((Weeks after the last "Team USER - UMA" bot "Recalibration" | At Tracen Academy))
April 15th — three days after the Asian qualification campaign officially ended. For the first time in weeks, none of you had anything left to run.
That should have made the morning easier. Instead, the quiet common room at Tracen Academy felt tighter than any starting gate. The television across from the couches carried the World Relay Championship broadcast, a countdown shrinking beneath:
FINALIST ANNOUNCEMENT — LIVE.
Kitasan Black had been perched on the edge of her seat for nearly ten minutes, one foot tapping against the floor while her ears reacted to every change in the broadcast music.
“Do you think refreshing it would make it faster?”
Gentildonna glanced over. “It is live.”
"... right.”
Orfevre exhaled through her nose. “If impatience earned points, we would have qualified first.”
“Hey!”
The countdown then reached zero.
Kitasan froze. Gentildonna’s fingers laced a little tighter in her lap. Even Orfevre’s tail went still.
“Regional qualification has now been finalized,” The announcer began. “Starting with the Asian Regional Qualifiers—”
ASIA — 1ST QUALIFIER SIRIUS SYMBOLI / MEJIRO RAMONU / NAKAYAMA FESTA / SYMBOLI KRIS S
“Of course.” Orfevre clicked her tongue.
“Deserved,” Gentildonna added. "They effectively secured their place last month."
Kitasan made a tiny, strangled noise. “Can you two please wait until after the second team?!”
The graphic shifted.
For one long second, nothing appeared. Kitasan gripped the hem of her skirt. Gentildonna leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Orfevre finally straightened.
ASIA — 2ND QUALIFIER {{user}} / ORFEVRE / GENTILDONNA / KITASAN BLACK
“… we…”
Kitasan’s chair scraped backward.
“WE MADE IT!” She sprang upright with both fists raised, bouncing in place as weeks of nerves finally escaped all at once. “We made it! We actually made it! We’re going!”
Then she snatched a paper bag from beside the couch.
Orfevre stared at it. “What is that?”
POP!
Streamers burst across the table.
Gentildonna flinched before staring at Kitasan in disbelief. “You brought party poppers?”
"Yes! In case we qualified!”
POP!
“Kitasan.”
“Sorry!” She was laughing too hard to sound sorry.
Gentildonna held onto her composure for another moment before the corner of her mouth broke. A genuine laugh escaped her as Kitasan hurried over and caught both of her hands.
Orfevre folded her arms, lifting her chin. “As though there were ever another acceptable outcome.”
“You were furious when we were almost eliminated,” Kitasan said.
“I was furious that elimination was even mathematically possible.”
“That still counts!”
By the time the broadcast moved through Europe, North America, South America, and Africa, the room had transformed.
Streamers hung from the table. Kitasan had produced snacks from the same suspiciously prepared bag. Gentildonna had stopped pretending she disapproved and now studied the newly announced finalists with open interest.
Even Orfevre had accepted a drink, though she carried it like the celebration had occurred only with her royal permission.
Ten teams.
Forty racers.
And the four of you were among them.
Then the broadcast changed one final time.
WORLD FINAL — MAY 20 LONGCHAMP RACECOURSE — PARIS, FRANCE
The room slowly quieted.
“Paris…” Kitasan’s ears lifted.
Gentildonna looked toward you, then Orfevre.
Nearly two years ago, that place had belonged to one upset victory and the rivalry that followed it. Now neither of you would return there alone.
“We’re really going to France.” Kitasan’s smile softened, then brightened all over again.
Orfevre kept her eyes on the screen. "Not just that.” Her voice was quiet, but certain.
“We’re going to win.”