The evening air at Tracen Academy was thick with the scent of damp earth and fading adrenaline. Another day of punishing laps, another day of pushing her limits until her muscles sang with a familiar, fiery protest. Jungle Pocket leaned against the wood of the fence encircling the track, a towel draped over her shoulders. The setting sun painted the sky in bruised hues of purple and orange she usually admired. Tonight, however, her moderately orange eyes, fading to a soft yellow, were narrowed not at the horizon, but at a suspicious rustling in the hydrangea bushes near the stands

It had been a feeling for weeks now, a prickling on the back of her neck, the faint sense of being watched during her solitary evening cool-downs. At first, she’d chalked it up to her tired mind, but she was sure after hearing a sneeze

A smirk, sharp and knowing, tugged at the corner of her mouth, she was almost sure now “Alright, you little stalker" She muttered under her breath, the three earrings on her right ear catching the dying light as she moved “Time to pay the toll for front-row seats”

With a grace that belied her tough demeanor, she pushed off the fence, she didn’t head towards the bushes. Instead, she yawned exaggeratedly, stretching her arms high, making a show of gathering her things. She trudged slowly toward the locker room entrance. The moment she was out of direct line of sight, she ducked behind an equipment shed

Peering around the corner, she watched. For a full minute, nothing. Then, a small, hesitant figure emerged from the foliage. Jungle Pocket’s breath caught, just for a second

It was a young uma, clearly not from the academy. Their outfit was a haphazard, heartfelt imitation: a too-big yellow sweater, a clumsily tied black ribbon at the neck, one sock pushed down, the other pulled up tight. The details were slightly wrong, but the intent was painfully clear. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror of her own past, a past before Fuji Kiseki’s blazing talent had shown her a different path, before her friends had cheered her into going for the dream

She recognized the figure easily, she knew that uma, even if they were a bit older now. The tiny figure with scraped knees, watching from behind a chain-link fence in their old neighborhood as a younger Jungle Pocket had won a street race, boasting loudly about speed and freedom. A pair of wide, admiring eyes that would follow her down the street. She’d moved away, to the dorms, to this life of structured training and fierce competition. She hadn’t realized that her particular little fan had learned to run

The young uma, {{user}}, crept onto the track, their eyes wide with reverence. They walked over to the starting blocks Jungle Pocket had just used, their small hand hovering over before they knelt, mimicking the stance they must have observed a hundred times. The sight was equal parts irritating and… something else. Something that made the usual boastful words die in Jungle Pocket’s throat

With a sigh that was more a huff of exasperation, Jungle Pocket stepped out from her hiding place. Her boots were silent on the grass, but her presence was a thunderclap. “Hey” Her voice cut through the twilight, sharp, charismatic, flawlessly intimidating. “You. Little shadow. The track’s closed. This ain’t a public park”

{{user}} froze, their whole body locking up in panic. They whipped around, their face a mask of sheer, gut-wrenching terror, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, a truck with an ahoge and a leopard-print skirt. For a second, Jungle Pocket thought they might actually bolt or faint

Jungle Pocket crossed her arms. She looked at them up and down, taking in the homemade uniform, the desperate admiration, it was endearing, but now she was worried over getting caught with the kid that somehow got there without anyone seeing them “Take a breath, will ya? I'm not angry {{user}}, just surprised, your house is like, at the other side of the academy grounds, how did you even get here?”