#dear god. this is a trial of my second hand embarrassment tolerance

[a-sketchy]

stop saying “our plan” i refuse to take any ownership of this

i don’t want to say that. i don’t wanna say any of that. can i go home

[kaz3313]

Meeting with the Opposition

Chapter Two; Chapter One is below (previous link wasn't working) Chapter 3 is in the makings

@artthingymabob is who inspired me!

@dystopianinterstellar @azirafuck (also ask if youd like to be on the tag list!)

I honestly thought this would be a one off thing but oopsie daisy I got inspiration big time! Hope everyone enjoys 😊 Reblogs super appreciated

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  Azriphale doesn't mean to be late yet here he is running through a crowded sidewalk people giving him nasty sideways glances. He isn't technically late but he isn't early; everyone in Heaven is slightly early as the term "fashionably late" was made by a demon and no angel wants to be associated with one of those. Well besides two; one of which is dubbed a traitor and the other is desperately weaving through crowds and could be considered a hypocrite if anyone is to find out why.

  The reason he is running late is because of Heaven; an angel gone off the deep end. They created quite a ruckus- shouting threats at everyone, causing damage to walls, and pulling up several plants from a garden. It was a fit not tolerated in Heaven and so it ended with them being locked in a room until further notice. He being the one to find an unoccupied room as well as having to catch them. Aziraphale is almost positive they'd have to put them through a trial (and he'd have to organize it) but when is still in the unforeseeable future. Even if he does calm down in that time period they is no possible way of getting out of a punishment.

   The angel arrives just on time but his face falls at the sight of the demon, Crowely, has already nabbed a table. An odd feeling, that isn't embarrassing, arises in him at the thought of the demon sitting at the table, awaiting his arrival. An odd tingly half familiar feeling he shoves down while approaching the demon in wait.

   "I would usually apologize for being late but l, since you are a demon and I don't dare say sorry to your kind, I won't," Azriphale states sitting down not daring to make eye contact with the other.

   "You aren't late, really you're perfectly on time. But our kind don't take well to apologies anyhow; anyone who tries we throw into the hell hound pit and bet on how long they will last," Crowely says and Azriphale looks up; the most horrific look plastered on his face. "I'm joking! I'm joking! Thought a being from Heaven could take a joke!" He lets out a hearty chuckle and Azriphale gives a forced smile in return.

  Crowely is only half-way being truthful in this, as he is with most things, as demons tend to throw each other in hell hound cages all the time. The difference being from what he said is that apologies don't cause such a reaction; it really is just a sporadic action done whenever something mildly inconvenient but thoroughly irritating happens. He doesn't explain the logistics though as he can clearly see the angel is troubled.

   Why he cares is a completely different story that Crowley will rather not want to think about. If he did try to explain though the conversation that followed would contain lots of half truths, hissing, stuttering, made up words (which if you mention that they are made up he will snarkily reply with "well all languages are made up) and end with someone getting stabbed in a major artery. So it's best to leave him be with his unusual consideration.

  "I suppose we should get right on to business since the jokes have ceased?" 'And proven to be unfunny' but Azriphale only adds that on in silence. He doesn't want to push any buttons he doesn't have to today.

  "Thinking 'bout ordering drinks first; Hell has been a bitch like usual and I've needed something to take my mind off it. So drinks first, work talk after," 

  "Drinks don't sound half bad," He momentarily massages his temples before picking up the drink menu "With no war I'm assuming Hell's been rowdy?"

  "Rowdy is a group of bratty teens whose equally bratty parents are going out for a month. Hell is a barnyard that has no food,drink, or cages and several exotic animals. Everyone is ravenous. Demons are thirsting for bloodshed so much we've had to bust several groups trying to form secret strikes to Heaven that would not only fail miserably but be embarrassing to see play out. One guy thought he could do a solo mission- and I have little respect for your army but I'm also not stupid and would send a single low ranking demon against God's army," Crowley rants and if not for the waitress' arrival he would've gone on a tangent. He orders the drinks flatly and expects Azriphale to follow suit immediately.

  The angel however is smiling at him which led to a flick of rage ignite. What had he to smile about? That hell was hellish and chaotic? He should know that just because everything is a shit-show they were not to be reckoned with. 

  "Same wine as his, dear," Azriphale addresses to the waitress and she smiles politely before heading back to the kitchen. "I find it amusing; the angels above are getting antsy themselves. Today actually one of them was found flinging a sword around wildly yelling about how they would deliver "divine justice" to anyone in their path. Of course angels aren't as cruel as demons but...the war not happening has thrown everyone off course. Even the most mild mannered".

  That's why he was smiling- a light weight lifts off Crowley's shoulders. "This is exactly why the two traitors need to be dealt with soon- I feel it would bring ease to everyone. Including, the eventual, second Armageddon," The waitress returns a smile of ignorance on her face. She didn't understand how weeks ago she should've perished nor does she know what these "fine" gentlemen are discussing. All she knows is what wine and food they order and all she hopes is that they give her a significant tip.

  "No doubt; those trouble makers will be given proper justice," Azriphale says picking up his glass of Chardonnay.

  "And no mercy," Crowely adds on, raising his own glass "Toast for the second Armageddon that-is-hopefully-soon-to-come, Angel?"

   "To a successful second apocalypse!" The two clink glasses both wearing uncharacteristic smiles and having found a new sense of determination.

  "Ssso you're ssaying?" Crowely slurs out, its blurred whether alcohol or his snake side were responsible for his long s'. Many drinks are shared between the two and many more were to come. Business is attempting to be addressed but as neither has the gull, or maybe the relaxation is a tad addictive, to sober up halfway thought up plans were being discovered.

   "I say that- well I think anyway. Why not just, we'll just watch the two! Eventually they'll bl-blab out something of importance! How they- how they gone- they gone to go be naive,"

 "Native, you ssstupid Angel,"

   "Oh, same difference! It doesn't matter exact terminology. All that matters is...well is the- the plan," Azriphale waves his hands around before returning to his empty glass. Instead of flagging down the waitress, they had the poor girl running back and forth like mad, he flicks his fingers and both glasses fill up. Crowley opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it and sips the wine. "Whether its the Great Plan or Ineffable Plan or might as well be Plan B, I really don't care. We just need a plan,"

   "We have our plan," Crowley says with a slight huff.

   "Our plan?" The words our, referring to him and Crowely feel so foreign, scandalous even, but fit on his tongue like a well tailored outfit.

  "Yeah- Watch Gabriel and Beelzebub until they fuck up again. Y'know feel too safe let some information slip. Maybe we'll learn a weakness or two-whatever. And once we know all the right sstuff we crush them!" Crowley slams his fist on the table to reiterate his point.

  "Our plan," Azriphale still echoes quietly as if it is a secret to keep. Which in a way it is; if the other Archangels knew what he's up too, even under the sake of serving retribution, he could get in big trouble. Consorting with Demons led to well... he looks up at Crowley whom he's had two meetings with so far and more to come...apparently it led to professionals getting involved to track you down to find your weaknesses.

  Sure maybe the other Angels wouldn't understand and take what he's doing a completely wrong way but he is doing what is good! Surely if he wasn't God would punish him, right?

  "I'd say let's get dessssert before we head out our separate ways, eh?" Crowely says bringing the fretting Angel out of his worries (or at least creating a temporary distraction from them).

  "Dessert sounds lovely. I heard the creme brulee is to die for,".

[ikonislife]

Little One.

-Jinhwan x Reader

-Fluff, parent au, mentions of sex

Being the eldest to 6 rowdy boys count as parenting right? Jinhwan questions himself as he stares wide eyes at the piece of black and white paper you had just handed him. His brain had suddenly decided to take a vacation leaving your poor man singing a high pitch wheeze that honestly sounds a lot like a dying cat choking on a hair ball.

"Baby... Husband? Jinhwanie? Mr. Kim?" You had half expected him to faint or scream to the God above but this stone statue vacated of a soul in place of your husband had left you utterly confuse. Shit... you thought. What if, what if your worst fear had finally come true... He didn't want the baby.

"Is this what I think it is? Is it just me or did you just said there's a 4 weeks old wee little peanut baby in your belly." Eyes surveying your face for any sign that this was some elaborated prank you pulled, a stunt to get back at him for pushing you into the pool fully clothed not too long ago at Bobby’s house warming party... But alas, all he could fine was solemn. Jinhwan chuckles dryly, a bit like a mad man talking to the air and his spirit floating about the room rather than directing the questions at you.

"I- yea..." you sigh dejectedly, your nightmare had truly become reality because why else would he be in this state of shock, of disbelief when you had been “practicing” making baby for as long as, no even way before he had called you girlfriend. How would you do it without jinhwan, does all this mean a divorce is imminent? Eyes no longer on him, you stare at your lap, finger fidgeting out of sorrow and anxiety. What would you do without him. for so long it’s just you and him against the world... Could you really handle this world alone, single with a baby in your arms? You let yourself sink further into the couch, doing your all to hold back the tear threatening to spill.

"Aww, baby girl. Was this what had been stressing you out do much? Come here, sweetheart." Jinhwan's arms already around your shivering body even before the sentence was over, hot kisses pressing delicately on your features and it seemed his soul had finally pulled itself together judging by that bright smile on his lips. "You've been picking at your nail again, haven't you?" His hands prying your clasped ones apart, finger smoothing over the redden and frayed skin around your chipped colored nails before a soothing kiss chases the discomfort away.

"Yea... are you angry? I'm sorry." Face digging deep in the crook of his neck, your heart revels in the soft passing of his gentle hand on your back and the tight hold he has around your waist. 

"Why would I be angry?" Befuddlement evident across his handsome features, eyes squinting in hope of deciphering your strange question. Why would he be angry, you had just told him the best news ever yet your expression so pained then revelation hits him like a freight train.   "Wait the minute... Oh my Lord, did you think I don't want our little peanut? No, baby. Don't think that." He near shriek when your words and action finally registered in his euphoric brain. “Why would you think of something so awful. You and the little one are so important to me, how could I not want either of you.” His words brought out the tears you had been trying so hard to suppress. You let all the pent up emotion go, sobbing into his chest. Jinhwan shushes your whimper with words of love and reassurance, “I will never, ever leave you or our baby. My wife is so silly.”

