Doing so would mean I'd miss a beat too many. But a blurring shape was unfamiliar and the time was so slim it was imperceptible, and I forced myself to turn my head.

So did Kane.

But where I saw Baluyot, Kane missed.

It was a fatal blow. The center tail smashed into Kane, his enormous body and bike so heavy I swore parts of both vehicles broke in the process. There was nothing for Kane, not gravity or space, for him to rely on. He crashed into the wall, shoulder-first, and crumbled to the ground. His bike skidded away from him as the final second of the match ticked into oblivion. 

The buzzer sounded was a screaming demon.

Baluyot took off his helmet, and grinned behind him. K.O.

"King!" Edwards yelled. 

Kane held himself up with his right hand, his left arm wrapped around his torso. My chest seized.

"Corvus takes the victory on this match, but at a cost as King seems incapacitated," Nathan said over the loudspeaker. The crowd was a confused mixture of concern and disappointment and excitement all at once, screams of success and shouts of anger mixing into a buzzing background.

Corvus shucked off their helmets and ran for Kane. I cursed. We descended from the canopy. Ramos was already pushing past people to get to him when we got on the track. Kane had pulled himself to sit up, his arm still wrapped around himself. 

Zahir bent down to yank off his helmet. Ramos knelt down. "Kane?" Ramos said, lifting his head. "Kane, can you hear me?"

"Baluyot was right behind him," Wynter whispered. "How did he not see him?"

The gash over Kane's brow had split too far down to the corner of his eye. Concrete burned off his cheekbone, his temple, angry and crimson. He turned his head to spit out a mouthful of blood by Meredith's feet. His left arm shook.

It was, at best, a rookie mistake. Something Baluyot shouldn't have even counted on with someone as good as Kane. Yet, he tried it, and Kane had fell for it. I thought of Baluyot striking Kane in his peripheral. I thought of his rings.

He wheezed, "Get me off the track."

No one questioned it. Zahir hooked an arm under his body and lifted him to his feet, Diego taking the other side. They helped him limp towards the exit tunnel. I watched him from where I'd been frozen in place as they all filed out, the crowd drowning into nothingness around me, the victory no longer as sweet on my tongue.

How did he not see him?

"Hey."

I turned around.

Baluyot stood, helmet under his arm, staring at me with the same type of look you'd give a misbehaving pet. He said, "You lost?"

I stared. I said, "What?"

"No fans on the track," he said, and flicked his wrist to the exit. "We can sign something for you later, though."

More staring. "I'm not a fan."

Baluyot glanced from me to the tunnel Corvus had disappeared down. His sneer was all teeth. "Are you with the crows?" he asked, then did a once-over. "Are they babysitting you?"

Heat was furious and immediate in my veins. I clenched my fists. I turned on my heel. "Sorry."

"Don't tell me King is recruiting another lap dog for himself," he scoffed, and I halted in my tracks. "Guess he wants plenty of space to cower. Some things never change."

Something twisted in my gut, black and viscous. I turned back around with a glower.

"I'm not a dog," I snarled. 

"Hey, it's a joke," he assured. "What's wrong, kid? Can't take a joke?"

"Not a kid. And not a dog. And no one's cowering," I snapped. 

Baluyot cocked his head to the side. "No," he acquiesced. "Suppose not." He held out his hand. "I just came to tell you good match."

I looked from his hand to him and back again. I took a step back. 

"Wasn't my match," I said.

I headed out the tunnel.

I tried not to look back at the blinking CORVUS VICTORY on the scoreboard, glowing for all the world to see.

The infirmary was a large white nothingness in the backends of the stadium, holding several beds and cabinets full of medical equipment alongside socially-acceptable chemical agents under flares of fluorescent light. Even walking in unscathed, my heart was in my throat.

The silence made it look like a slaughterhouse.

Kane was seated on a table, stripped of his gear to leave his torso in nothing but blood, bruises, and sweat. Kenzo and Rosalie stood at another table, pasting bandages over their cheeks and knuckles. The rest of Corvus had scattered themselves between the two, leaving drops of blood on their skin and gear, some injuries worth smiling through, and others fighting for breath. I had half a mind to ask if they were okay. But looking at the scene, it felt mocking.

