Chapter Text
This year will be Laudna Bradbury's last Olympics.
It wasn't supposed to be.
Imogen wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to move, but all she can do is stand frozen as a dozen EMTs rush to the unmoving figure at the bottom of the jump where, 11 hours from now, 30 snowboarders are meant to battle it out for a spot in the Women’s Big Air finals.
8 hours from now, the public will learn it will only be 29. It will be deemed a miracle Laudna survives, and a tragedy in the same breath.
Imogen spends all 8 of them in an ER waiting room. She doesn't sleep. She doesn't eat, willingly, though Chetney eventually forces some form of sustenance down her raw, panic-tight throat. She doesn't remember what it was, or when, merely that it ends up on the tile floor of the restroom.
She only realizes she's still wearing her gear from her own training session earlier that evening when she has to wash off the front of her Team Marquet jacket in the bathroom sink, sputtering a dozen curses for every second she wastes fighting its shitty automatic faucet. The Imogen of 8 hours and 16 minutes ago would have balked at the act.
This year is Imogen Temult's first Olympics.
The Imogen of 8 hours and 15 minutes later couldn't care less.
Imogen is on the verge of losing the war to keep her eyes open, her not-so-silent vigil taking its toll on her body and mind as both are burdened beneath the weight of a familiar exhaustion, though from an unfamiliar source.
Everything aches, like she'd been run over by a semi truck going 90, only to have it come squealing to a halt right atop her chest. There's a knot in her shoulder she knows won't work itself out for days, and the painfully stiff muscles in her neck twinge with every slight movement, but even the agonizing jolts of electricity firing through her nerves barely draw her attention. Its hard to tell if the throbbing pressure of her brain trying to squeeze itself out from her pores is the start of a migraine or just her body flipping her the bird for putting it through another round of sleep deprivation. Probably both, because why the hell not? Seems par for the damn course.
Maybe it'd be good to just rest her eyes for a little while…
Imogen jumps at the sound of the ER's heavy doors closing like the bars of a prison cell. A petite woman in a pristine doctor's coat steps through them freely, unaware of the way it leaves Imogen feeling like a livewire.
The doctor scans the nearly-barren waiting room in an almost agonizingly slow, precise manner, before finally honing in on Imogen’s post nearest to the very door she’d just come through.
Imogen's exhaustion flees to its proper place on the fringes of her life as they lock eyes, a problem to be dealt with later.
She's wide the fuck awake, now.
"Miss Temult?" the doctor calls out with a carefully neutral expression.
Imogen is already on her feet. Wobbling, but standing nonetheless. "Me, tha's'me." Her awkwardly loud reply is borderline unintelligible, her sleep-soaked drawl sending each syllable tripping over the next in their rush to reach the doctor's ears. She clears her throat and tries again, with only a marginally better result. "Imogen. M'here."
Chetney bounces up from his seat beside her, locking Imogen in place, or maybe just holding her upright, with a firm grip around her wrist that would usually tick her off; if she wasn't already at emotional over-occupancy, clinging desperately to every word this woman—Dr. Pike Trickfoot, Imogen learns at a glance to the little ID badge clipped to her breast pocket—could say.
Dr. Trickfoot eyes her warily. Imogen doesn't recognize the tiny blonde or her name. Had they been here long enough for a shift change? She seems too well put together to have been here all night. Imogen must look a disaster in comparison. She absentmindedly pulls her beanie down further over her ears to cover the rat's nest of lavender-dyed waves beneath it. Best look presentable, lest she not be taken seriously.
Imogen has about a hundred pestering questions she wants to ask regarding the first appearance of a doctor in hours, but one sticks out from the rest as the most important.
"Tell me she's okay."
She doesn't even register the bite in her voice until Chetney yanks sharply on her arm and grumbles out some variation of 'Be nice.' But Dr. Trickfoot doesn't seem phased by Imogen's brusqueness, so she doesn't waste any time apologizing for it.
In all fairness, she truly had meant to phrase it as a question. A halfway polite one, even. But Imogen's social filter has been wearing down since the moment, approximately 7 hours and 39 minutes ago, she'd been informed Laudna was being taken into emergency surgery over an unstable fracture in her spine.
It had completely given up on her an hour and 42 minutes later when she'd been told Laudna was out of the OR and being stabilized in the ICU, but that Imogen was not allowed back to see her.
Because she wasn't family.
(How couldn't they know? Couldn't they see—)
"Miss Bradbury is… stable."
Dr. Trickfoot speaks in that practiced calm of doctors who are readying themselves to share bad news with unstable people. A chorus of alarm bells go off in Imogen's mind, flashes of a familiar scene passing behind her bloodshot eyes at breakneck speed. Laudna has to be okay. Laudna has to be okay. Liliana has to be—
"She has sustained several severe injuries, including the fractures to her thoracic spine they were able to address in the OR. They also found further fracturing in her neck, as well as her clavicle on her left side, though luckily the break did not pierce the skin. It's also suspected she has a major concussion, but…"
The mask of neutrality slips for a fleeting moment, genuine worry glossing over the doctor's eyes. Imogen is decidedly grateful for the grip Chetney still has around her wrist, then. She shakily adjusts their hands so his rough-padded fingers intertwine with hers instead. Chetney squeezes tighter.
"But what?" Imogen croaks.
"We won't be able to test the full extent of it unless she—until she wakes up."
The doctor’s slight slip of the tongue sends Imogen's world tilting back until she finds herself in that moment, hovering head-first over a half-pipe at the apex of a flip, where time slows to an infinite crawl. Forgetting to breathe while she zeroes in on her landing position, like always, too terrified of blowing past that tenth of a second she has to find a place to plant her board before she loses sight of it again and has nothing to trust but her body's muscle memory to bring her to the ground in one piece.
But right now, Imogen isn't sure she can trust herself much at all.
Spots fill her vision as her knees buckle on a bad landing. The snow collapses beneath her feet, shifting like the pull of the rug she'd only just begun to settle on. Imogen's legs nearly sweep out from under her. It's all too familiar.
Laudna, slamming head-first into the hardpack. A sickening crack that echoes in Imogen's ears even hours later. Liliana—
No.
Chetney catches her, his grip the only thing holding her up now. Imogen thinks he says something in her ear, but its all just garbled nonsense buried beneath the splintering of her ribs as her thrashing heart hammers its way out from within them.