“I- you just frozed when I handed you the ultrasound. You went JPEG on me! I thought you didn’t want the baby or me anymore... It’s not like we’ve ever really talked about babies, I just thought it’s not time yet...” You huff out the sentence, ending it with a wail of relief but it sounded more like a dying whale if Jinhwan has to be truthful. Nevertheless, it made him smile seeing you all pouty and clingy.

“Never! I froze because I couldn’t process what you were telling me. I literally felt like I had an out of body experience. My ghost was dancing around watching me sit here like a dumb ass staring at you.” He pulls you even closer to his chest, fingers threading through your hair doing his best to calm you down with the rocking of his body. “I love you, wifey. I think you just gave me the best present in the world, I don’t know how I’m gonna ever top that. You win best spouse in this relationship.” No words could express how over the moon your man is feeling, he’s a father, a freaking father to a real baby for god’s sake. “When did you find out?” He questions, the picture of your tiny baby clutching tight in his hand as he stares in a happy stupor.

“I was late so I took a test a week ago, but I didn’t want to say anything till I was 100% certain. It was so hard hiding it with you constantly checking up on why I was so upset. I’m so sorry, now I wish I had told you sooner.” Pressing a soft kiss onto his neck, your brain could finally revel in the happy news - you’re expecting a child, with the best husband in the world, how freaking awesome is that! A dumbstruck smile on your lips as you snuggle closer to your husband, whom you dare say even more intoxicated in this joyous occasion than you are. Certainly there’ll be trial and tribulation to come in his future but for now, he’ll settle for that light buzz he got from being so blessed, from having you and your baby in his arms. 

Tour had always been grueling but perhaps it had always been a bit easier when Jinhwan didn’t have anyone at home waiting for him. It used to be a blur of stumbling in and out of the dorm to pack, a quiet ride to the airport then just random shenanigans with his brothers while waiting for the flight. Sure he got to travel places, and eat foods the next ordinary Joe might not get the chance to but the long hour of practice and insane cycle of rehearsal than stage enervated whatever energy Jinhwan got to properly enjoy the rare day off he get to wander the city. Then before he knew it, it was back to the plane for another long haul home - jet lagged and exhausted.

Then like a little miracle, you crashed into his life like a little ray of sunshine he didn’t know he needed, lightening up his days just a bit more with your silliness, laughter, and the adorable little comments about everything and anything. His heart ache to part way with you even if it’s just temporarily yet the trip itself so much more tolerable knowing in the privacy of his hotel room, he had someone to vent to and laugh with about how his day had been. Late nights when he’s worn to the bones were no longer dull because he could always count on you being a video call away, waiting to lift his mood. No longer were he sleeping endlessly in his hotel room nor eat just for the sake of eating. He began to enjoy the little things in life, getting an ice cream down the street or just a walk with the other boys. Jinhwan found himself bookmarking restaurants and jotting down names of attractions, letting his imagination ran wild as he think of the gleams of excitement in your eyes when he can finally bring you to the places he loves most. Best of all, he finally had someone to share his interests and disinterest without having to worry about being embarrass. At the end of it all, he knew once he returns home, it wouldn’t be to an empty bed and the same faces he had seen all tour long. He loves his band brothers but once in awhile, Jinhwan just needed a change and you were exactly that for him. The way you danced in elation when he finally returned home after the first time paring way for a 3 weeks tour was unlike any experience he had before. You had cried for nearly 10 minutes out of missing him and finally getting to hold him again, he couldn’t say he was any better clinging onto you for the rest of that week.

With the little Peanut growing bigger everyday, Jinhwan finds it hard to even leave the house to practice or record let alone going on a long tour. It was harder and harder for him to leave you and the bump at home, even with Hanbin nagging his ears off every day to go do his job, anything at all other than adoring his baby and wife. The second work was done, he’d bolt straight home, never mind the dinner or the occasional night out drinking with the team, all Jinhwan wants was to be home singing to the Peanut and holding you close before all three of you falling asleep. 

“Honey, you gotta get going... Hanbin is going to nag my ears off again if you’re late. Kim Jinhwan! I know you heard me.” You scream from the kitchen, throat sore from the half hour long wake up call he had you do on this morning, feigning ignorant and refusing to budge an inch.

“WHAT?! that little brat called you? He nagged at you? Uh uh, he’s gonna get it today.” Poor Hanbin, by the way your dear husband putting so much emphasis on the way he enunciated “nagged”, someone is about to get a spanking or at the very least pester till he cry of frustration. 

“Seriously, of all the things I said, that’s all you caught? You’re late, Mr. Kim. Get, before Peanut and I kick you out of the house.” Trudging over with his duffle bag in hands, you almost faint from the ear piercing scream Jinhwan let out accompanies by the shock spreading over his face. 

“Mrs. Kim, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Drop that. DROP IT!!” Jinhwan rushes over, bag yanked away from your hand before carelessly landing across the room. Jinhwan bending over, pressing light kisses on your tiny bump before pressing his whole face onto it. With arms tightening around your waist, he peers back at your cold expression completely done with his antics, sharp eyes glaring up only got sharper when he saw the absolutely nonchalant expression on your face.

“Your mama never listen to me, Peanut. Do you see what I have to put up with? Shaking my head, I told her heavy lifting isn’t good for you but she did it anyways.” Goodness, the sass in your smol man. Kneeling on the floor, Jinhwan coos at the baby that was no longer peanut sized but nevertheless the endearing nickname remained. 

“You did not just say ‘shaking my head’ out loud. Seriously, baby, the bag wasn’t even that heavy. you have like 3 shirts in there. You worry too much.” Pulling him off the floor and into your arms, you exchange a sweet chaste kiss spending the last few minutes before parting way just gazing at each other. How lucky are you to be with someone so wonderful, swaying to the music only you two seem to be able to hear... well, make that three.

The world forgotten, Jinhwan lets himself get lost in your smile and the way your eyes sparkle so brightly with love even if you keep insisting that somehow you’ve turned into a rag doll after a hurricane. Finger tracing out the line of your face delicately, he thought of those single days when this seemed so impossible, to have a loving family. Then he thought of those days where shy kisses being peppered on the first few dates and feeling the force of thousands butterflies raging in his stomach. Sure your relationship with him had started out ass backward after foolishly sleeping with each other, result of a fun night with a few too many drinks. Boundaries were gone even before they were established yet after all the difficulties for you both to acknowledge you had feelings for each other, it just felt like innocent first love and first kiss all over again.

After all this times, after all the late night of cradling your worn out body in his arms while you cried on the bathroom floor from the sheer aching of morning sickness, even after all the random outburst of fury from not having enough nutella and cheetos in the house resulting in a grumpy Jinhwan braving the cold 3AM street, you still is the best woman in the world in his eyes. He hates so much when you’d whine that you’re no longer as pretty or couldn’t compete against the other wives in his friend group because Jinhwan honestly couldn’t see how. You’ve only gotten more stunning, ravishingly, astronomically prettier since Peanut decided to grace you both with his or her present.

“I love you so much, you know that baby? I only want the best for you and the little one.” Jinhwan could feel the tear threatening to spill now, it was once again like the first time leaving on tour after claiming each other hearts all those years ago. He just didn’t want to leave, simply couldn’t.

“I know. We’ll be okay, I promise.” Your hand unknowingly travels to smooth over the tiny one, a reassuring smile on your lips chasing his own to wash away the worries on his face. 

He might seems cheeky and low key sassier than Junhoe but he’s the best man you’ve ever met. The past few months hadn’t been easy and you weren’t the best version of yourself with the constant hormonal mood swing but he took it all with grace and not a peep of complaint. 

“I just wish the appointment wasn’t when I’m oversea. I hate the thought of you being alone... I’m so sorry, honey. I-I just, I just want to be here. I feel like I’m not doing my job.” 

“But I’m not alone. I have you and I have Peanut. It’s just one appointment, baby. there’re plenty more, I’m sure of that.” Your suspicion was on the dot, Jinhwan had been lagging on packing and far more brooding over the tour because he somehow thought he’s not being a good dad by leaving you and your baby. Lips locking once more, your heart ache now that you had a glimpse of his concerned heart. You want so badly to tag along but it’d just be a distraction, and you have your own life to worry about. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll call you as soon as they get the goop off of Peanut. Plus, our moms will be there. Yeah?”

“Yea...” He replies half heartedly, sadness lingering still.

“Smile for me. Come on, let me see that fairy smile.” He forces a smile but as seconds tick by, it turns into a small genuine giggle when you poke and prod at his side. “There we go.” Your fun cut short by the nagging ringtone you had assigned to Hanbin’s number. “That should be the van. I’ll see you in a week, okay love?” Jinhwan nods before letting a lingering kiss sends him off, but not before a few soft ones on your belly.

It wasn’t until Jinhwan had sent you one last goodbye text before boarding that you let your emotion run wild - crying because you miss him, then getting angry at yourself for being so dependent. The moment he found out you were expecting, you need not lift a finger. Honestly, you were sure the queen isn’t getting treatment this good, and you doubt any servant would be as doting and adoring  the way your husband is. With him gone, every little task just seemed so impossible until you just gave up and nap. Night time is even worse without his sweet singing lulling you and baby to sleep, nor was his warmth there to keep you toasty and comfortable all night long. 

With much struggle, the big day had finally arrived, the day that had Jinhwan at the edge of his seat all month long. You awaken to 20 messages from your husband and the boys alike, ranging from just incoherent keyboard smash to hyperventilating in text form. 

With Jinhwan being the first to get married in the group, no one is more excited for a new member of the iKon family than the rest of the boys, each showing their affection in their own way, their very own extra way if you might add. Donghyuk had claimed the spot of best uncle, declaring his love for Peanut with endless gifts, even tagging along to parenting class whenever Jinhwan couldn’t. Vying for the same title, Yunhyeong had done all the research he could, perhaps even more prepared than either you nor Jinhwan is at this whole parenting thing. At one point, the old YunDong ship had literally fought each other till near sinking because they both claimed to be the best. Little did they know, uncle Chanwoo had solidified his standing with pampering you with as much food as he could, even going as far as studying up on what food will be good for the baby, always on the look out for easier way for you to be healthy without giving up too much freedom. As expected of your food buddy after all, only he’d be worry about you having alternative to give up your favorite food in avoidance of gestational diabetes. He might be a child but for sure he’ll one day be one of  the best father there ever existed one day. Hanbin had taken on the role of mother hen, nagging you to sleep, nagging you to eat, then nags you the whole way to your doctor appointment. You’re no longer allowed to be near a microwave, nor trekking across the parking lot alone without one of the boys accompanying. Strange enough, Junhoe whom usually has no part of Hanbin’s antic had also turned into a overly paranoid freak over every little thing, playing into Hanbin’s safeguard persona. Every whimper, every second your face contorted in the sheer aching of accommodating two lives in one body, He’d be right there asking all the right question and offering all the solution he could. Bobby although not taking the route of diving into books and parenting class, he was all hands on deck the moment you had announced a makeover for your house. Everything from the cot to the paint on the wall, Bobby did it himself not trusting an outsider to be handling the essentials that will nurse iKon’s “precious cargo” as he fondly refer to Peanut with that cheeky bunny smile of his.

