Chapter Text
How long has it been?
Surrounded by towering walls of ash and trawling over endless acres of artificial turf, White took another dash forward towards the carrots in her vision—yet, she found herself slamming into the cold, uncaring walls once again.
“Cyan?” she asked, pinching her blood-filled nose as hard as she could. “Where art thou, O Cyan? Pray, heed my call—I am led to believe the end lies before me.”
Unfortunately, she could not say that with much confidence. It had been a while since her vision became blurred and diplopiated, with her countless impacts against the walls and the ground to show it. It was supposed to be just another horse race as any; why does she call for her opponent so desperately?
Brought to this unfamiliar field with only each other to compete against, White and Cyan both had a rotten gut feeling for this race. They both were far from a winning horse, not yet having a name—could this be a deathmatch?
“Friend, I must say that the brutalist architecture present before us doest unease me,” White mentioned to her companion. “Might I add, whither hath our audience gone? I daresay not a single soul catcheth my eyes.”
“I don’t know, but the walls seem waaay higher than any of our races before,” replied Cyan, looking upwards only to see neither a ceiling nor sky. “And where’s this light even coming from? I don’t see a single light or window!”
“I am afeard to ask, Cyan, but what dost thou surmise may occur to the vanquished?” asked White, looking down at the fake grass below her as she performed some basic stretches. “Hath thine trainer shared even a smidgen of clarification?”
“Nuh-uh, not a single question answered,” Cyan said as she followed suit in stretches. “All he told me was good luck. But something felt… off about him.”
“Tragic indeed, for my trainer hath only likewise answers. Oh, the words I shall have with that fox after all is done…”
There was a shared idea amongst the two at the tip of their tongues, but the thought alone was too mortifying to bring up to their friend. Could the loser of this race be disqualified from competing in any other races in the future? Could it be… worse?
“...ah, whatever,” Cyan sighed, wrapping up her stretches as she pointed her eyes at the foreboding, pearl-coloured gate. “You’re my pal, but I don’t plan on going easy on you. Let’s race, White.”
“Forsooth,” White added, taking a glance at the woman beside her before she faced the gate before her as well. “May the best come out victorious.”
“Really?! You found the carrots!?!” Cyan called, perking her ears up high as she looked around with her similarly dysfunctional eyes. “Oh, thank God… I thought we were trapped here forever! How many hours has it been?! C’mon, go get them!”
“I shan’t just yet, Cyan,” White replied, tossing her eye decoration to the ground below and slicking her hair back with her own sweat and blood to gain the slightest of improvements to her vision. “We must vie for it. What good could a competition be if thou’ll plainly give it up? I shall head to thy side, and the race can start anew.”
“What? Don’t do that, are you crazy?” Asked Cyan. She could tell that they weren’t the nearest to each other, considering just how loud she had to speak and how faintly she could hear White. “What if you can’t find your way back? You earned it, just go!”
“Do not kid yourself, friend! What shall happen to you?”
“And do you wanna find out with your own body?”
“Nay, and ‘tis why I demand a fair competition!”
The two yelled back and forth as White searched for the passageway she had just gone through. Only, to her eyes, she sees none—hadn’t she just entered this room? How could she possibly lose sight of her entrance? Putting her hands up to the wall, she carefully dragged past every inch—nothing.
“I beg, Cyan, heed my request,” White yelled as she crouched onto the turf below her. “I wish to race alongside you, for it could be our last. Use my voice as a beacon, and come hither!”
“Just fucking go already!” Cyan echoed back. “Please, I’m tired. I just want to go home…”
“Where doest thou gain the confidence that we shall be able to go home?” White cried, now laying flat on the ground and looking up at the infinitely grey walls. “There are no such certainties in this anomalous place, Cyan! Is it so egregious of an ask to see you once more with my clouded eyes?”
“And what if there’s a time limit?” Cyan stated, desperation filling her voice like a noxious gas. “What if, what if… oh, I don’t know anymore! Just go for it, I don’t want to lose you!”
“You think I could bear the loss of thee? Budge, Cyan!”
Silence then befell the track, only the sounds of White’s sobs filling the air. Cyan dragged herself towards the furthest room she could find, and slowly leaned against the wall. Tears tattered her wear, and she was sure she had cracked a bone or two with how much she bashed against both the walls that confined the two and her only companion, when the two still had the hope to race. She had given up on her racing career, that this was the final stop.
“...Cyan, I beg, speak,” White mewled, hiding her teary eyes from an imaginary audience. “I shall have the carrots in my grasp, as you wish; only, promise me that we will go home together.”
“...I will, White,” Cyan finally answered, a faint smile running across her weary face as she shut her eyes. “I promise you that we’ll go home and have a hot meal together, like always.”
With that, White finally lifted herself up from the turf and dusted off her ruined, blood-dotted dress. Slowly but surely, limping towards the slight orange she can see through her blurred, diplopiated, and tear-coated eyes, and stumbling down before rising back again countless times, she had the end in her grasp.
AND WITH THAT, CLOCKING IN AT 07:09:32,
OUR WINNER IN WHITE, SUPERSTITIONAL REALISM!
“...seven minutes?”
Superstitional Realism’s question was quickly silenced as a flurry of cheers and sobs, claps and boos surrounded the once-silent arena. The walls remained as towering as ever, only now the sky shone down upon her and several cameras revealed themselves. The sounds came from speakers littered about the walls, now much more apparent even with the white runner’s subpar eyes.
“Nay, it cannot be,” Superstitional Realism gasped, letting her knees drop to the artificial grass below at full force. “A meager seven minutes? Nay, Cyan and I were stuck in this heinous labyrinth for several hours, if not days…! CYAN!”
As if she had finally come to her senses, Superstitional Realism frantically spun her head around—yes, the entrance point, right this way! She sprinted faster than she had ever in any race, scrambling through the same rooms she had been trapped in for so long, looking for her dear rival.
“Cyan?!” She bawled, drifting maniacally from one room to the next, first to where the race had all started then back again. Only this time, she did not crash. She did not bump, fall, or trip. Not even once.
“Oh, you villains, doth her and I’s suffering truly entertain you so?! No matter, for I shall deal with your kind later; Cyan, please! To my arms, so that we may trek home together!! Let us escape this Hell, posthaste!!!
“Cyan…?”
As the white-clad runner screeched into the last room, carrots flailing in weary hands as she cut through the winds, she was finally able to come down to a simmering halt, to finally scan the place with her overworked eyes. Only, she did not find her beloved there; only a neatly aligned pair of cyan sneakers remained in the center of the field, with sunlight beaming upon them and cheers still filling the track.