"What-what do you mean?" Imogen gasps, fighting to get a deep breath. She doesn't even realize she's started crying until Dr. Trickfoot is politely handing her a tissue procured from who-knows-where. Imogen takes it with shaking hands but doesn't use it, just stares up at the woman, willing her to elaborate.
She does, and Imogen almost wishes the doctor would've kept it to herself.
"It's hard to tell what's going to happen over the next few hours. I don't have an answer for when she'll wake up. Right now, all that can be done is wait and hope that it happens soon."
Imogen is fuckin' sick of waiting around for no answers, and is about to inform the doctor of such, when the clicking of heels and a petulant scoff draw her attention.
"Still nothing better to offer? What in the hell are we even paying you people for? At this rate, I suppose I'll have to tell the press Tal'Dorei won't be coming home with another gold, on the orders of one Dr.—Trickfoot? My, how interesting."
Furious heat licks up the sides of Imogen's cheeks as her head snaps in the woman's direction. Of course she's only managing to make an appearance now—apart from the single, absolutely worthless hour of which she'd been kind enough to grace them with her endlessly infuriating presence, following the ambulance's arrival. Simply waiting for Laudna to exit surgery had evidently been too much of a hassle to be worth sticking around for, as she'd already been gone by the time Laudna was released from the OR.
But here she is. Dressed in perfectly pressed clothes and holding a to-go cup of steaming hot, ridiculously over-priced coffee. It must taste worlds better than the steady stream of lukewarm cafeteria dirt-water lingering at the back of Imogen's throat, but she doesn’t understand in the slightest how the woman could stomach it at a time like this. Not that she even needs it. There's not a hint of bags beneath the woman's done-up eyes, no tension to her slim, athletic frame to be seen—other than the usual way she holds herself, like there's a stick shoved so far up her ass it cozied up right next to her spine.
The woman stares down at Dr. Trickfoot with thinly-veiled annoyance for having to brave the ten minute drive from her luxury hotel to get an update on Laudna's condition. As if Laudna's recovery was nothing more than an unwanted disruption to her meticulously planned schedule.
As if it wasn't her fuckin' fault that Laudna was laid up in a hospital bed, flirting with the line between life and death, to begin with.
Few people have been utterly repugnant enough to find themselves at the peak of Imogen's shitlist. It is with unwavering confidence that Imogen can assure she has never loathed even the worst of them as much as she utterly despises Delilah Briarwood.
And Imogen is far from the only one.
”Coach Briarwood,” Chetney grunts in a less-than-enthusiastic greeting, which goes either unheard or blatantly ignored. Imogen would put money on the latter.
Possibly the only person who could match Imogen’s vitriol, Chetney can hardly stand her either; always complaining that her coaching style, among other things, is over-aggressive and unsustainably hard on the athletes. Several promising careers have blossomed, peaked, and gone belly-up in bright, fiery blazes under Delilah's tutelage—Laudna's name is only the most recent addition to the list.
Sure, the Briarwood approach to coaching might get results, but Imogen thinks they're pretty fuckin' shit, all things considered.
Imogen doesn't even bother to disguise her glaring when Delilah eventually spares a look in her and Chetney's direction. The coach merely raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and rolls her eyes at the sight of them. Imogen can practically hear Delilah calling her distraught state over Laudna's well-being 'melodramatic.'
Chetney squeezes her hand until the point right before it hurts too badly to hold on. Imogen uses the pressure as a reminder to breathe, to choke down the bitter taste of her hatred and focus on the only person in the world that matters right now: Launda.
As their silent staring contest stretches on into the start of uncomfortably long, Chetney's voice breaks the palpable tension forming between them with a professional, no-bullshit tone. "Have you told the Federation that she won't be competing yet?"
"They are… aware of the situation," Delilah answers with a tired sigh, easily dropping her glare and returning to her natural state of ignoring Imogen's presence, talking over her head like a child. Imogen grits her teeth and tries to remember her stupid 4-count breathing exercise. She gets to 3 before she has to start over. "Though I had hoped this would all be easily handled well enough and we could get back to work. Unfortunate, really. This was quite the promising year."
A crack sounds somewhere deep inside of herself.
"Don't fuckin' talk about her like that," Imogen seethes, taking a heavy step in the woman's direction. "Like she's just some—some little trophy to you."
"Enough," Chetney hisses lowly. He's still got her hand in a vice grip. She tugs it free as she takes another step in Delilah's direction, putting her within arm's length of Imogen's wrath. "Gen!"
"I know what you did," Imogen seethes, the accusation laden with disgust.
The nearly unbearable urge to reach her arms out and grab Delilah by the front of her overly-expensive snow jacket buzzes beneath her skin. A deluge of faceless comments batter against her as if they were right there, standing over her shoulder and hissing into her ear.
@&$a!?%$!: What a fucking psycho.
@!s?¥: Overreact much?
@g%t€$!!?&$: This is why we have to stop letting these hormonal ass teenage girls on the world stage.
A scream builds at the back of Imogen's throat in tandem with the pained, vengeful tears stinging in her eyes. She claws at the tattered remains of her social filter, dragging it over her mouth like a bite guard before she can tear into the woman before her.
Only, Delilah, aware of Imogen's fragile restraint like a shark smelling blood in the water, doesn't let up.
"What I did?" Delilah laughs with a haughty dismissiveness, glancing around the room as if to say 'is anyone seeing this?' The few other ghosts in this hellish limbo of a place turn away as their presence is acknowledged. Delilah’s eyes narrow as she presses a manicured nail deep into the tender flesh of Imogen's heart. "I did nothing but attempt to coach an Olympian to greater heights. How unfortunate the ones around you always seem to falter in sticking the landing."
The crack inside deepens, stretching wider and wider until the moment something finally gives.
Unfortunate.
As if things just went wrong, nothing to be done about it. No fault but for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the wrong state of mind.
Imogen's real sick of that word.
The rumble of ice and snow bounds at her heels as that ravenous avalanche within begins its chase, Imogen its only target.
But certainly not its only victim.
Maybe it's because the endless hours in this god-forsaken hospital have left her full to the brim with caustic feelings that have nowhere else to go but out. Maybe it's because she's a trapped, trembling mess confined to this waiting room purgatory, staring down the woman who she's been forced to watch make her best friend's life hell for years.