Pushing the delightfulness of your wonderful brothers in law to the side, worrisome plaguing your mind as your car racing down the familiar streets. You didn’t hate going to the hospital without Jinhwan, you know just how hard he works for a better future for your little growing family so your heart long accepted there will be times where he won’t be there to hold your hands. Yet there’s still a lingering sadness as you walk by the waiting room, watching as women of all ages snuggling close to their significant others, their little bump happily resting in between their bodies. 

“He’ll be home soon, Y/n. Don’t worry!” Your mom speaks up never once look up from filling out the many forms prepping for your future delivery, no doubt reading your worries without even needing to face you. All the while your mother in law had already got an embrace around your shoulders, pulling you close with a reassuring smile. This must be what they called mother intuition, they always seem to know what’s wrong and what’s going on long before you feel the need to voice your concerns.

“I know, mom. Just, he really wanted to be here...” Sadden smiles shared among the two women you have so much respect for, they watch with bated breath as the familiar black and white picture playing on the small screen.

Half an hour comes and goes in a flash as the doctor wiping away the goo smeared over on your belly, eagerness and joy bubbling near the surface you couldn’t stop smiling and neither could your moms. 

“Mom.” You call out but they were already both waving you off, shoving your phone back into your hands, knowing smiles on their lips.

“Don’t worry, we’ll finish up here.”

Not a second to waste, you hastily, as hastily as a 4 months pregnant woman wadding like a duck swallowed a planet would allowed, rush toward the exit, elation no longer contain as you squeal in happiness. One ring then two, you’ve never feel so impatient before waiting for Jinhwan to pick up as your feet dance in one spot.

“BABY! YOU FINISHED, HOW’S PEANUT, HOW’RE YOU, WHAT’D THE DOC SAID?” No time for greeting, your husband near screamed your ears off the second your “hello” sounded off in his speaker. Behind his overexcited voice, a  ruckus of overlapping calls for your name and muddled up questions that sounds more of some dead language than anything that’d make sense. A cuss left your husband lips before you could hear the leader’s voice booming out, simmering down the commotion.

“So, baby is fine. She’s super healthy... Just a bit of a brat. Sigh, she’s only four months old but already taking after her dad, being a pain in the butt for mommy. I guess she’ll be daddy’s little girl.” You muses, hinting at the long time coming answer to Jinhwan’s anticipation. You couldn’t contain your satisfaction in being able to share the moment with him (and the boys) even if it’s just over the phone, loving every second you get to say ‘she’, and ‘little girl’. Quite a strange feeling finally being able to put somewhat of an image to Peanut. Thus far your dreams had all been of an faceless, mystery baby that wasn’t really yours. Now you could really let your imagination wander in details and it never felt better. If the pregnancy hadn’t feel real up till now, this was the moment that solidified it all, you’re having a baby girl, your own daughter.

“That’s really good to hear, babe. What about the important news!!!” Clamors of agreement and chants of “boy or girl” erupt in the background.

“I said, She’s only four months old but already giving mommy a headache. Definitely daddy’s little girl.” Lord, what will you do with this man child.

“Aw, is our little baby giving you a lot of pain again? I’m sorry...” He coos out apologetically, completely missing the way you’re dragging out the important words.

“Jinhwan, are you even listening to what I said?”

“Yes, yes I am. She’s giving you a lot of trouble. Daddy’s litt- NO, NOO. Seriously? for real?” Midway through that sarcastic voice he does whenever you scold him for not listening, Jinhwan suddenly caught himself smiling like an idiot, disbelief spreading all over the joyous soon to be dad. For the next minute, loud screams emanating from the speaker, uproar of confusion and Lord knows what else went on before a calm Junhoe finally picks up the phone.

“Hey, noona. So Jinhwan hyung is having a meltdown and everyone else is... excuse me.” A torturous sigh left the young boy’s lips before a muffled “Will you all shut the fuck up!” could be heard over the speaker.  “I don’t know why, he’s not even saying anything but they’re just all screaming together. So what’s the prognosis? What are we having?” He returns to that dead tone, no doubt over everyone else’s shenanigans.

“What are we having? jeez, these boys. It’s a little girl, you’re having a niece!” 

“YAH! WE’RE GETTING A NIECE!!! YA’LL CAN GO BACK TO SCREAMING NOW” By the sound of things, Junhoe had also now lost in the celebration as the ruckus only grows louder from iKon’s noise pollution yelping. Hanging up, you shake your head at just how crazy they get but contentment spreading all over your body much like the comfort of a warm hugs thinking about little Peanut, your little daughter is so lucky to have 7 men in her life that will go through whatever length to protect her. You can’t wait till Jinhwan finally arrive home to you and his baby girl. 

You feel like a whale, no, you feel like a whale corpse washed up on the beach, bloated and ready to blow at any freaking second. Why did you agreed to this, why in the world did you agreed to put on a bathing suit even if it’s in the privacy of your own hotel room. You stare then sway back and forth, turning sideway then turning back, there’s nothing you could do to look less like a puffer fish.

“Wow...” A swim trunk clads Jinhwan casually strides in, jaws on the floor as he shamelessly stare in amazement. His eyes boring holes into your body as they shift from head to toe, lingering just a bit too long on your uncomfortably swollen breasts all the while licking his lips as if you’re something delectable. 

“Don’t you dare start, Kim Jinhwan...” You warn with a finger up, hand pulling a throw over your near naked body.

“What? I can’t admire my beautiful, gorgeously hot wife now?” Ignoring the daggers from your eyes, he inches closer, cold hand trailing gently along your bare belly sending shivers through your body. Pulling you closer to his chest, his lips crashing against yours as if you hadn’t kiss in months. 

“It’s mortifying when you stare at me like that.” Mumbling against his lips, you pull a pout that though he loves, Jinhwan hates the reason behind it. You were never one to care about exposing yourself to him, never shy away from embarrassment when he’d just ogles at you in that sinful black dress you wore for his birthday a year ago, in the cheeky little yellow bikini you wore the first beach date, in the giant pizza stained white t-shirt you stole from him in baggy sweatpants when you first moved in together... He just loves to gape at you, unabashedly, a lot, all the time. Yet ever since little Peanut arrived, he’d walk in to find you pulling a bathrobe over yourself, getting annoyed when he’d barge in the middle of your shower as he always did. 

“Why, huh? Is it really that humiliating for you? Why do you keep covering yourself up around me? Baby, If you ask me to describe in detail your lady part, I could probably do it. So why all of the sudden you wouldn’t let me see you naked.” Parting way from the hug, his expression scowl when he looks down to see your hands rather than embracing back, still holding onto the piece of fabric shielding your body away from him tightly. The red throw rips away leaving your bare skin to bask in the warm sun of paradise, Jinhwan pulls your back against his chest in a soul crushing hug, nudging you closer to the spotless floor to ceiling mirror. It was now your turn to sour as you gaze upon your pudgy body, your vulnerably naked pudgy body. “Look at you, smoking hot as a mom.” He pauses for a second, hissing in enjoyment as a finger trailing the valley of your breasts. A soft kiss tingles its way from your nape to your shoulder, before stopping at your collar bone. “I don’t understand, do you not see me shamelessly staring at you all the freaking time? You turn me on so hard even when you’re in that ugly preggo night gown my grandma gave you. Did you know that, baby?” Much to his dismay, you hum a soft “no”. 

“No? Good gracious, I haven’t been doing my job then. I love you no matter what, baby.” His hands left the hold he had around your now nude breasts, tiny red bikini ripped away moments ago just so he could revel himself in the softness of your curve, basking, near moaning as he gives them light squeezes. Nails delicately scrapping along your side, kisses dotting your skin like stars blooming night sky, Jinhwan whispers praises, luring out a whimper from your lips that tell him he had won this battle. He was in a trance, so enthralls in the way your parted lips gasping softly at his every touch, your hands atop his, guiding the pleasure to places you’d crave to be touch for so long. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Don’t you miss this?”

No word could be form aside from a ragged yes, you could feel yourself shaking in anticipation of what to come. You hadn’t realize how wonderful this was nor how long it had been since you got intimate, after all, being the size of Mars really make sex difficult. Hand smoothing over your stomach, you gasp from the way his erection flushing so pleasurably tight against the curve of your ass, watching with half closed eyes that devilish smirk blooming on his lips.

“Jinhwan!” 

“Yes, baby, I know. Let me take care of you.” Sultry oozing from his tone but right now, you’re not gasping because of the hand he had snaked into our soiled bottom...

“No, no. Babe, stop. Stop for a second.” Your frantic calls tear his heart apart and the worst scenarios rummage through his brain. 

“What’s wrong. Is Peanut okay? Are you okay, baby? Let me call the hospital.” 

“No, I’m fine.” Perplex, he stands there staring at you as if you had just said unicorn is real, you waste no time grabbing his hands in yours, pressing them against your belly. “Feel that?” Still in a confused haze, he cocks his head aside for a second before a smile breaks out on his lips.

“Oh my God, oh my God. Is that... Did she... Holy shit, I’m freaking out.”Hopping in one spot, coitus forgotten, all he could focus on was that strange yet magnificent buzz in his heart feeling your baby move for the very first time. Peanut is the product of you both but thus far, Jinhwan couldn’t help but feel unreasonably jealous being the third wheel to you and your connection with Peanut. He knew there was nothing you could do to let in in but now, he could finally have a moment to himself. 

