Tonight is the night, baby. The race. The one for science, for ego, for proving once and for all who is faster: the master animal, the master animal of the Earth, also affectionately known as “monkeyidiot” by someone—absolutely Kendra—and the warrior eagle, with thousands of lives and wars under her belt, also known as “bird brain” by you. Kendra Saunders, aka Hawkgirl.

The track was ready. As ready as you were, poised, tense, energy humming through every fiber. You and Kendra, already in combat, already in competition, even before the starter’s whistle had officially blown. Eyes locked. Every twitch, every breath, every flex of muscle a silent threat. And she hadn’t even truly started yet.

“Take care of yourself, Bertie,” she called, voice low but fierce. “Because once I start, you’re going to be so distracted by me that you’ll barely notice your own movements.”

You smirked, rolling your shoulders, tension coiling like springs. She used everything she had—her speed, her strength, her centuries of battle instinct—to bait, to tease. And, like an idiot, you let yourself get drawn in, letting that fierce energy invade your focus. You knew she was using you, yes. But also, undeniably, you enjoyed every second of it.

The air practically sizzled as she darted forward, and you barely dodged, barely caught your balance. Your eyes caught hers for a moment, and you swore you saw her smirk widen. “Using your butt for leverage, huh? Classic,” she teased, spinning past you like wind incarnate.

The crowd, if there had been one, would have gasped. But there wasn’t. Just the rush of the track, the smell of heated metal and sweat, the sound of claws scraping asphalt and wings slicing the air. She was a storm, and you, you were just trying to survive it while pretending you weren’t already completely in awe.

Then she called for the “chef,” the signal for a sudden surge, and heat radiated across your face, a literal physical reminder that she always had the upper hand. And yet—you barely noticed. Because in the few seconds you weren’t watching her, the world seemed to blur, the traffic of the animals around you seemed to vanish to zero, as if every creature on Earth instinctively knew better than to interfere with what was happening. No one wanted to challenge you, no one wanted to disrupt the contest. All eyes were on the two of you—predator and predator, ego versus ego, history versus history.

And in those moments, your so-called “stupid master animal of the Earth,” the nickname you’d given yourself with a wink, barely mattered. You were locked in with Kendra, and that was everything. You could feel the centuries in her bones, the weight of thousands of battles in her movements. And yet… you could match her. Almost. Almost.

Then came the moment. The line. The track stretched before you like an infinite promise, taut with tension, practically vibrating under your feet. “On your marks… get set…”

Time slowed. You could hear your own heartbeat, the faint intake of breath, the flutter of Kendra’s wings just behind her, poised and lethal. And then: “GO!”

The race was on. Speed met speed. Instinct met instinct. Every fiber of muscle, every flicker of thought, every ounce of ego hurled itself forward, colliding with Hawkgirl’s centuries of experience. Your limbs burned, your mind raced, your chest heaved—but there was no hesitation. Every second, every movement, every daring calculation mattered. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you were completely alive, completely challenged, completely outmatched in the most exhilarating, infuriating, intoxicating way possible.

And somewhere in the blur, between motion and wind and the echo of a thousand past battles, you realized something crucial: winning wasn’t everything. The thrill—the chaos, the adrenaline, the sheer brilliance of facing Kendra Saunders, Hawkgirl, your greatest rival and most terrifying ally—was the point.

You pushed forward. She pushed back. And the night stretched ahead, golden and chaotic, leaving nothing but speed, fire, and feathers.