Maybe it's because she doesn't know what to do with the fragment of her anger reserved not for the woman before her, but for the dying one deeper within.
For the one long dead.
But the avalanche is atop her and she cannot contain the havoc it wreaks.
The bite guard falls away as Imogen bares her teeth.
"She didn't need to prove anything to you or anyone else!" Imogen spits, shaking and shouting. Yes, she confesses, she is angry with Laudna, but— "She earned that fucking spot at the top herself, and maybe she'd still be there if you didn't push her to try that cursed fuckin' trick!"
Her chest heaves as her words die out in the silence that follows. Imogen expects Delilah to double down, insult her and her family name tenfold, dragging Laudna through the mud all the while. Finally give her a good reason to knock her square in the jaw. At least they're already at the hospital.
But Delilah does not respond in any way that Imogen is prepared to handle right now.
There's a sparkle in her eye as she takes in Imogen anew, as if suddenly seeing her in a different light. Then, Delilah smirks, sharp at the corners and utterly pleased with whatever she's found.
Imogen's seen this look in the gazes of several coaches over the years, but she's never despised it nearly as much as she does now, watching it twist Delilah's face into something like hunger.
The recognition of opportunity.
Dr. Trickfoot clears her throat and most of Imogen's belligerent rage falls away with the sudden reminder. Delilah can wait. "Please, I know this is a difficult situation, but—"
"When can I see her?" Imogen cuts the doctor off with a pleading stare.
She can't bear to hear any more of the watered-down bullshit that everyone keeps trying to pin this fuckin' disaster as. Imogen's best friend, her goddamn person, is suffering. All alone. Laudna hates being alone.
Dr. Trickfoot's face tightens and Imogen already knows the answer.
"I think, right now, you should go and try to get some rest," the doctor suggests amicably. Imogen wants to shove her straight back through those stupid ER doors. "If Miss Bradbury wakes up, we'll give you a call."
Imogen can't choke out the question. Delilah asks it for them both, her toes tapping impatiently against the linoleum, and it makes Imogen want to force her and the rest of the ghosts haunting this place out the door, too, emptying this building, this city, this entire godsdamned continent until its just Imogen, her misery, and her sweet, perfect, infuriating Laudna. "And if she doesn't?"
"We will let you know," Dr. Trickfoot answers tensely, forcing out each word between gritted teeth painted in a polite smile.
For a moment Imogen wants to push, wants to fight if only to do something with the restless energy brewing inside her. Is it truly too much to want assurance that Laudna will at least be okay?
But as she looks closer at the doctor, she realizes Dr. Trickfoot has taken to staring at Delilah in barely-withheld contempt and has not, she realizes, stopped doing so the entire conversation.
Imogen lets the rest of the fight stirring within her fall away. At least they can both agree on that.
Delilah huffs at the blatant dismissal. "Fine."
Pausing as she turns to leave, Delilah takes a moment to stare at Imogen, saying nothing. Then she nods to herself, pulling out her phone from her purse, and disappears back out into the burgeoning day, purpose imbued in each click of her heeled boots.
Dr. Trickfoot exhales sharply through her nose. When Imogen turns to take her in, she finds a mirror of that same exhaustion she knows all too well. She almost wants to offer the woman her support. Then she remembers that she had, once again, denied permission for her to visit Laudna. The willingness dies before Imogen can even twitch a fingertip in her direction.
Suddenly aware of the attention on her, the doctor hastily tries to bring herself back to that place of practiced, careful neutral. But Imogen doesn't miss the way her nails dig into the meat of her palms, knuckles blanching with the effort. Catching Imogen's lingering stare, Pike Trickfoot hides herself away in the pockets of her doctor's coat.
She looks up at Imogen, opens her mouth like she's going to say something, then closes it with a tight shake of her head. When she does eventually speak a long moment later, the words are aching and hollow. Or maybe Imogen’s just projecting. "Someone will call you."
Dr. Trickfoot turns and walks away, gliding easily through the impenetrable doors leading deeper into the ER. Imogen tries not to hate her, too.
For what must be several minutes, Imogen stares down the unmoving doors as if she could compel them to open with her mind alone.
The hospital staff had locked them down when Imogen tried to fight her way through them upon their initial arrival. A massive wall of a man had tried to hold her back, had told her that everything would be fine and promised that they'd “take good care of your friend.” What a sack of horseshit.
In Imogen's desperation to stay within arms reach of the gurney carrying Laudna's unconscious body, she'd elbowed him squarely in the face and felt a sickening crunch. If they hadn't threatened to have her escorted off the premises in retaliation, Imogen's sure she could've fought her way through the rest of them eventually.
But refusing to be taken that far from Laudna's vicinity, Imogen tucked herself into one of the waiting room's stiff, unforgiving pleather chairs until it molded to the shape of her long-numb ass, scarcely prying herself from its surface unless she'd deemed it absolutely necessary.
All of that, just to be told to go home? Without so much as even getting to see Laudna? No. No way in hell.
But she’s out of options that don’t involve her flushing her career or the last shreds of her reputation down the drain, and Laudna would never let her hear the end of it if she dared try a single one of them. Imogen tries not to think that it’d be worth it.
Today wasn't supposed to go like this. Laudna was supposed to give those jackasses a run for their money, show them just who it was they'd spent the whole season doubting and head into the finals with her head held high, with Imogen right there beside her. Even if she lost, Imogen always would've been there. Didn't Laudna know that? Imogen had thought so, but maybe not. Maybe Imogen hadn't told her, hadn’t shown her or been there for her, well enough.
Imogen needs to tell her now, then. Needs to make sure Laudna knows the whole ugly, terrible truth of Imogen’s heart if it means that she finally gets it.
But would she ever get the chance if she left? What if something happened and she couldn't make it back here in time? How could she survive missing another goodbye?
Imogen knows the answer to that one, of course.
She wouldn't.
Don't go there. Now ain't the time for that.
If she doesn't get up and move, she's gonna hurl something through those stupid fucking doors.
Chetney picks up on the dangling thread instantly, unabashedly eager to supply a distraction and avoid any more threats of legal action. "C'mon kid, I know that look. If you ain't gonna sleep, let's at least go get something to eat, yeah?"
