Chapter Text
June 1st, 2003.
TOKYO YUSHUN. (JAPANESE DERBY) 2400 METERS.
At the start of the race before the clock fires and the umas run, Ayume gazes out at the gates, and the world melts away.
EIGHT BRACKETS. EIGHTEEN RUNNERS.
Her eyes are fixed on the one Agnes Marie whose meteoric rise has stirred something in her. Something dormant yet dreaming. Something that compelled her to ask her mother to make the trek all the way to Tokyo. Just a weekend trip then back to school. Luckily, her parent indulged in her flights of fancy, and now she's here in the cheap seats near the back. The umas at this distance are barely more than a splotch of color, but Ayume could recognize Marie from anywhere. That brilliant autumn hair, sleek lavender dress shirt, chic silver buttons on that deep black blazer, and a singular simple flower hairpin to top it all off. It was an attire whose subtle declaration of “victory” roared in Ayume's head. A visage she always kept in mind while pursuing her own little rebellions and secret victories.
Then the gates slam open, and the world comes back into view. In the span of one, two, three blinks they are already multiple lengths ahead. Those umas once separated into uniform rows of colors now blended together in a scrabbling mess of a palette. But from the chaos came order and soon all the little shifts and skirmishes revealed themselves to Ayume. From the early positioning wars to the fight through the ripped up turf, but now, something new and something else entirely was happening. After all that fighting, it appeared that Marie had begun to slow down. At this level, any hesitation is a concession and, for a single moment, Ayume began to doubt.
Here in the last stretch, the umas' gap between both the finish line and the audience shortens, and that jumbled palette becomes discrete colors again. One color was emerging to dominate the rest: purple. What started as a haze became a spark then a crackle and then a cry that burst out and cut through both the air and Ayume's doubts. That gap in distance didn't seem to matter anymore because the whole world was engulfed in a glimmering, ethereal purple. It was Agnes Marie’s world today and both she and the other umas knew it. Then, for a split second, Ayume's attention slipped back to her mother and the vacant faces of the rest of the crowd. Could none of them see it? Was it still just a race to them? Was it even there? She doubted again, but when she looked back at the race, she saw hands ripping apart the very fabric of reality, the sky itself subsumed by a clean sheen of purple.
That bliss then plunged into a cacophony of shouts, screams, and yells from the crowd as the umas crossed the finish line.
Was that it? Did she win? It was impossible to see the field through the leaps and yelps of the crowd, but just barely she could make out the board. Was it true? Was it? Was it? Then the intercom screeched across the air, “We have a result - a winner has been determined! The winner of the 70th Japanese Derby is...”
And the first slot glowed—
—
“Kiyohiko”
The rolling, droning sounds of the Shinkansen fills the silence.
Ayume turns to the source of his name.
His mother continues, “Agnes Marie won. Aren't you happy?”
“Of course. Sorry. I've been playing back that moment again and again. I just can't believe I was there for the world record.”
“I took lots of pictures we can look at at home. Now eat. We need to finish all the snacks we bought.”
The crinkling of plastic and rustling of snacks fills the silence between them.
“Are you done with your homework? Don't forget there's school tomorrow.”
“I'll have it done tonight.”
“You should have had it done already.”
By the time they arrive home, it’s already night. Before settling into their evening rituals, they click through the day's images on the family computer. Pictures of the stadium, of its facilities, group pictures, pictures of themselves.
They linger on one taken at the final announcement of the winner, but it's not capturing the chaos down at the field or across at the crowd. It’s a candid picture of her, Ayume.
Kiyohiko's mom leans in onto his shoulder, “I never see you smile like that anymore.”
“I guess I'm too worried about school. Lots on my mind nowadays.”
She presses her lips to his head. “Know that I'm always here for you.”
—
Ayume opens her eyes to the dark.
There is a stillness to her movements that she doesn't know is from deliberation or anxiety. Either way, her goal is clear: She tiptoes away across her room for her backpack and digs beyond the trinkets and souvenirs for friends. There at the bottom is the object of her vanity: an Agnes Marie cosplay kit.
She holds it under her blankets, attempting to smother the crinkling sound of that cheap plastic as her shaking hands slowly peels the seal apart. She lays them out on the floor. It is a cheap facsimile of hers, but nevertheless she slips on this fast fashion and feels the coarse threads adjust to her form. The dress shirt and blazer are stitched together and the buttons are a dull grey. The included dress pants were too tight, so she went with a darker slacks she had laying around. She tossed the brunette wig aside, but took the hairclip.
Later, she peeks outside her room to see if anyone is in the bathroom next door. When the coast is clear, she leaps in with a single deft maneuver. Oftentimes her dad’s loud snores gives her some reassurance that she won't be caught. Nevertheless every single time it feels like life or death. Inside, she looks through the mirror and onto her head, trying to wrangle the hairclip into a familiar part. By the time she gives up, she looks at the silhouette in the mirror and thinks, “This should be enough to dream.”
—
It is the darkest of the night. The time when light both manmade and natural are more novelties than methods of navigation, yet Ayume puts them to use. She slips out the door and onto the streets, navigating a route from shadow to shadow. Sometimes, motorbikes would pass by and catch her off balance, but each time she whispered under her breath that food delivery men are too busy to care about her.
As the lights from infrastructure and signage grow more sporadic, she shifts from sight to instinct, following a path she knows by heart. It takes her to a secret place, a rare stretch in this suburban zone where the road becomes dirt barely illuminated by two streetlights on either end. The track is nearly 97 meters long. She's measured it on her own for fun on lazy days in the fall and always on her own.
And alone she is again here. She has pictured this moment many times and even now she keeps that image in mind as she closes her eyes and breathes. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out. She lets the air fill her completely then girds herself and runs.
Her form is terrible. Her legs trip over each other and before long, they begin to burn, burning that image in her mind. Reality was burning and branding itself on her soul. With every step, the ground buckles. Each crunch of dirt and rock and gravel echo the doubts in her mind.
She doesn't even make it halfway before she collapses. She writhes, gasping for breath. Her face is covered in sweat and snot running down into her mouth. Every dry heave is a concession to reality. Every sore and scratch a doubt made real. In all her sight, there is no purple. Just a pulsating darkness.
She lies there until it doesn't hurt to breathe anymore and then some. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. Her body turns, her arms extend, and she stays in a kneeling position for a second before she breathes, rises, and carefully shifts her weight to her right leg. Then to her left. She is sore now but standing. She stretches and with the aching at a manageable pulse, she treads a little hunched over. Every dozen meters she rests to catch her breath.
At the end of the track, she sits under the streetlight, and underneath she can barely see those pinpricks of light above beyond its burning yellow light, yet they are there, and she sees them shine.
Ayume raises a hand to the sky, purses her lips, and whispers a soft prayer that one day she too will race among the stars.