You had felt tiny bump here and there but always chalked it to your imagination, never once did you tell Jinhwan afraid of how disappointed he’d be not being able to feel anything. Right now, this moment, it solidified yet another big step for you as parents as Peanut rolls and kicks her way into both your hearts. “Hello, little one. It’s dad!” Nothing brings you more joy than watching Jinhwan interaction with Peanut, the way his eyes sparkle with glee as he coos in adoration. “Babe, babe, feel. She kicks more when I talk to her. Hello, baby. It’s daddy. i love you so so much” You chuckle at his reaction, probably too happy to remember the little one is inside your stomach and every kick, every turn you could feel. 

“Move your hand around, she’ll follow.” You suggest, joy breaks out in your heart when he follows and screech in elation when the little rambunctious Peanut’s movements follow. 

“Wait, how did you know that trick? Have you been hiding things from me again. Babbbyyyyy!!!” 

“I’m not, I swear. I’ve never gotten her to move much until today. I didn’t wanna disappoint you that’s all.”

With a fake disapproving scowl, you were completely ignored as your man get back to the important task at hand, getting his little princess go ham with him. Pulling the bathrobe over your naked body, you settle onto the bed and let your husband have his fun. Oh well, at least the little one will have a good sleep after tiring herself out from playing.

“JINHWANNIEEE. Baby!!” 

“Breathe, love, breathe. Like how we practiced.” 

Huffing and puffing over the phone, Jinhwan mentally curses at himself for not taking the management’s offer to sit out of filming for the talkshow when he had the chance. Now riding to the airport listening to your scream of pain, he blames himself for being so careless. Leaving was always hard but this time, something about it bothered him so, perhaps because your range of mobility is that of a 3 months old, perhaps it’s because Peanut arrival date a mere few weeks away. He was antsy, itching to return when he barely boarded even when you had did your absolute best to persuade him everything will be fine until he returns. Well look how it’s all blown up in his face now. He’s so crazy for actually believing his almost 9 months pregnant wife that everything will be fine, everything is not fine! “Love, I’m boarding now. I’ll be back to you and Peanut soon okay? I love you both so much. You’re the toughest woman I know, you’ll be okay. Love you.”

“I love you too. Hurry, babe.” 

Phone thrown aside, your hands rubbing your stomach as if it would sooth the unbearable pain that showing no sign of subsiding, never mind the mess you had made on the living room couch. No class, no advice could possibly have prepare you for the real torturous waves of contraction, to make it so much worse, Jinhwan isn’t here to hold your hand, to tell you that everything is okay. Were you stupid to push him off to work when you knew Peanut could be here any seconds? Who would’ve thought she would come two weeks early with her dad being away of all thing. 

“Little one, come on. Just a little longer, mommy can hold out. Wait for your dad, okay? Be a good girl, wait for your dad.”

You whisper, hoping your baby will understand your desperation as another round on flesh searing pain radiates out. The second you were seated in the wheelchair, fate in the hand of the hospital staffs, you text Jinhwan again even if it can no longer reach the man, you just need for him to know you’re both safe. Somewhere above the city, Jinhwan prays to God to be with you and thankful the trip wasn’t over sea but a mere few cities over. The hour spent on the plane had been the longest hour Jinhwan had ever experienced, the hardest hour even with the long trainee period and two survival shows in his pocket. A throng of texts flooding his phone like a bad omen leaving the man running out of the airport, leaving all his belongings for the other boys to collect. All he could think was you.

“Hi, baby girl.” He whispers over the phone, although not sure why. 

“Jinhwannie... I’m so scare.” That’s why, he thought the second your wavering voice reaches his ear. He has to be calm, now is not the time to panic, not when you’re the one that’s about to shove a human being out.

“It’s okay, love. Listen to my voice, okay? breathe”

At the sweet sound of your husband, your worries and pain almost magically enervate, leaving a serenity to wash over your being. Suddenly the many needles poking at you, the nurse that keep staring at your lady part every few minutes just disappear. Your breath slow when your brain finally registers that soothing velvety voice, he talks about his day, then the dog he had saw, anything really but it calms you. 

“I’m almost there,sweetheart. How’s Peanut, is she being a bad little girl again? Hurting mommy?” 

“No, she’s perfect right now. The doctor said she’s right where she needs to be.” You gasp when another wave of contraction hits, hissing in an effort to hide your panic but as always, your husband knows better.

“Hey, hey, remember. Breathe, come on, do it with me. In and out. I’m at the front, love. I’ll be right there.” 

Phone shoves away, Jinhwan races agains the clock toward the source of his happiness. His heart beats faster with each step he takes but it wasn’t because of exhaustion, but rather the delightful on cloud nine warmth that was spreading over his body. 

“BABY!” he calls out with all the strength he could mustered up but you didn’t believe it at first, refusing to look away from the tiny human that already got both her mom and dad wrapped around her tiny fingers. Jinhwan couldn’t help but shed a tear at the wires attaching to your body, his mind couldn’t even dare to imagine the pain you were in so he did the only thing he could, the best thing he could. Jinhwan pulls your body into his, lips pressing against your slick with cold sweat skin. “It’s alright, baby.”

“Jinhwan! You’re here.” He’s here, he’s really here was all you could think about for a while, snuggling close to his chest. Your emotion run free as tears of happiness and of fear stream from your face leaving you a blubbering mess.

“Hey, shh. Don’t talk, just sit still. This might hurt okay? But it’ll help the pain.” You follow his sight to see a giant needle heading right for your back, jerking away out of instinct. Jinhwan lets you cling on him, squeezing his hands to a point of pain but he only responds with a smile. The small sobs from your lips rip his heart and soul apart but soon, it’ll be all over so for now, he’ll be strong for you.

The next few hours was a blur of the strange quietness of the drug blocking your pain away, Jinhwan watching over as you finally got a chance sleep then the ruckus of nurses and the iKon boys running in and out of the small hospital room. Yet even with all the confusion, all the insane things that was going on during birthing, he could  remember a few things very very clearly - the way your head leaning into his chest for support and that tired but content smile, how he wishes to take this weight off your shoulder watching your feature contort then twist as you use all your strength to push, when your body drop onto the stained bed knowing it was finally all over half crying half laughing, then the most beautiful sound he had ever heard when his baby cry out. 

He’s a dad.

Jinhwan thought little Peanut was the most perfect thing in the world even when she’s still covered in blood and guts. The cute little nose and the way her tiny fingers grasping so tightly around his unlike anything in this world. He hugs her close, settling next to your worn out form, smile never left his face even though his cheeks hurt.

“Look, mama. I’m here” He coos softly, being the pillar and support you need before handing the little bundle over into your arms. “She’s so beautiful, so beyond perfect just like your mommy.” His finger reaches out caressing her fluffy little cheek as Peanut gazes up with her cute doe eyes, a little smile at her lips when her dad voice enveloping her in love. “She has your eyes, baby. Look! even her smile, she got mommy’s smile. Lucky her!” 

“She has daddy’s nose, lips, and beauty mark though.”

Too spent to say much, you lean back and watch the way Jinhwan worship and adore his daughter before with a sadden pout, he hands her back for a bath as the doctor tends to your raw bleeding lower half but not before he presses another delicate kiss on her forehead with a quick “I love you” that had even the nurses melting. You couldn’t feel pain, not because of drug but because of Jinhwan and your daughter. Not once did he leaves your side, checking back every few seconds as you both being wheel into the private of your room. 

A gentle smile creeps onto your lips when familiar faces gathered in front of your room as you passed the threshold, with a wave, you let sleep lulls you into its embrace. Drowsy, worn, you whisper for Jinhwan to introduce the little one as the boys gather around the tiny couch before finally closing your eyes. As you drifting away with the sandman, you could make out a proud father cradling his baby to his chest as he smugly announces her arrival before darkness takes over.

“Uncles, meet little Peanut!”

[inexcon]

RSI Comm-Link: The Cup: Part One

Writer’s Note: Part one of The Cup was published originally in Jump Point 1.8.

Hello everyone, and welcome once again to GSN Spectrum Broadcasting’s continuing coverage of the Murray Cup Race. The MCR, or The Cup as it is more commonly known, is one of the finest sporting events in the UEE. Nearly 100 racers compete in the Classic Division’s grueling 10-stage run, which winds its way through Ellis system’s many wondrous planets and dual asteroid belts. Racers compete to determine who’s the fastest and strongest, as they struggle to maintain the integrity of their racecraft amid some of the deadliest conditions in the Empire. This year’s competition promises to be one of the toughest, as the top 25 share in a meet-and-greet with media and sponsors in GSN’s sports atrium in orbit above Green. Though many come to race, only a few are considered real contenders, and those contenders are now awaiting their chance for glory and honor.

This year’s darling is Ykonde Remisk, a Human who surprised everyone by winning both the Goss Invitational and the Cassini 500. He comes into the MCR with a real chance to be the first racer to win the Triple Crown in twelve years. Then there is Nyanāl Mo’tak Xu.oa, the finest Xi’an racer in the history of the sport. If he prevails, he will be the first to ever win three MCRs in a row.

Zogat Guul, the old Tevarin warhorse, can’t be counted out, either. This legend has won the MCR more than anyone else in its history, but fate and bad luck have prevented him from winning a major event in over five years. His second place finish at the Cassini 500, however, has brought his name back to prominence. Can he win it once more before he fades away?

And finally, newcomer Hypatia Darring has turned heads by taking the pole position away from Remisk. She has never won a major racing event in her short career, but her consistent top ten showings for the last two years indicate that her pole position is no fluke. Can this youngster handle the enormous pressure placed upon her? Only time will tell . . .

Let’s throw it back to GSN reporter Mike Crenshaw, who is making his way through the reception as we speak. Who do you have for us now, Mike?

Hypatia Darring didn’t even notice the reporter’s question as she stared across the busy reception floor. The Tevarin looked lean and elegant amid a gaggle of reporters who crowded around him. Part of her felt like joining the crowd. I should feel the need to whip his ass, to blow past him on the final stage, to force his ship into an asteroid. That would be the feelings of a great racer, a great competitor, one focused and ready to win. But no. Try as she might, she could not feel that way toward this legend who stood only a few meters away. Much to her sorrow, she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him when their paths could have crossed at Cassini. Now, she had to find the time. She fought the urge to walk across the room, push past the media hounds, invite him to dinner, and ask him to sign the worn, faded, dog-eared poster of him in his youth — standing proudly next to his silver M50 — still hanging on her hab wall.