Imogen's empty stomach churns. Eating sounds like a worthless effort when it's just going to come back up again anyway, but Imogen is well aware that its not actually a question of whether or not she wants to. Just of whether or not she's going to come peacefully—or if Chetney will have to drag her out by the ear.
"Tell you what, we can even get some of those shitty breakfast sandwiches you like, eh?" It must be a testament to how out of it she is if Chetney is offering an unplanned, delightfully greasy, cheat meal. More so still when it doesn't even drum up a reaction.
Dr. Trickfoot's words are stuck replaying in her mind, looping atop the echo of another doctor, in another purgatory, until there is nothing but muted screaming and four empty words.
Someone will call you.
"Okay."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
The pair has only just settled into Chetney's rental car, a cramped little thing that's almost as tiny as he is, when a ring starts from the bulky holster clipped to his belt.
"Ah shit," Chetney grumbles as he fumbles the top flap of it open, squinting at the screen of his ancient flip phone once he manages to slip it free. Normally, Imogen would joke that he needs to get some glasses or finally submit to the turn of the century, and he would snap back and say he never submits to anyone or anything and that she needs glasses worse than he does. Today, she just leans her head against the passenger window and waits. "One sec, kid, I gotta take this."
The door creaks and slams behind him and all at once Imogen finds herself well and truly alone for the first time in 8 hours and—she wakes up her own phone, staring at the clock and forcing herself to ignore the lockscreen behind it and the still-populating wall of notifications beneath it—53 minutes.
Silence has always made her mind start to run until it can overwhelm the empty space. For the last two years, Imogen's not had to deal with as much of it. Laudna loves to think out loud, to talk about anything and everything and nothing at all, with no concern for the social restraints of any given moment, to the dismay and ridicule of many at her obvious inability to stick to her media training.
Despite the flush of first-and-second-hand embarassment the quirk occasionally brought to her cheeks, Imogen admits she had almost forgotten how scared the silence made her in its absence.
She's remembering now.
Fragments of memories she has only been able to bury a few inches below the surface of precariously packed snow break through with a vengeance. Imogen tries to drown them out with thoughts of simple, mundane things, but all of it leads back to Laudna, which inevitably leads back to the fall, which sends her plummeting right back to—
"Absolutely fucking not!" Chetney's voice, brimming with hot, incredulous rage, smashes through the avalanche of memories hounding at Imogen's heels, desperate to swallow her whole and drown her in them. She turns her head just enough to watch Chetney pace a groove in the asphalt in the reflection of the rearview mirror.
Only his head, capped with the faded and fraying blue beanie she'd given him as a gift ages ago, with wispy strands of his fine, white hair spilling out from beneath its brim, and the bare hand damn-near crushing the phone no longer held up to his ear, but directly in front of his blistering face, are visible through the back window. Imogen can't remember the last time she'd ever seen him turn that particular shade of red.
(Yes, she can. But dwelling on the memory of that reporter, asking those questions, would threaten to drag her right back into the avalanche Chetney had unwittingly dragged her out of. So she chooses not too.)
"You must be completely out of your goddamn mind if you think I'd ask her to do that," he seethes. "You've always been a cold-hearted bitch, but I never thought even you would stoop that fucking low."
Chetney pinches the bridge of his bulbous nose, steadying himself as he listens to whoever is on the other line. He barks out a humorless laugh, making no effort to hide his vitriol as he continues.
"I think you're forgetting that I knew Liliana for a long time. That I've known Imogen just about her whole life. Damn right that accident broke the world's heart—but you didn't see what it did to her. Clearly, you ain't seen the progress she's made these last few years, either, with your head so far up your own ass. And yeah, I got Laudna to thank for a lot of that, but right now? I can't. She can't. I—"
Imogen hadn't realized she'd gotten out of the car until she was staring face-to-face with Chetney.
"I can't what, Chet?"
There's a laugh, trilling and cruel, from the other end of the line. Imogen doesn't need to wonder who he's talking too—she just wants to know what the fuck Delilah could possibly want that involves dragging both her mama and Laudna's names into it.
Chetney watches her like he's clocking the storm swirling beneath her skin, that ball of restless energy in her chest building into something dangerous. Something reckless. The potential for a kinetic disaster.
Shoulders slumping with a long-suffering sigh, Chetney kicks at the back tire of the rental, unwilling to look at the mess he knows he can't do shit to stop. "At Delilah's suggestion, the Federation wants you to take Laudna's spot in the Big Air qualifiers. Today."
"Me?" Imogen's stomach drops to her boots and out through the soles, burrowing a crater in the earth she wishes she could bury herself in. "I don't—I wouldn't even qualify for Big Air anymore—"
"They've decided to make an exception," Chetney grumbles. "On account of you having qualified for the last one and would've more than likely competed if—if you hadn't quit. Guess they wanna treat it as some sorta carryover. And, well…" he trails off, shame and disappointment crossing his face. "You're Liliana Temult's daughter."
"Let me speak to her, Pock 'O Pea," Delilah's voice calls through the tinny little speaker of Chetney's phone.
"I'm here," Imogen answers. Though, she isn't. Not fully. Her mind is spinning out, the words only half registering. You're Liliana Temult's daughter.
Delilah hums, perhaps pleasantly surprised at Imogen's lack of snark for once. "Miss Temult, Laudna has trained harder than anyone else her entire career for the chance this very moment offered her. A nobody from the Parchwood becoming a two-time Olympic Gold Medalist? It would have cemented her place in the history books, would have made her an icon for the ages and spat in the faces of those that called her a fluke. But it is unhelpful—dare I say harmful—to lie to ourselves regarding the prospects of the future just so we may hold onto the comforts of the past and of what could have been. So let us acknowledge the ugly truth.
"If Laudna survives, she will still never compete at this level again."
That snaps her back to the present.
Imogen grits her teeth until her jaw aches from the pressure. As a rule, Imogen never agrees with Delilah Briarwood, particularly when it has anything to do with Laudna. She wants to argue out of principle, as if she hasn't already run through that exact line of thought ten times over. But. "Yes. That's… true."
"That means she has given you the opportunity to do something truly wonderful now—something that will overshadow that ever-present darkness which looms over your career. Should you agree, you will be able to make a name for yourself as someone other than the disappointment of a daughter who squandered her mother's legacy."