Diego was mid-conversation with Corvus as Edwards and Ramos tended to Kane. He clasped his hands together with a hum.

"But," he said pointedly, "wasn't that fucking cool?"

"I'll kill you," Rosalie snapped. "I'll strangle you in your sleep."

"It was pretty cool," Zahir admitted as he wrapped his bicep in white bandages. "It was stupid. But it was cool."

"Let's talk about the stupid part," Rosalie said. "Because it was fucking stupid."

"Which part?" Diego asked.

"All of it. For Christ's sake, playing coin flip in the final five minutes of the match? Are we street racers? Gang affiliates, then. Let's race backwards on our heads next."

"I bet Yun has an idea for that," Diego quipped.

I said, "I'll work on it."

They all glanced at me. Meredith's shoulders eased. "Where were you?" she asked.

I hesitated. "Bathroom," I lied. "You all look terrible."

"Twenty one million dollars worth of terrible," Diego argued. 

"Six million," Rosalie corrected, and side-eyed Zahir. "Seeing as we bet the majority. Who's the finance major here again? You're gonna send us all to the cash registers of McDonald's."

"It's ethical," he argued.

"My point exactly."

"Maybe the bathroom wasn't so bad," I muttered.

Kenzo turned his eyes to Kane and said, "How's it?"

Kane had been deathly quiet, and taking a good look at him, it was easy to see why. He'd taken off his armor and undershirt, his jacket discarded next to him, the brutality of the race plastered over his bare torso and highlighted in white, fluorescent light. He was a mess of sharp bones and corded muscle, his blue veins made for butterfly needles and his thin skin made for vellum paper. Something that resembled a burn on the verge of healing marred his inner forearm, but it was imperceptible under the concrete burns and splitting gashes. Blood drew itself out in rivulets, port wine stains, broken vessels. But it was all clouded over in a dark, charcoal tattoo shaped like a supernova frozen mid-explosion, the threads coiling around his stomach, crawling up his chest, devouring his shoulder. The lightning strike ended in the space below his Adam's apple. The light reflected off its cells, almost metallic.

I didn't know if I stared out of shock or sympathy or curiosity or all three. Baluyot hadn't left my head, not his move, and not his words. The air was thick with something unsaid.

"It's all right," Kane assured. "It was my fault. I should've seen him."

"I told you about this shoulder," Ramos said. She withdrew KT tape, lidocaine patches, and a flurry of bandages. She began a practiced routine in pasting them in there respective places. It made me think of Lee as he pointed to his own shoulder. "I told you to be careful."

"We should've kept Zoe on him, it's our fault," Rosalie sighed. "I knew switching would leave someone too open."

"It's done," Kane sighed. "We did it. It's my fault, I miscalculated."

"What did he say to you?" Diego asked.

"Nothing."

"What did he say?" Rosalie demanded, her tone fraying. She hopped off the table to head for Kane. "What did he tell you before the race restarted?"

Kane winced as Ramos lifted his arm. "It doesn't matter." 

She narrowed her eyes. When she spoke again, I nearly lost all balance at hearing her voice give way to French. "You always let them do this," she hissed. "You let them fuck with you, and get in your head, and you say it doesn't matter but you could've been permanently injured. They're not your friends."

"I didn't hear it." The French was even more foreign from him, and nausea overtook me with a chokehold. I tried to breathe. "It was my fault, I got too hasty with Ford, it had nothing to do with whatever he said. It's not about that."

"You let this happen to yourself over and over again," Rosalie implored. "If Poppy were here, she'd—"

"Rosalie." Meredith got to her feet, frowning at her. "That's enough."

The name had sent a frost over the entire room, all mirth stripped away from Corvus's faces. Wynter, Zoe, and I looked between the racers, waiting for an explanation. But there was only the frigid darkness on their expressions. Rosalie pursed her lips. She sighed, and turned on her heel. The door closed behind her without another word.

Edwards rubbed at her eyes. She let out a heavy breath. "This team shortens my life every day," she muttered. She clasped her hands together. "All issues aside, I wanna say congrats on your win, and to the rookies' first match," she said, nodding to Zoe and Wynter. She eyed me. "I'd say thank you for your ideas, but frankly, I don't know whether to thank you or kick you for it. But, you helped, so I'll thank you for that."