She shook her head and blinked. “I’m sorry. Say again?”

Mike Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Do you think Admiral Darring is proud of his daughter?” Darring clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“He has stated publicly, more than once, that he believes you are wasting your talents as a racer. That you should drop all this ‘nonsense’ — his word — and pursue a more fitting career in the UEE Navy.”

“My father has never been one to restrain his opinions,” she said, taking tentative steps toward Guul. “But if you really want to know the answer to that question, you should ask him yourself.”

Another reporter fought her way in. “Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette . . . taking the pole position from Ykonde Remisk was a marvelous achievement. How did you do it?”

Her smile was genuine. “Luck.”

“Oh, come now, Hypatia,” Crenshaw said, regaining the floor. “Achieving a time one point five seconds off the record is hardly luck. How’d you do it?”

She chuckled. “Patience, dedication, focus and an acute attention to detail. That, plus the fastest damned M50 on the circuit. All things I’m sure my father would appreciate.”

The reporters laughed and hastily transcribed notes. Darring made a few more steps toward Guul.

“Ms. Darring,” another reporter interceded, “how do you intend on maintaining your ‘luck,’ as you put it, through the entire race? Ten stages, all timed, many with narrow, dangerous channels, especially through the asteroid belts. You’ll be racing neck-and-neck with some of the finest racers in history. Being a relative newcomer, how do you intend on handling the pressure, maintaining your good start, and ultimately winning the cup?”

“She’s a natural!”

All turned, including Darring, and found Mo’tak Xu.oa, the Xi’an, dressed in a bright purple jumpsuit, standing among a pool of sycophants who followed him to every event. Some of them were ex-GSN reporters, now under full employment by the Xu.oa house, captured by his fame, notoriety and wealth.

Darring controlled her scowl as the stout Xi’an stopped a few feet from her. “She’s a natural,” Mo‘tak repeated, to make sure the reporters could record his reply. He was shorter than Darring by a centimeter or two — which was still unusually tall for his race — but his cool, amber eyes scanned her face carefully His powerful jaw muscles pulled back in a tight approximation of a smile. “She’ll win it by being the best racer on the circuit.”

“Do you really believe that?” Crenshaw asked. “She’s the best?”

Mo‘tak nodded slowly, diplomatically, his eyes affixed on Darring. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He blinked. “How are you, my dear? Rested from your trials at Cassini?”

“Rested enough,” she replied, beneath her breath. The reporters leaned in to hear. “But you should know all about that.”

Mo‘tak waved her off as if she were his lesser. “The dangers of the trade, my dear. I did what I had to do to gain advantage.”

Darring nodded. “But you didn’t win, did you? Cutting me off in a move that, technically, was illegal, only gave you third place.”

“Still, a better finish than you.” Mo‘tak chuckled. His devotees did the same. “The Cassini is not all that important to me, my dear. The MCR is the crown jewel. You’ll understand that in time . . . if you last long enough.”

“Can we get a picture of the two of you side-by-side?” a reporter piped up. The rest confirmed that desire with exaggerated nodding.

Mo‘tak turned to the crowd, preening for all to see. “Of course you may have a picture,” he said, offering his hand to Darring in goodwill. “I’m honored to be a part of this great tradition. The MCR is dear to my heart, and with such brilliant competition, like Hypatia Darring here, this year’s race will be one to remember.”

Hypatia took his hand cautiously. She wrapped her fingers around his broad palm. Forcing herself to relax, she turned toward the reporters to let them take their pictures and ask their questions.

But then Mo‘tak began to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until she felt the small delicate bones in her hand giving beneath the pressure. She squeezed back against it, but that didn’t provide much relief as Mo‘tak continued to grip. Don’t cringe, she said to herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But the pain spread up her arm, into her shoulder, through her neck. God, he’s trying to break my hand. He’s . . .

He released, and the pain subsided. She sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her other hand.

Crenshaw was about to ask another question, but then someone spotted Ykonde Remisk, and they all scurried in his direction.

At her side, Mo‘tak chuckled. “We are only as important to them as our last quote.” The Xi’an turned to her again.

This time he didn’t offer his hand. He winked. “.athl’ē’kol to you, my zealous competitor. Safe travel. I’ll see you down the line.”

Mo‘tak disappeared into the doting arms of his fans. As he walked away, Darring caught the eye of a lean, surly-looking fellow who maintained a watchful position behind his employer. He nodded at her. She ignored him and imagined driving a knife into Mo‘tak’s back.

“Don’t let him get to you.”

The voice was soft and amiable. Darring turned to greet it.

There he stood, towering over her. In his shadow, she felt truly small, both in stature and in status. Zogat Guul radiated a kindness and a quiet experience that steadied her rage. She offered her sore hand humbly. He took it without complaint.

“Don’t let that pompous twit get under your skin. He’s infamous for his mind games.” With a quick grin, he snapped into formal posture, as if he were greeting an officer, thrusting his chest out though it was wrapped comfortably in a black-and-gold half-coat. “My name is Zogat —”

“I know who you are,” Darring interrupted, embarrassed immediately by her rudeness. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”

“And I have been following your career with great interest.” He took her by the arm and began to lead her toward a table filled with three large punch bowls and an assortment of seafood appetizers. They walked slowly. “You are rising steadily on the circuit. Your name is on the lips of many. Your fifth place showing at Cassini was quite impressive, especially for someone so young.”

“Thank you. It would have been even more impressive had I won, if Mo‘tak hadn’t forced me back.”

“You let him get too close,” he said, with no malice or indictment in his tone. “You had the inside lane, but you slowed down to spar with him.”

“He pissed me off!”

Guul stopped, “Such behavior may be tolerated in the smaller, roundabout races like Cassini. But not here. Here, such raw emotion will get you expelled or killed. True, there are stages along the way where the racing will be tight, where you will have to maneuver for position. But speed matters the most here . . . speed and time. Remember, Hypatia Darring, the one most important fact about the Murray Cup: Speed is life.” He tilted his head to side. “Speed is life . . . or death, if you are going in the wrong direction.”

She laughed at that, letting the seriousness of his words trickle away. “We will speak no more of these things now,” he said, resuming their course toward the food table. “We will have further opportunities to talk later, when the lamprey are not so thick and hungry.” He ignored the wave of a reporter nearby. “Every word we speak here is interpreted and reinterpreted until, in the end, they will make us lovers in the eyes of the public.”

Darring forced a wry smile. “Sorry . . . you’re not my type.”

Guul let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head. “Story of my life.” He quickened his pace toward the food. “Now come, and treat me to a glass of the greatest gift Humans have bestowed upon the galaxy.”

“What’s that?” Darring asked.

Guul smacked his lips. “Lemonade.”

* * *

Mo‘tak crushed the thin shell of the jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He did not bother shucking it as a feeble Human might do. Blast this Human food anyway! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the family complex, gorging to contentment on huge handfuls of fermented needlefish. Their gallbladders had a bile that was as sweet — no, sweeter — than anything a Human might concoct. Nothing on the table before him was actually enjoyable in his superior opinion, but he tolerated it as best he could, smiling humbly as he picked at this dish or that for the benefit of the media. Mo‘tak nodded at a Human reporter as she walked by.

Humans had their uses.

And so did the one that stood now in the center of the media frenzy. Why weren’t the reporters surrounding him, asking him questions, begging him to divulge his secrets for winning the race, just as they had asked Darring? These damned Humans and their inferiority complex! So unwilling to recognize Xi’an superiority. But Mo‘tak was the best racer that had ever climbed into a cockpit, and his perfectly modified 350r, with its purple hull and reinforced golden-striped wings would do what no other racer had ever done: win the MCR three consecutive times. Neither Remisk, nor Guul, nor Darring could claim such a feat. So, why weren’t the GSN nya•osen’p.u surrounding him?

But perhaps that was best, he reconsidered, popping another shrimp in his mouth and sipping on a warm, frothless beer. Let Ykonde Remisk have his moment in the spotlight. Let the media have their favorites. For when they fall, when they fail to live up to the hype, Mo‘tak’s victory will seem that much sweeter. Yes, let them bask . . . then let them fall. And I will see that they fall hard.

“Is everything in place?” he whispered to an underling at his side.

“Yes, sir. Your maintenance crews are dispersed through the Ellis system per your specifications and per the MCR guidelines.”

Mo‘tak scratched his neck in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”

The underling gulped and wiggled his head. “Yes, that matter we spoke of has been taken care of as well. But I would recommend against it, sir. The risk is too great, and besides, Mo‘tak does not need to rely on such things. He is the best racer on the circuit.”

“I do not pay you to give me such advice or praise. I pay you to do what you’re told. Now go, and make sure everything is ready as I have instructed.” He put his beer down. “And I will go and remind the ‘favorite’ of his obligation to me.”

The underling nodded and ran off to do his duty. Mo‘tak sighed deeply, put on his happy face, and walked confidently toward the madness surrounding Ykonde Remisk.

* * *

She loved her Origin M50 Turbo more than life. Banged up, scratched, red and white paint slopped on to cover a hull that needed an integrity sweep, but there had been no time for any of that after Cassini. Nor had she won enough credits yet for such repairs, not with having to pay for transport ships and her pit crew. But what of it? The power plant was sound, the thrusters new and top notch. In a pinch, she doubted that any racer, anywhere, could match it. Certainly, none of the other twenty-four challengers behind her — including Guul — could beat her in a straightaway. But the MCR had few straightaways. Hull integrity mattered.

As her crew chief rattled off the final systems check in her ear, Darring pulled up the map for the first stage. It appeared with a bright blink to display row after row of rings winding their way through low orbit above Ellis III. Darring studied the rings carefully, reminding herself which ones were large, which were small, where the cameras and timer buoys were located. All racers were required to stay within the “invisible” lane running through the rings; if a racer strayed outside, he or she would lose time. This first stage was both timed and awarded extra credits to first, second and third place. Having the pole position, then, gave her an advantage. But for how long? Darring leaned over in her seat and studied the course carefully.

It was not unlike one stretch of the Goss Invitational, so she had ample experience with this kind of run. Her M50 was built for strenuous zigs and zags through tight spots. But how well would she fare later on, when the courses got more deadly, more strenuous?