Chetney grips the phone it his hand like he's ready to smash it to bits, the heat of his breath in the Wildemount cold billowing like smoke from his mouth as he growls. "Now you listen here—"
Imogen holds up a hand to stop him, closing her eyes tight against the tears forming there. The idea of jumping again, of being anywhere near a Big Air slope right now, floods her with terror.
That avalanche looms, hungry, in the back of her mind.
Try to lie to herself as she might, Imogen can't deny that she has never truly shaken the weight of the yoke around her neck that ties her back to Liliana. To many, Imogen's half-pipe career will simply never be more than a half-assed use of her potential—despite the fact that Imogen has come to love the discipline as much as she did Big Air, before everything. She wants to say she doesn't care about those people and what they have to say, but Imogen can only lie to herself so much.
Laudna, though—perfect, precious, wonderful, Laudna—had never looked at her and seen Liliana Temult's daughter.
To Laudna, she'd always just been, well. Imogen.
And now… now Imogen can do something to show her just how much that means to her. Just how much she means.
She just has to stomach agreeing to a plan presented to her by the devil herself.
"I'll do it," Imogen answers with tired determination. "Just this once. But not—not for whatever it is people expect from my mama's legacy, or for some big career comeback."
She takes a deep breath and chances one last look up at the hospital.
"I'm doing it for you," she whispers to herself, then, louder, to the two coaches, "I'm doing it for Laudna."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
It only fully registers exactly what she's agreed too an hour and a half later. Over 50 meters in the air, Imogen leers at that 5 meter jump off the 88 meter run-in like it's taunting her.
In a few hours, this place will be flooded with the audience, camera crews, judges, announcers—hundreds of people all gathering to watch them compete and critique their every move. But right now, it's just Imogen, the other Big Air competitors and their coaches, and the relevant event staff.
Still way too many fuckin' people to watch as Imogen tries, and fails, at not having a panic attack in her opinion.
"Listen, kid," Chetney starts as calmly as he's able, but Imogen has known him too long to miss the angry, aching undercurrent to his voice. "I ain't gonna tell you not to do this. You ain't gonna listen, and it's a little too late for that anyway. But I am gonna tell you that you do not have to be some big fuckin' hero right now. You just standing here? I'll be honest, I never thought I'd see you at the top of a jump like this again, full stop. But to do it for the first time in five years at the fucking Olympics? You're absolutely batshit fucking insane. I'm a little terrified of you right now, Mog."
Imogen laughs at that and it sounds as jagged and painful as it feels, but she finds she can breathe a little easier after.
"You don't have to prove anything," Chetney continues, a little more serious. "You've already proven enough just being here right now. I know you said you're doing this for Laudna, and that's admirable, but if you full send it and get yourself fuckin' ki—hurt, she's gonna maim my ass for letting you get anywhere near this thing. Which is bullshit, considering she knows as well as I do once you get a stupid idea in that hard-ass head of yours there ain't nothing we can do about it."
Imogen's chest aches at the mention of her. She knows Chetney is right. Laudna wouldn't want Imogen doing this for her, knowing everything Imogen's been through. Would tell her that she doesn't need this medal, doesn't need Imogen to be anything other than all she is—that she loves her for being Imogen, not a Temult. Even if she doesn't love Imogen the same way Imogen loves her.
She is more than aware that agreeing to this was a stupid, reckless idea, especially with the qualifiers for her own event only two days away.
Her fellow teammates and competitors seem to agree, if their odd looks in her direction during the team captain's meeting were any indication. The medical staff, too, almost hadn't let her compete. They'd questioned her mental fortitude and her ability to complete the jumps safely, but hadn't been able to find anything actually wrong with her, and Imogen had been too dissociated from herself to let the anxiety take hold.
Until now.
"Hey," a voice she sort of half-recognizes as belonging to the Big Air captain for Marquet interrupts. What was their name? Dash? Dusty? "So, so sorry—really hate to interrupt, but we only have an hour designated for our last training slot. Are you… gonna go?"
Imogen turns to look at the snowboarder. They're tall, about the same height as Laudna, with that same wire-frame build. She wonders if, like Laudna, they've learned to overcome some of the disadvantage to their height with flexibility in-air, or if they did it with power off the jump. Had Laudna thought they were a threat? Now, more than ever, Imogen wishes she could ask her, if only to listen to her talk when she gets all worked up and analytical.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry," Imogen stammers out on a shaky exhale. "Just, haven't done this in a while."
The smile on the captain's face, which had seemed polite, maybe even a little frustrated, but still held genuine concern, thins to something fake and cordial at best. "Sure."
The captain clears out and Chetney gives her a meaningful look. Don't be a hero.
With a steadying breath, Imogen takes off down the run.
She's never minded going fast. Hell, she got in trouble more times than she could count as a kid for taking off down trails at breakneck speed, spraying powder clouds over unsuspecting riders with a massive grin on her face. Fast has always felt free to Imogen.
Flying—that used to feel free, too.
But now, she speeds down the ramp, desperate to outrun the avalanche at her back, and knows she's going too fast.
Control your speed, baby girl.
Imogen falters at the memory of her mama's voice.
Too fast off the lip and you're gonna have no control—too slow, and you won't have any power. You gotta find that sweet spot, let the air just take you.
Then, you fuckin' soar, baby.
Imogen is 5 when she gets her first taste of big air.
In the way of children, Imogen had wanted to take a try from the first moment she'd seen Liliana flip off the lip of a snow park ramp. And in the way of parents with destructive streaks, Liliana had let her.
Imogen breaks her wrist when she falls, the jump too big and her experience too little for her to tackle it properly. Relvin—who despite his love for Liliana, had never held any love for the sport she dedicated her life to—shouted until he was red in the face over Liliana's recklessness, while Liliana fired right back with accusations that he was overbearing and controlling.
Even at five years old, Imogen could suspect they weren't actually fighting over what happened to her.
Because despite all the pain and fear she felt, Imogen hadn't stopped smiling since the moment her board left the ground.
Imogen is 6 when she meets Chetney Pock 'O Pea for the first time—well, for the first time with a conscious mind. As Liliana's coach, Chetney had been in the background of Imogen's life for as long as she'd been able to pick out his face in the portraits on their walls and in their family photo books. He greets Imogen with a pat to her head and a ruffle to her poof of blonde hair, which had been haphazardly cut the week before in an incident with kitchen scissors that her mama had tried to fix, only for it to end up much shorter than either of them wanted.