Wynter ruffled my hair. "Can't just sit there and look pretty, huh?"

"I have hope," I promised.

Edwards gestured out the door. "Come on. Before you bleed all over this tile. It's gonna be a long drive back to Avaldi, we'll meet you in the van. Cruz, drop that peroxide or I'll pour it on your head and you and Rosalie can be matching."

He gave her a horrified look and quickly shoved the peroxide back into Ramos's bag. Zahir pushed him forward, and Corvus filed out to head for the car. 

Edwards paused when I didn't move. She raised a brow, then said, "If Baluyot gave you trouble..."

"It's nothing," I assured. "I'll meet you at the van."

She looked unconvinced, but left anyway, maybe too tired to pry. I turned back to spot Ramos smoothing the last of the KT tape over Kane's bicep. She patted his wrist. "Go easy on it, let it breathe," she said, packing up her things. "And be careful. Please?"

Kane's look was almost sympathetic. "Yes."

Ramos nodded. I let her pass without sparing her a glance. It left no one but Kane and I in the infirmary.

Kane grabbed his shirt to tentatively pull over his body. He pushed himself off the table. "Your idea, for the match," he said slowly. 

"Crazy?" I asked.

"Yes," he agreed. "But, it worked." He glanced at me. "Thanks."

I blinked. "Don't thank me," I said. "It's what landed you in here."

"With six million dollars to show for it." Kane gave a one-shouldered shrug. "It's the game."

I drummed my fingers on my hip. The air had gained an air of something metallic. I said, "How do you know Baluyot?" Kane paused. He turned around, eyes narrowed. I clarified, "He seems to know you. At the very least, acquainted. So, how do you know him?"

Kane fiddled with his rings. He turned back to haul his jacket over his shoulders. "We knew each other in high school. We're not friends."

"He thinks so."

"No, he doesn't. Trust me. Did you talk to him?"

"He talked to me."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing nice."

"And you said?"

"Something nicer than him."

Kane sighed, rubbing his temples. He grabbed his bag with his good arm. "I don't even want to know," he murmured. "As long as you stay out of the press."

No one wanted that more than me. I wanted to ask about high school, about Poppy, about who she was and had become, but it was too much Kane knew I knew Korean, and the other languages would only dig a deeper hole for me to drop down. 

When he sidled up beside me, the distinct scent of metal wafted from his skin, transitional and silvery. I grimaced, turning my nose away. I said, "Did you really like my play?"

Kane raised a brow. "I never said I liked it," he argued. The moonlight was forgiving, the blood faint and colorless, his skin paler and without bruises. The tattoo had become titanium at its edges. "I just said it worked."

"But you implemented it. You know, if someone else saw that, they'd say you liked it."

"You're delusional," he concluded. 

"Must be why it's easier to talk to you right now."

"Are you saying it's usually not?"

"For your sake, I hope that's rhetorical."

Kane let out a sharp breath, and it only occurred to me later it was a laugh. He shook his head. "You didn't even race and you've got a concussion."

"Guess I better race to make it justified."

Kane eyed me. We stopped in front of the exit. I thought of Poppy, the name sharp and jagged, frigid and foreign. But Kane was too far and too strange for me to ask, our peace too delicate to skate on. I held my tongue. I waited.

"Guess you better," he admitted. He held up a hand at my gawking. "When you're ready, don't get in your head about it."

"My plan worked," I argued.

"Your plan was crazy," he argued. 

"But it worked."

Kane turned on his heel. "Make sure it works again, then."

I watched him walk into the moonlight and shadows, the scent of metal and silver following him as he went. The world shifted, pieces fragmenting and rearranging. It came into something almost focused.

First victory down.

"Ppalli gaja," Kane called. "It starts all over again next week."

A year's worth left to go.

____________________

7:09 PM - Unknown Number

Hey Ghost
Nice game
Someone forgot their own browser password it seems !?!?!
So I thought I'd congratulate you formally on that win of yours omg what a match
They always put on a show
Speaking of
Let's talk about doing another yeah?

(ty for reading :D game season has begun. the little star in the corner is grateful for you! I wrote this chapter a bit hurriedly so there's likely many errors, please excuse them if you come across them, haha)