From Ellis III, the racers quantumed to Ellis IV where the so-called Seahorse Shuffle took place. Then on to Ellis V and the “Noble Endeavour.” After that, it was through the first of two asteroid belts, a course called The Sorrow Sea, where hulls of previous racers floated as obstacles. Then around the gas giant, Walleye, where ships could be easily ripped apart by one foolish move. A longer stage followed, across the outer asteroid belt (formerly Ellis XI) and finally to Ellis XII. Then the race turned back toward the heart of the system to finished at Ellis VIII. She had run this race before, but never as a true contender, and thus she had taken her time, flown each stage slow and steady, like a marathon runner, to learn all the ins and outs. This time, though, the pressure was on. She held the pole position, the top spot. Everything was different now.

The MCR starter’s voice crackled over the comm link. “Racers, prepare for launch.”

Darring closed the map, affirmed the standard agreement to MCR rules and regulations in unison with the other racers, strapped herself in, and gave a small prayer. She was not religious by any stretch, but figured it wouldn’t hurt. The prayer calmed her nerves as the bay doors of the starting carrier opened to space.

She could see Ellis III through the door. It was beautiful, green, its orbit peppered with corvettes and pleasure craft of the well-to-do who had come out to view the race firsthand. There would be plenty of spectators along the way, a lot of media, and Darring had to just put them all out of her mind. She focused on Zogat Guul’s words — Speed is life — and looked back through one of her cockpit panels to try to get a glimpse of the Tevarin’s upgraded Hornet. But he was too far back. All she could see was Ykonde Remisk’s M50, with its garish gold and blue trim. She noticed that he was too close to her; by rule, there was a specified distance that racers had to maintain prior to launch: the privilege of the pole position.

She gnashed her teeth and cursed beneath her breath. Someone was already violating rules.

“Hypatia Darring . . . you may launch.”

She didn’t even wait for the spokesman to finish. Darring burst out the carrier bay door at top legal speed.

Through a narrow channel flanked by media and spectators, Darring flew the ceremonial lap. The rest of the racers followed behind, releasing one after another, but maintaining their specified positions within the line. Ahead of her, the pace craft sparkled with a flashing red light. Nervous energy spotted her brow with sweat. Her crew chief gave his final comments and instructions. She signed him off and focused on the course ahead of her.

In her ear, the MCR starter counted down — ten, nine, eight . . . Darring thrust to the left, trying to keep directly behind the pace craft. Ykonde Remisk was right on her six, the nose of his racer dangerously close. Back off! Darring mouthed silently, wanting to flip on her comm link and tune to his frequency. It wasn’t strictly against MCR rules to speak to other racers, but officials discouraged it, fearing that frequent conversation during the race could produce distractions that would lead to crashes and injuries. Besides, there was enough chatter going on between racers and their crews. Still, Darring wanted to open a channel and scream into Remisk’s ear, Get off my back!

Five . . . four . . . three . . .

Now, all the racers tightened as the pacer made the last turn to set them up toward the first rings. Darring gunned it a little herself, closing in on the pacer. She put herself now just a little to the right of it, to keep Remisk from rushing past her at the last minute. Darring’s heart raced, her hands shook on her joystick. She tried concentrating on the small object that grew and grew in her viewport: The first ring, its rotating lights swirling around its virtual frame, signaling the beginning . . .

Two . . . one . . .

The red lights on the pacer flashed green, and it fell to the left quickly, breaking formation.

Darring pressed herself into her seat, gunned her thrusters, and blew through the first ring.

* * *

The flashing lights of the rings caused her eyes to ache.

They flew by her quickly and she was concentrating on them too much, too worried about her time, her position in the line. She had fallen to third place by count of the last timing ring. It had been her fault, too, worrying so much about conserving fuel, letting some pilot with a overclocked Avenger take the inside lane. Her crew chief yelled at her for it; she ignored him. The little shit was right, of course, but he was an old academy friend of her father’s, and she was in no mood to listen to him yell at her. Besides, she could overtake an Avenger at any time.

The real focus of her recovery had to be Ykonde Remisk.

The smarmy son of a bitch had forced her against the left wall of the tunnel they were speeding through. Her wing had actually broken the virtual plane, and the voice of the MCR caller came over her comm . . . “Ten seconds added to your time.” Damn! Remisk’s press was not strictly against the rules since his ship had not touched hers, but it was certainly dirty pool and against the spirit of the competition. She had no way out of the pick-and-roll either; it was as if he and the Avenger pilot were in cahoots. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least.

She refocused and thrust her M50 forward, dipping beneath the Avenger and slipping past it on the low. It tried muscling her back, pointing its right wing down to mask her view, but Darring anticipated the move, shifted in kind, and kept her position and composure. Meanwhile, the Avenger pilot had lost his focus on the lane ahead of him, and failed to notice the ring closing fast and to the left. Darring hit her thrusters hard and shifted left, at the last minute moving out of the Avenger’s path. Darring took the turn and ring perfectly; the Avenger saw it too late, tried to adjust, and clipped the ring with its left wing. It broke the invisible plane of the tunnel and then overcompensated into a spin through the void.

Eat that!

She hoped that somewhere behind her, Guul was cheering. She could almost hear his resonant voice singing her praises. She liked the thought, but the most pressing concern now was right in front of her.

Remisk had been pushing his craft at full speed the entire course. How was that possible? she wondered. Sure, he had customized his M50 like all the rest, removing everything extraneous for extra fuel and cooling equipment, but he must be running on fumes by now after boosting like that. There was no other explanation. He would have to burn out soon, and the sooner the better.

She ignored the three other racers pressing hard at her six. She took the next ring and the next, letting the strong inertia pull and propel her craft forward. That was the best way to avoid overheating, she had learned racing around Saturn. Release thrust on the turns, and let your craft drift at top speed into the vector. Then you had enough thrust to pick up the few seconds you might have lost on drift. This racing gig was a game of milliseconds, and each one counted.

She moved up behind Remisk, taking advantage of the last straightaway before the final turns through the ultimate three rings. There was not much time left, and she had to make her move now.

She tried shifting up and over his craft. He moved to block her. She shifted down; he moved again, in perfect unison, their ships equal size. She shifted left, right, and each time Remisk moved to counter. How is he doing this?

He was a great racer. There was no doubt of that. He was strong, athletic and cool-headed. Remisk had not gotten where he was on the circuit without being smart and precise. But his moves, his instincts were almost supernatural, as if his senses were enhanced. But that was impossible.

Every racer went through a rigorous medical exam to ensure that no drugs had been introduced before the race, and further testing would be conducted along the way to ensure none had been taken after the first stage. Remisk was just that good.

Then I have to be better.

She pushed her engine to its limit, exceeding safe levels, much to the ire of her crew chief. He implored her to back off, take second or third place, don’t risk blowing your ship so soon for so little reward. Little reward, my ass!

She had taken the pole position, and she was going to let everyone know that it was not some fluke, that Hypatia Darring was here to stay. She wouldn’t give her fath– the media — grist for their mill.

She barrel rolled, letting the rotation of her M50 spiral her forward like a screw. Remisk, fearing that he would be clipped himself, shifted ever so slightly to his left, and Darring pounced. She pulled alongside him, letting her craft settle. She punched her thrusters again, feeling them wail their discontent through her arms and hands. Her stick was shaking, her heat warnings blaring. She could feel it all through her body, and there was, in all the galaxy, no feeling like it. It was something her father had forgotten. He was a good fighter pilot himself, or at least he was in his youth. But he had spent too much of his life in slow giants like destroyers, cruisers and battleships. He had forgotten what it was like to feel flesh tingle as strong g-forces threatened to rip your skin from its bones. Guul understood it. Remisk most certainly did. And even that sorry son of a bitch Mo‘tak understood the ecstatic feeling of sheer speed.

She pulled ahead. She took the next ring flawlessly, shifting against inertia and rolling through the next ring, which appeared immediately after the last. The final ring loomed large in the distance. Her crew chief, his attitude suddenly changed, barked “Go! Go!” into her ear. She smiled. She’d made the right decision. She most definitely deserved to be here racing among the greats.

Remisk pulled up above her, obviously giving her first place. She kept her course forward and strong, letting her warning systems holler. She giggled like a child, accepting praise from her chief. The flashing lights of the last ring did not make her weak or sick this time. She welcomed them happily.

Then a shadow came up over her, darkening her cockpit. It was Remisk, his M50 finding new life and overtaking her ship. In her joy, Darring had not realized that her thumb had lightened its pressure on her throttle, and she had slowed just slightly. Slowed enough for Remisk to swing his craft up and over her hull and plant itself, with its main thrusters, right in front of her cockpit. Darring tried keeping her speed and course, but Remisk kicked his boost and threw a gout of yellow fire across her cockpit windows.

Darring rolled left. It was a serious mistake. She tried regaining her position, pressed her thumb deeply into the throttle, but it was too late. Ykonde Remisk passed through the final ring in first place. The Avenger and one other racer took second and third, while Darring, her ship rolling uncontrollably through the last ring, barely finished fourth.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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[sad-ch1ld]

via RSI Comm-Link

Writer’s Note: Part one of The Cup was published originally in Jump Point 1.8.

Hello everyone, and welcome once again to GSN Spectrum Broadcasting’s continuing coverage of the Murray Cup Race. The MCR, or The Cup as it is more commonly known, is one of the finest sporting events in the UEE. Nearly 100 racers compete in the Classic Division’s grueling 10-stage run, which winds its way through Ellis system’s many wondrous planets and dual asteroid belts. Racers compete to determine who’s the fastest and strongest, as they struggle to maintain the integrity of their racecraft amid some of the deadliest conditions in the Empire. This year’s competition promises to be one of the toughest, as the top 25 share in a meet-and-greet with media and sponsors in GSN’s sports atrium in orbit above Green. Though many come to race, only a few are considered real contenders, and those contenders are now awaiting their chance for glory and honor.

This year’s darling is Ykonde Remisk, a Human who surprised everyone by winning both the Goss Invitational and the Cassini 500. He comes into the MCR with a real chance to be the first racer to win the Triple Crown in twelve years. Then there is Nyanāl Mo’tak Xu.oa, the finest Xi’an racer in the history of the sport. If he prevails, he will be the first to ever win three MCRs in a row.