"So, your ma tells me you wanna learn to jump, eh, kid?"
Imogen stomps her feet and glares up at his wrinkly visage with an offense reserved only for those dumb enough to underestimate her. "I don't wanna learn to jump!"
Her tiny, freckle-splattered face splits with a smile full of gaps. "I wanna learn to fly!"
Liliana laughs and the echo of it aches and aches and aches. "Oh, dear lord, help us all."
But Chetney doesn't laugh. He has never been tall, and though Imogen is soon to outgrow him, for now he still kneels down to get eye-to-eye with her. He shoots her a hard look that has even that restless itch beneath Imogen's skin going still. "Flyin' is serious business. You gonna do the hard work? Eat all your veggies, practice when you don't wanna, and listen real close to your ma n' me so you don't get hurt again?"
Imogen nods with all the seriousness a six-year-old can muster. "Yessir, Mr. Pock-ah-pea!"
Then, and only then, does Chetney's face brighten with a grin. "Hoo boy, you're gonna be a riot, aren't you?"
She doesn't really know what he means, but he says it like a good thing, so she nods again.
"Alright, here's your first lesson. Listen up good, yeah?"
Imogen waits for him to speak, but she learns quick Chetney is one for actions over words when he simply pushes her over.
Imogen yelps, throwing her arms out wildly to try and save herself as she drops to the ground with a loud smack. She rubs her previously injured wrist with a grimace. "Wha' the hell was that for?"
"Language," Liliana chastises.
"Hurt, didn't it?" Chetney asks Imogen with a nod to her wrist.
Imogen scoffs. "Well, duh!"
"Lesson number one? Get used to it. You're gonna mess up, and you're gonna land on your ass—"
"Chet!" Liliana laughs in exasperation.
"—more than your feet, or your feet and then your ass, so you gotta learn how to do it safely. That means you can't be throwin' your arms out like that, and you can't be scared of gettin' hurt, either. Capiche?"
"Cuh-peesh."
"Alright, let's try again."
Four months later, Imogen, two inches taller and bursting with unearned confidence, crashes into the hardpack while trying to fly off a jump twice her size. Her other wrist is only spared by Chetney having first taught her how to fall.
That lesson saves her again now as Imogen, not 6 but 20, bails out of a jump on the Olympic stage and slides pitifully down the landing.
"Fuck."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
Of the three jumps she manages to squeak out during practice, Imogen doesn't land a single one.
"This is gonna be a disaster," Imogen groans into her hands.
All around her, the world's best Big Air athletes are stepping firmly into the zone. Even the most nervous among them, some Shadowfell teenager sweating bullets while she argues with her exasperated coach, looks to have more confidence stored in the tip of her pinky finger than Imogen can manage to wring from her entire body.
"Maybe," Chetney shrugs. "Maybe not."
"Wow. Real helpful, coach."
Chetney rolls his eyes. "Whaddya want me to say, kid? Whether it's a disaster or not all comes down to you. You can worry a groove in your mind over all the ways it might go wrong until you get stuck and end up fuckin' up cause you won't let your body do what it knows how to do. Or, you can shake it off and accept that, yeah, you might get hurt—accept that it scares you—and then go out and do it anyway, no matter what happens. But I don't get to choose that for you, Imogen."
For a minute, neither of them say anything else.
Imogen is first to break the silence with a trembling confession. "Jus' can't stop thinkin' 'bout the fall."
"It's like I told you, you were just a little late coming out of that second rotation—"
"You know that ain't the fall I'm talkin' about, Chet."
A bone-deep exhaustion settles over Chetney's hunched form as, all at once, the walls he's been holding up, his attempts at acting like any of this is normal, completely collapse. "Yeah, I know."
"I see it all the time," Imogen whispers shakily. "I blink and it's like I'm right back there. Hell, it's been years and I-I still can't even sleep without it playin' out again in my nightmares."
Chetney lays a heavy hand on her shoulder. "You can't keep putting that kinda pressure on yourself—expecting yourself to just get over it 'cause a few years have passed. That's—fuck, kid. You lost your mom. That ain't somethin' that just goes away with time."
It's half the truth and they both know it. Relvin might be breathin', but her daddy was never the same after the accident, either. Imogen might as well have lost both her parents that day. Lost herself, too, and would've stayed lost, right alongside him, if it hadn't been for Launda.
Laudna's the one who should be here, competing for her second gold and blowing past every expectation people have of her. Not Imogen, whose only accomplishments today have been dickin' around and making an ass of herself.
All her life, people have told Imogen she was practically made for flying. That she was born with a board strapped to her feet, that she was the perfect height for flipping, that getting to grow up under the guidance of a legendary athlete and a veteran coach was the perfect training—the perfect opportunity—to be one of the greatest the sport had ever seen.
She was, by all means, born to do this.
But Laudna? There's no plausible explanation for how she made it this far.
She was always too tall. A gangly reed of a woman with a center of balance that's all off for the moves Big Air requires, and with none of the power to make up for it. She hadn't even stepped on a snowboard until she was 15, and even then, her family was too poor to afford a coach. Laudna's foundation is built on homemade ramps and rails in the backwoods of her home in Whitestone, and occasional rides down the slope when she could afford a lift ticket. Imogen has never been able to decide whether or not she agrees with Laudna's belief that she was "lucky" Delilah had spotted her jumping on the slopes and offered to help cultivate the potential she saw in her.
There isn't a world were Laudna should have, logically, made it anywhere close to the professional snowboard level, let alone become an Olympic gold medalist, but she grit her teeth and clawed her way up every rung of a ladder that was determined to buck her off at every opportunity anyway—until it finally did.
Something burns in Imogen's chest at the unfairness of it all. Snowboarding had always been about taming mountains. If Laudna had made them bend to her will and Liliana had just let them lead the way, then Imogen might as well be happily serving herself up on a platter and ringing the dinner bell. And yet, she's the one here, not them.
What good is all that potential if she gets eaten alive?
She knows she'll always be a disappointment to the people holding Liliana's legacy hostage over her head. Despite her deepest fears and greatest wishes, she'll never know if her mama would be pleased with the path she ended up making for herself or if Liliana, too, would be disappointed in what Imogen's life has become.
