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"Can you believe it? Again?"
The race is over. The loud cheers have faded, colorful confetti now scattered across the track made messy by desperate strides. A year of racing will soon come to a close — outside the racecourse, excited chatter fills the air. The challengers, the victor, what went down and what comes next.
Yet not all spectators have left.
Underneath the deserted benches, dissatisfied voices fill the empty underground tunnels.
"It's always her! A length, half a length, today it was barely by a neck. Always the same winner, always the same runner-up. It's so dull."
"... These two know each other, right? They get interviewed together all the time. If you ask me, I'm willing to bet this Doto is more than happy to come second if she's given convincing enough... Arguments, if you catch my drift."
"You think they're rigging the race? Sheesh. So much for us poor fans trying to enjoy some good sportsmanship..."
It's exaggerated, maybe. Uncalled for, surely. A product of a momentary rise of emotions, struck hot by the vindication of a kindred spirit. But while the heated complaints only meant to meet closed doors, they fail to fall on deaf ears.
And the ears they fall on fold back as faint irritation first stirs, the gilded and green jewelry adoring them glimmering under the artificial light.
"It pains me to hear this race was not an adequate display of the Overlord's power in your eyes!"
The shake of T.M. Opera O's head is dramatic, her laugh not showing a trace of exhaustion despite the grueling battle she only just emerged victorious from. The frustrated spectators spin in surprise, perhaps — naively — not expecting racers returning to their quarters so early on. Especially not the winner and her close runner-up, thought to still be swarmed by journalists.
"No matter. The next one shall be even more grand, even more dazzling, so that none among the audience will be able to doubt my reign."
"However..."
As quickly as it rose, her voice drops. Gone are the grandiose declarations echoing across the walls, her now quiet tone so unlike the boisterous self-proclaimed overlord that the lights overhead seem to dim, fearful of her ire.
"Do not speak so lightly of my rivals."
The words hang heavy in the air, thick with tension.
"Ela Athena. Golden Snake. Daiwa Texas. Matikanekinnohosi. Reve d'Oscar. Fruits of Love. Timboroa. Fantastic Light. Air Shakur. John's Call. Silk Prima Donna. Agnes Flight. Eagle Cafe. Stay Gold."
One by one, the names roll off her tongue, like one final casting call before the curtains fall.
"... And Meisho Doto."
Behind her, the second place finisher jolts, as if even she had forgotten she was standing there. Her hands shake as they clutch the strap of her bag before steadying themselves with a clench.
Her idol, her rival, the ever out of reach goal she tirelessly chases, stands proud for her name. Even if she can't find her voice to speak up alongside her, she'll see it through.
Yet, though her vehement defense flushes her cheeks with warm gratefulness, a chill runs down her spine as the scene unfolds.
She's never seen Opera O so angry — no.
She's never before seen Opera O angry.
"Today, all of them — all of us, ran with the same goal in mind — victory. There was no cheap trick, nor any backstage deal clouding our strides. To imply otherwise is to taint everything about this race. Their valiant effort, my victory, this entire grand performance..."
Imperceptibly, she's closed the distance, until the distant call became a direct confrontation. Her eyes are heavy with scorn as she continues, their bright purple clouded by displeasure.
"... And your presence here, you who, out of the same love for racing we hold, were not content with watching this Japan Cup unfold through a mere screen."
Despite her short stature, the once disgruntled spectators instinctively cower as if she were towering over them.
"Do you think so little of me? Of them? Of yourself?"
The disapproval is apparent in the sharpness of her gaze, disappointment chilling the edges of her words.
All she's met with is silence. Be it by intimidation or shame, all the fire in the two spectators has been snuffed out.
She takes a step back. The gold encircling her ankles chime against the metal of her boots as she turns around, the ensuing sound loud enough to break a spell.
"Next race, you will see. That their determination isn't pretense. That my strength is no parlor trick."
It's not a challenge, nor is it an invitation. It's a fact, her voice engraving it into the future.
"I will not ask you to come."
She spares one final glance back before walking away, her heels clacking against the concrete floor worn down by the cleats of countless racers.
"I know you will be there."
Her tone leaves no room for protests, as if she knows she speaks an undeniable truth.
"For you, too, love racing."