Zogat Guul, the old Tevarin warhorse, can’t be counted out, either. This legend has won the MCR more than anyone else in its history, but fate and bad luck have prevented him from winning a major event in over five years. His second place finish at the Cassini 500, however, has brought his name back to prominence. Can he win it once more before he fades away?

And finally, newcomer Hypatia Darring has turned heads by taking the pole position away from Remisk. She has never won a major racing event in her short career, but her consistent top ten showings for the last two years indicate that her pole position is no fluke. Can this youngster handle the enormous pressure placed upon her? Only time will tell . . .

Let’s throw it back to GSN reporter Mike Crenshaw, who is making his way through the reception as we speak. Who do you have for us now, Mike?

Hypatia Darring didn’t even notice the reporter’s question as she stared across the busy reception floor. The Tevarin looked lean and elegant amid a gaggle of reporters who crowded around him. Part of her felt like joining the crowd. I should feel the need to whip his ass, to blow past him on the final stage, to force his ship into an asteroid. That would be the feelings of a great racer, a great competitor, one focused and ready to win. But no. Try as she might, she could not feel that way toward this legend who stood only a few meters away. Much to her sorrow, she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him when their paths could have crossed at Cassini. Now, she had to find the time. She fought the urge to walk across the room, push past the media hounds, invite him to dinner, and ask him to sign the worn, faded, dog-eared poster of him in his youth — standing proudly next to his silver M50 — still hanging on her hab wall.

She shook her head and blinked. “I’m sorry. Say again?”

Mike Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Do you think Admiral Darring is proud of his daughter?” Darring clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“He has stated publicly, more than once, that he believes you are wasting your talents as a racer. That you should drop all this ‘nonsense’ — his word — and pursue a more fitting career in the UEE Navy.”

“My father has never been one to restrain his opinions,” she said, taking tentative steps toward Guul. “But if you really want to know the answer to that question, you should ask him yourself.”

Another reporter fought her way in. “Alice Frannif, Terra Gazette . . . taking the pole position from Ykonde Remisk was a marvelous achievement. How did you do it?”

Her smile was genuine. “Luck.”

“Oh, come now, Hypatia,” Crenshaw said, regaining the floor. “Achieving a time one point five seconds off the record is hardly luck. How’d you do it?”

She chuckled. “Patience, dedication, focus and an acute attention to detail. That, plus the fastest damned M50 on the circuit. All things I’m sure my father would appreciate.”

The reporters laughed and hastily transcribed notes. Darring made a few more steps toward Guul.

“Ms. Darring,” another reporter interceded, “how do you intend on maintaining your ‘luck,’ as you put it, through the entire race? Ten stages, all timed, many with narrow, dangerous channels, especially through the asteroid belts. You’ll be racing neck-and-neck with some of the finest racers in history. Being a relative newcomer, how do you intend on handling the pressure, maintaining your good start, and ultimately winning the cup?”

“She’s a natural!”

All turned, including Darring, and found Mo’tak Xu.oa, the Xi’an, dressed in a bright purple jumpsuit, standing among a pool of sycophants who followed him to every event. Some of them were ex-GSN reporters, now under full employment by the Xu.oa house, captured by his fame, notoriety and wealth.

Darring controlled her scowl as the stout Xi’an stopped a few feet from her. “She’s a natural,” Mo‘tak repeated, to make sure the reporters could record his reply. He was shorter than Darring by a centimeter or two — which was still unusually tall for his race — but his cool, amber eyes scanned her face carefully His powerful jaw muscles pulled back in a tight approximation of a smile. “She’ll win it by being the best racer on the circuit.”

“Do you really believe that?” Crenshaw asked. “She’s the best?”

Mo‘tak nodded slowly, diplomatically, his eyes affixed on Darring. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He blinked. “How are you, my dear? Rested from your trials at Cassini?”

“Rested enough,” she replied, beneath her breath. The reporters leaned in to hear. “But you should know all about that.”

Mo‘tak waved her off as if she were his lesser. “The dangers of the trade, my dear. I did what I had to do to gain advantage.”

Darring nodded. “But you didn’t win, did you? Cutting me off in a move that, technically, was illegal, only gave you third place.”

“Still, a better finish than you.” Mo��tak chuckled. His devotees did the same. “The Cassini is not all that important to me, my dear. The MCR is the crown jewel. You’ll understand that in time . . . if you last long enough.”

“Can we get a picture of the two of you side-by-side?” a reporter piped up. The rest confirmed that desire with exaggerated nodding.

Mo‘tak turned to the crowd, preening for all to see. “Of course you may have a picture,” he said, offering his hand to Darring in goodwill. “I’m honored to be a part of this great tradition. The MCR is dear to my heart, and with such brilliant competition, like Hypatia Darring here, this year’s race will be one to remember.”

Hypatia took his hand cautiously. She wrapped her fingers around his broad palm. Forcing herself to relax, she turned toward the reporters to let them take their pictures and ask their questions.

But then Mo‘tak began to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until she felt the small delicate bones in her hand giving beneath the pressure. She squeezed back against it, but that didn’t provide much relief as Mo‘tak continued to grip. Don’t cringe, she said to herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But the pain spread up her arm, into her shoulder, through her neck. God, he’s trying to break my hand. He’s . . .

He released, and the pain subsided. She sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her other hand.

Crenshaw was about to ask another question, but then someone spotted Ykonde Remisk, and they all scurried in his direction.

At her side, Mo‘tak chuckled. “We are only as important to them as our last quote.” The Xi’an turned to her again.

This time he didn’t offer his hand. He winked. “.athl’ē’kol to you, my zealous competitor. Safe travel. I’ll see you down the line.”

Mo‘tak disappeared into the doting arms of his fans. As he walked away, Darring caught the eye of a lean, surly-looking fellow who maintained a watchful position behind his employer. He nodded at her. She ignored him and imagined driving a knife into Mo‘tak’s back.

“Don’t let him get to you.”

The voice was soft and amiable. Darring turned to greet it.

There he stood, towering over her. In his shadow, she felt truly small, both in stature and in status. Zogat Guul radiated a kindness and a quiet experience that steadied her rage. She offered her sore hand humbly. He took it without complaint.

“Don’t let that pompous twit get under your skin. He’s infamous for his mind games.” With a quick grin, he snapped into formal posture, as if he were greeting an officer, thrusting his chest out though it was wrapped comfortably in a black-and-gold half-coat. “My name is Zogat —”

“I know who you are,” Darring interrupted, embarrassed immediately by her rudeness. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.”

“And I have been following your career with great interest.” He took her by the arm and began to lead her toward a table filled with three large punch bowls and an assortment of seafood appetizers. They walked slowly. “You are rising steadily on the circuit. Your name is on the lips of many. Your fifth place showing at Cassini was quite impressive, especially for someone so young.”

“Thank you. It would have been even more impressive had I won, if Mo‘tak hadn’t forced me back.”

“You let him get too close,” he said, with no malice or indictment in his tone. “You had the inside lane, but you slowed down to spar with him.”

“He pissed me off!”

Guul stopped, “Such behavior may be tolerated in the smaller, roundabout races like Cassini. But not here. Here, such raw emotion will get you expelled or killed. True, there are stages along the way where the racing will be tight, where you will have to maneuver for position. But speed matters the most here . . . speed and time. Remember, Hypatia Darring, the one most important fact about the Murray Cup: Speed is life.” He tilted his head to side. “Speed is life . . . or death, if you are going in the wrong direction.”

She laughed at that, letting the seriousness of his words trickle away. “We will speak no more of these things now,” he said, resuming their course toward the food table. “We will have further opportunities to talk later, when the lamprey are not so thick and hungry.” He ignored the wave of a reporter nearby. “Every word we speak here is interpreted and reinterpreted until, in the end, they will make us lovers in the eyes of the public.”

Darring forced a wry smile. “Sorry . . . you’re not my type.”

Guul let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head. “Story of my life.” He quickened his pace toward the food. “Now come, and treat me to a glass of the greatest gift Humans have bestowed upon the galaxy.”

“What’s that?” Darring asked.

Guul smacked his lips. “Lemonade.”

* * *

Mo‘tak crushed the thin shell of the jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He did not bother shucking it as a feeble Human might do. Blast this Human food anyway! What he wouldn’t give to be back at the family complex, gorging to contentment on huge handfuls of fermented needlefish. Their gallbladders had a bile that was as sweet — no, sweeter — than anything a Human might concoct. Nothing on the table before him was actually enjoyable in his superior opinion, but he tolerated it as best he could, smiling humbly as he picked at this dish or that for the benefit of the media. Mo‘tak nodded at a Human reporter as she walked by.

Humans had their uses.

And so did the one that stood now in the center of the media frenzy. Why weren’t the reporters surrounding him, asking him questions, begging him to divulge his secrets for winning the race, just as they had asked Darring? These damned Humans and their inferiority complex! So unwilling to recognize Xi’an superiority. But Mo‘tak was the best racer that had ever climbed into a cockpit, and his perfectly modified 350r, with its purple hull and reinforced golden-striped wings would do what no other racer had ever done: win the MCR three consecutive times. Neither Remisk, nor Guul, nor Darring could claim such a feat. So, why weren’t the GSN nya•osen’p.u surrounding him?

But perhaps that was best, he reconsidered, popping another shrimp in his mouth and sipping on a warm, frothless beer. Let Ykonde Remisk have his moment in the spotlight. Let the media have their favorites. For when they fall, when they fail to live up to the hype, Mo‘tak’s victory will seem that much sweeter. Yes, let them bask . . . then let them fall. And I will see that they fall hard.

“Is everything in place?” he whispered to an underling at his side.

“Yes, sir. Your maintenance crews are dispersed through the Ellis system per your specifications and per the MCR guidelines.”

Mo‘tak scratched his neck in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”

The underling gulped and wiggled his head. “Yes, that matter we spoke of has been taken care of as well. But I would recommend against it, sir. The risk is too great, and besides, Mo‘tak does not need to rely on such things. He is the best racer on the circuit.”

“I do not pay you to give me such advice or praise. I pay you to do what you’re told. Now go, and make sure everything is ready as I have instructed.” He put his beer down. “And I will go and remind the ‘favorite’ of his obligation to me.”

The underling nodded and ran off to do his duty. Mo‘tak sighed deeply, put on his happy face, and walked confidently toward the madness surrounding Ykonde Remisk.