Meanwhile, Laudna had never shied away from letting Imogen know how ferociously proud of her she was for carving her own path across that mountain face.
For so long, Imogen has raced down every slope in fear of the avalanche behind her catching up.
What if she just… stopped?
Laudna would never blame her for walking away now, even if the world would hate her for it. She would already be so proud of Imogen even being here in the first place.
Imogen's thoughts shift to that endless lead-in before the jump. What if, rather than that feeling of ever-impending doom, she let something else drive her forwards for once?
How proud would Laudna be if Imogen managed to land just one jump? How wide would that beautiful sharp-toothed smile stretch if Imogen managed to make it to the finals? If she made it on the podium? If she won gold?
She almost doesn't want to let herself consider it, doesn't want that hope to sink its teeth into her—but hasn't it already? What is Laudna but the greatest force of hope in her life?
Imogen's skin tingles with that familiar restless itch as she surveys the rest of the athletes. It's almost laughable how little attention they pay her compared to the headlines that have already spread like wildfire on her behalf.
She doesn't need their attention. Doesn't want it. The person whose attention she wants isn't here, but this, this is her life. Every inch of snow is soaked in her—all Imogen needs to do is sink into it.
The avalanche thunders down the mountain behind her, but for the first time in five years, Imogen lets it catch her.
Laudna had told her on several occasions that there was little else as vital to getting in the zone as choosing the right music. Imogen had agreed, if only because it was easier than admitting to the oddity of her own pre-competition ritual of pumping white noise into her headphones until she didn't have enough space to think of anything but the snow, her board, and the moment of air time that separated them. It seems like an easier thing to focus on now, too. Farther from the dreadful silence that has been nipping at her heels all day and begging for her to trip.
She digs through her music app until she finds Laudna's personal hype-up playlist that she'd shared with Imogen ages ago, chuckling at the title. Music for a Very Reasonable Amount of Air.
Closing her eyes, Imogen presses play. She's partially curious of what sort of music Laudna holds at such high esteem, but mostly content to just be wrapped in this little piece of her.
That is to say, she isn't really expecting anything—and yet, the synth-heavy intro to Van Halen's Jump still catches Imogen off guard, prying the first real smile she's felt all day free from her lips. It seems so far off from the more alt-adjacent music Laudna tends to be partial to, and yet Imogen can almost picture Laudna sitting here, nodding along to the beat while she hums the melody, clear as day.
Ever curious about the inner workings of Laudna's mind, Imogen makes a mental note to ask about the song choice when she wakes up.
And if she doesn't?
Delilah's words rattle around inside her skull like a wayward pinball, if it were the size of a boulder and Imogen was the poor fool sat stupidly in its path.
Imogen shakes her head, ignoring the rapid bounce in her leg as she lets the music and the bitter, grounding cold wash over her.
Laudna will wake up.
She has to.
I can't lose her too.
Chetney pulls her in beneath his arm, holding her securely against his side as two warm, wet tracks trail down Imogen's cheeks. Only once they've begun to sting from the cold does she wipe her tears away and drag the pieces of herself back together.
Imogen grips tight to the locket always hanging around her neck and presses its inscription against the left side of her chest.
The better halves become a better whole.
She thinks of Laudna and Liliana, broken. Careers and lives—life, cut short. Everything they'd wanted to do, wanted to accomplish, that they never will, now. Everything she wishes she could tell them and didn't when she still had the chance.
Imogen is so tired of leaving things hanging in the balance.
Then why don't you go on and do something about it, darling?
With a deep, shaking breath, Imogen touches the chilled metal pendant to her lips.
She doesn't know about better, and she sure doesn't know about whole, but becoming sounds like an alright place to start.
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
The crowd is… big.
Like, a holy-fucking-shit-ton of people, big.
"Are the turnouts usually this impressive?"
Imogen turns to find the team Shadowfell kid beside her, peeking out past the wall dividing the deck they're all waiting in and the jump itself to stare at the audience with wide, inquisitive eyes. There's a thick journal in her hands that she writes in feverishly. At random—to Imogen—moments, she flips back several handfuls of pages, scribbles down even more, and then flips back to another spot.
"No—not in the last few years, at least."
"Makes sense. A snowboarding legend dying in a horrible and very public freak accident will do that to a sport, I guess. A little depressing they gave us such a sad jump for such a good crowd, but oh well, take what you're given and all that," The girl rambles as she jots down something else in her book before freezing altogether. She blinks slowly at her page and turns to look back up at Imogen, watching her with a blank stare for a long moment that kind of creeps her out, and not in the fun way Laudna does.
Imogen is still reeling from the several bombs this girl has dropped on her fragile psyche when she asks another question. "Are you Imogen Temult?"
"I—yeah. I am."
A beaming smile spreads across the girl's face and then she's suddenly thrusting the book and her pen into Imogen's hands. "Oh that's amazing! I didn't realize you still did Big Air—would you sign this? Make it out to Prism, if you would! Or, no, no—make it out to Prizzy. Yeah, that sounds cool, right?"
"I don't do Big Air," Imogen blurts out, before realizing how ridiculous that sounds given the current circumstances. "Usually. This is a, uh, one time thing."
Prism's eyes seem to genuinely sparkle at that, like some sort of anime magical girl, which feels incredibly at odds with her darker aesthetic. "A one time thing?! Okay, okay, you have to sign it now. Please? That's so rare and I promise I won't make a fraudulent copy of it and sell it all over the internet."
"Well, okay, I wasn't worried about that 'till you said it," Imogen laughs, a part of her softening at something vaguely familiar about the girl. "But sure, if you promise. Can't say you'll want it after this mess, though."
Prism waves away her comment. "If you totally slam and something awful happens—not that I want it too, gosh, that'd be horrible, but if it did—that just makes this even more valuable! To me, personally. Again, not to the Internet."
"The more you say that, the more I'm convinced you're definitely gonna sell it."
"Cross my heart I won't!"
Imogen smirks and quickly scribbles out the autograph.
To Prizzy,
Don't sell this illegally.
— Imogen Temult
Prism takes the book back gently, holding it like if she looks away from it it will disappear. "Wow—I'd really been hoping to get Laudna to sign this for me, too, it's too bad she—"
"Stop."