* * *

She loved her Origin M50 Turbo more than life. Banged up, scratched, red and white paint slopped on to cover a hull that needed an integrity sweep, but there had been no time for any of that after Cassini. Nor had she won enough credits yet for such repairs, not with having to pay for transport ships and her pit crew. But what of it? The power plant was sound, the thrusters new and top notch. In a pinch, she doubted that any racer, anywhere, could match it. Certainly, none of the other twenty-four challengers behind her — including Guul — could beat her in a straightaway. But the MCR had few straightaways. Hull integrity mattered.

As her crew chief rattled off the final systems check in her ear, Darring pulled up the map for the first stage. It appeared with a bright blink to display row after row of rings winding their way through low orbit above Ellis III. Darring studied the rings carefully, reminding herself which ones were large, which were small, where the cameras and timer buoys were located. All racers were required to stay within the “invisible” lane running through the rings; if a racer strayed outside, he or she would lose time. This first stage was both timed and awarded extra credits to first, second and third place. Having the pole position, then, gave her an advantage. But for how long? Darring leaned over in her seat and studied the course carefully.

It was not unlike one stretch of the Goss Invitational, so she had ample experience with this kind of run. Her M50 was built for strenuous zigs and zags through tight spots. But how well would she fare later on, when the courses got more deadly, more strenuous?

From Ellis III, the racers quantumed to Ellis IV where the so-called Seahorse Shuffle took place. Then on to Ellis V and the “Noble Endeavour.” After that, it was through the first of two asteroid belts, a course called The Sorrow Sea, where hulls of previous racers floated as obstacles. Then around the gas giant, Walleye, where ships could be easily ripped apart by one foolish move. A longer stage followed, across the outer asteroid belt (formerly Ellis XI) and finally to Ellis XII. Then the race turned back toward the heart of the system to finished at Ellis VIII. She had run this race before, but never as a true contender, and thus she had taken her time, flown each stage slow and steady, like a marathon runner, to learn all the ins and outs. This time, though, the pressure was on. She held the pole position, the top spot. Everything was different now.

The MCR starter’s voice crackled over the comm link. “Racers, prepare for launch.”

Darring closed the map, affirmed the standard agreement to MCR rules and regulations in unison with the other racers, strapped herself in, and gave a small prayer. She was not religious by any stretch, but figured it wouldn’t hurt. The prayer calmed her nerves as the bay doors of the starting carrier opened to space.

She could see Ellis III through the door. It was beautiful, green, its orbit peppered with corvettes and pleasure craft of the well-to-do who had come out to view the race firsthand. There would be plenty of spectators along the way, a lot of media, and Darring had to just put them all out of her mind. She focused on Zogat Guul’s words — Speed is life — and looked back through one of her cockpit panels to try to get a glimpse of the Tevarin’s upgraded Hornet. But he was too far back. All she could see was Ykonde Remisk’s M50, with its garish gold and blue trim. She noticed that he was too close to her; by rule, there was a specified distance that racers had to maintain prior to launch: the privilege of the pole position.

She gnashed her teeth and cursed beneath her breath. Someone was already violating rules.

“Hypatia Darring . . . you may launch.”

She didn’t even wait for the spokesman to finish. Darring burst out the carrier bay door at top legal speed.

Through a narrow channel flanked by media and spectators, Darring flew the ceremonial lap. The rest of the racers followed behind, releasing one after another, but maintaining their specified positions within the line. Ahead of her, the pace craft sparkled with a flashing red light. Nervous energy spotted her brow with sweat. Her crew chief gave his final comments and instructions. She signed him off and focused on the course ahead of her.

In her ear, the MCR starter counted down — ten, nine, eight . . . Darring thrust to the left, trying to keep directly behind the pace craft. Ykonde Remisk was right on her six, the nose of his racer dangerously close. Back off! Darring mouthed silently, wanting to flip on her comm link and tune to his frequency. It wasn’t strictly against MCR rules to speak to other racers, but officials discouraged it, fearing that frequent conversation during the race could produce distractions that would lead to crashes and injuries. Besides, there was enough chatter going on between racers and their crews. Still, Darring wanted to open a channel and scream into Remisk’s ear, Get off my back!

Five . . . four . . . three . . .

Now, all the racers tightened as the pacer made the last turn to set them up toward the first rings. Darring gunned it a little herself, closing in on the pacer. She put herself now just a little to the right of it, to keep Remisk from rushing past her at the last minute. Darring’s heart raced, her hands shook on her joystick. She tried concentrating on the small object that grew and grew in her viewport: The first ring, its rotating lights swirling around its virtual frame, signaling the beginning . . .

Two . . . one . . .

The red lights on the pacer flashed green, and it fell to the left quickly, breaking formation.

Darring pressed herself into her seat, gunned her thrusters, and blew through the first ring.

* * *

The flashing lights of the rings caused her eyes to ache.

They flew by her quickly and she was concentrating on them too much, too worried about her time, her position in the line. She had fallen to third place by count of the last timing ring. It had been her fault, too, worrying so much about conserving fuel, letting some pilot with a overclocked Avenger take the inside lane. Her crew chief yelled at her for it; she ignored him. The little shit was right, of course, but he was an old academy friend of her father’s, and she was in no mood to listen to him yell at her. Besides, she could overtake an Avenger at any time.

The real focus of her recovery had to be Ykonde Remisk.

The smarmy son of a bitch had forced her against the left wall of the tunnel they were speeding through. Her wing had actually broken the virtual plane, and the voice of the MCR caller came over her comm . . . “Ten seconds added to your time.” Damn! Remisk’s press was not strictly against the rules since his ship had not touched hers, but it was certainly dirty pool and against the spirit of the competition. She had no way out of the pick-and-roll either; it was as if he and the Avenger pilot were in cahoots. That wouldn’t surprise her in the least.

She refocused and thrust her M50 forward, dipping beneath the Avenger and slipping past it on the low. It tried muscling her back, pointing its right wing down to mask her view, but Darring anticipated the move, shifted in kind, and kept her position and composure. Meanwhile, the Avenger pilot had lost his focus on the lane ahead of him, and failed to notice the ring closing fast and to the left. Darring hit her thrusters hard and shifted left, at the last minute moving out of the Avenger’s path. Darring took the turn and ring perfectly; the Avenger saw it too late, tried to adjust, and clipped the ring with its left wing. It broke the invisible plane of the tunnel and then overcompensated into a spin through the void.

Eat that!

She hoped that somewhere behind her, Guul was cheering. She could almost hear his resonant voice singing her praises. She liked the thought, but the most pressing concern now was right in front of her.

Remisk had been pushing his craft at full speed the entire course. How was that possible? she wondered. Sure, he had customized his M50 like all the rest, removing everything extraneous for extra fuel and cooling equipment, but he must be running on fumes by now after boosting like that. There was no other explanation. He would have to burn out soon, and the sooner the better.

She ignored the three other racers pressing hard at her six. She took the next ring and the next, letting the strong inertia pull and propel her craft forward. That was the best way to avoid overheating, she had learned racing around Saturn. Release thrust on the turns, and let your craft drift at top speed into the vector. Then you had enough thrust to pick up the few seconds you might have lost on drift. This racing gig was a game of milliseconds, and each one counted.

She moved up behind Remisk, taking advantage of the last straightaway before the final turns through the ultimate three rings. There was not much time left, and she had to make her move now.

She tried shifting up and over his craft. He moved to block her. She shifted down; he moved again, in perfect unison, their ships equal size. She shifted left, right, and each time Remisk moved to counter. How is he doing this?

He was a great racer. There was no doubt of that. He was strong, athletic and cool-headed. Remisk had not gotten where he was on the circuit without being smart and precise. But his moves, his instincts were almost supernatural, as if his senses were enhanced. But that was impossible.

Every racer went through a rigorous medical exam to ensure that no drugs had been introduced before the race, and further testing would be conducted along the way to ensure none had been taken after the first stage. Remisk was just that good.

Then I have to be better.

She pushed her engine to its limit, exceeding safe levels, much to the ire of her crew chief. He implored her to back off, take second or third place, don’t risk blowing your ship so soon for so little reward. Little reward, my ass!

She had taken the pole position, and she was going to let everyone know that it was not some fluke, that Hypatia Darring was here to stay. She wouldn’t give her fath– the media — grist for their mill.

She barrel rolled, letting the rotation of her M50 spiral her forward like a screw. Remisk, fearing that he would be clipped himself, shifted ever so slightly to his left, and Darring pounced. She pulled alongside him, letting her craft settle. She punched her thrusters again, feeling them wail their discontent through her arms and hands. Her stick was shaking, her heat warnings blaring. She could feel it all through her body, and there was, in all the galaxy, no feeling like it. It was something her father had forgotten. He was a good fighter pilot himself, or at least he was in his youth. But he had spent too much of his life in slow giants like destroyers, cruisers and battleships. He had forgotten what it was like to feel flesh tingle as strong g-forces threatened to rip your skin from its bones. Guul understood it. Remisk most certainly did. And even that sorry son of a bitch Mo‘tak understood the ecstatic feeling of sheer speed.

She pulled ahead. She took the next ring flawlessly, shifting against inertia and rolling through the next ring, which appeared immediately after the last. The final ring loomed large in the distance. Her crew chief, his attitude suddenly changed, barked “Go! Go!” into her ear. She smiled. She’d made the right decision. She most definitely deserved to be here racing among the greats.

Remisk pulled up above her, obviously giving her first place. She kept her course forward and strong, letting her warning systems holler. She giggled like a child, accepting praise from her chief. The flashing lights of the last ring did not make her weak or sick this time. She welcomed them happily.

Then a shadow came up over her, darkening her cockpit. It was Remisk, his M50 finding new life and overtaking her ship. In her joy, Darring had not realized that her thumb had lightened its pressure on her throttle, and she had slowed just slightly. Slowed enough for Remisk to swing his craft up and over her hull and plant itself, with its main thrusters, right in front of her cockpit. Darring tried keeping her speed and course, but Remisk kicked his boost and threw a gout of yellow fire across her cockpit windows.

Darring rolled left. It was a serious mistake. She tried regaining her position, pressed her thumb deeply into the throttle, but it was too late. Ykonde Remisk passed through the final ring in first place. The Avenger and one other racer took second and third, while Darring, her ship rolling uncontrollably through the last ring, barely finished fourth.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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