Prism and Imogen blink at each other in surprise, neither expecting Imogen's sharp, bitter snap. Imogen doesn't apologize, though, and Prism seems to take it in stride. "Sorry, sometimes my mouth gets ahead of me," she says with an embarrassed chuckle. "Anyway. I hope she's okay. Everyone else here has been… fine, I guess, but she was the only one who was actually welcoming, you know?"
"Yeah, sounds like her," Imogen sighs. "People can get intense. Just ignore them and do your own thing, yeah? Out there, it's just you and your board. Gotta leave everything else behind, or it'll just weigh you down."
Prism shakes herself off. "Yeah. Yeah! You're right. So what if I'm Shadowfell's only competitor and they're all counting on me to bring home our first gold? You know, we had to like, crowdfund to get me here. It was a lot. But it's fine! I just have to do my best and hope that my work ethic is reflected in my results."
Imogen chuckles. "No matter what, I'm sure your people'll be proud."
Prism moves her head in a so-so motion. "Maybe. Mother might claw my eyes out if I don't come home with a medal, but, what can you do?"
Imogen's face darkens at the young snowboarder's words. She pulls her in by the shoulders and levels her with a serious look. "Hey. As long as you do your best, that's for you to be proud of—and if your mom can't accept that, or threatens you over that, screw her. If you, I don't know, need help or somethin', let me or somebody else know, okay?"
Prism's face furrows in confusion before realization dawns in its place and she begins… laughing? What the fuck is up with this kid? "Oh, no, no—Mother is my pet bird. Sorry, that must have sounded so intense. She's just a very competitive raven. Really gets riled up over Big Air in particular—and ski jumping. Probably the whole flying thing."
Imogen doesn't know what to say to that. Luckily, she doesn't have to as a staff member calls her name. "You're up next."
Right. Time to actually jump this thing.
There's a raucous cheer from the crowd that makes her jolt. She ducks further behind the divider, pressing herself back against the final layer of separation between herself and her worst nightmare. Her chest is tight. Her gut roils, tying itself in painful knots. Every time she blinks, she sees flashes of the worst that could happen. In the sliver of reality between each one, all she sees is the faces of the other athletes staring at her like she's a zoo exhibit. Imogen forces her eyes closed and feels the hours she's spent running from sleep catch up to her all at once.
"C'mon, kid. It's time."
Imogen nods tightly, trying to dispel the shake in her hands. It's no use.
Fuck admitting she's scared. She's fuckin' terrified.
A hand, strong and familiar in a fuzzy-at-the-edges way, grips her shoulder. "Hey. Breathe, or you're gonna pass out."
Her first inhale is thin and the exhale barely cycles the air from her lungs.
"Again."
Her second is deeper, shifting her ribcage just enough to dislodge some of the weight over her rapidly beating heart.
"One more, Temult, you got it."
After the last, the voice starts to take on a shape she can recognize through the fog. Its brash edges have been sanded down with age and concern, but Imogen knows it easily, even after five years.
She opens her eyes to the worried face of Beauregard Lionett and feels 15 all over again. "Thanks, Beau."
"Sure," Beau says easily, patting Imogen's shoulder. "Now go kill it."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
"And we are back with the Women's Snowboarding Big Air Qualifiers! Just tuning in after the commercial break? Well, we're glad to have you, even if you are late to the party. I'm Bertrand Bell—"
"This is Ariks Eshteross."
"—and we are honored to be your hosts for today's event, Marquet. And my, my, what an event it is! Isn't that right, Ariks?"
The second announcer hums. "It is indeed."
Shit. Didn't mean to put this on—
"Not a talkative fellow for a sports broadcaster, are you? Well, anyway, in the odd case you've been living under a rock, dear listener, we have some incredible, world-shaking, boundary-breaking news to share. You might just know of fellow Marquesian snowboarder Imogen Temult, daughter of the late Big Air icon Liliana Temult, who has come to Wildemount as a Women's Half-Pipe competitor. And while she is most definitely a formidable force on the pipe, she has been Big Air's greatest what-if since she officially stopped competing in the sport several years ago."
"Out with it, Bell."
"Oh alright, alright. Well, today—yes, that's right, today, the young Temult's Big Air career is a what-if no longer."
The man sits up in his recliner, the beer in his hand sloshing slightly over the rim. His thumb stalls over the channel button on his remote. What?
"I can tell your mouths are hanging open, but yes you have heard me right. Just this morning, we received word that Imogen Temult would ride in place of the previously-defending gold medalist, Tal'Dorei's Laudna Bradbury, who suffered a tragic accident in training last night and was deemed unfit to compete as of this morning. News on her condition is still developing, but right here, right now, making her glorious return to Big Air for the first time on the Olympic stage, our prodigal daughter Imogen Temult prepares to take her first run. Trust me, you won't want to look away from this one, Marquet."
A gruff, disbelieving chuckle filters out of the TV speakers. "No, you certainly won't."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
The crowd roars as Imogen rounds the corner. Cameras flash in her direction, signs she can't read wave at her in the distance. It all feels muted. She tightens her bindings and fixes her goggles over her face, bathing the world in a red-orange tint. Jump plays on a loop in the earbuds tucked beneath her helmet, but even the music seems to slide right off of her ice-coated awareness.
Chetney yells something beside her. She can't parse the words from the wind and the crowd and the thunder in her ears, but he gives her a thumbs up and Imogen figures that's the most important bit anyway.
She pushes her right foot forward, lets the nose of her board touch that first inch of the lead-in, and leans into it. Conditions are good, a little slick, but she took the trip down enough times in practice to know when and where to pull back.
The kicker still arrives faster than she wants it too. Which is to say, at all.
She hangs all of her weight over the tail, throws her shoulder back hard to start her flip as she flies through the takeoff. She grabs the toe edge of her board as she leaves the snow, her heart racing as she meets that moment of pure air.
The first cork is clean. She opens up too far on the second, but still makes it through all three rotations of her 1080. The judges will probably hit her on it, but it'll be alright so long as she stomps the landing.
She finds her spot coming out of the final spin, goes to plant her board—and feels her heel edge catch.
Shit.
There's a collective groan from the crowd as the snowboard jerks and Imogen careens backwards off her feet. The impact of her ass against the snow is hard but not that painful, all things considered. Nothing hurts other than her pride.
Almost glad Laudna didn't see that one.
She takes a second to gather herself as she fumbles to free her boots from her bindings, grounding herself in the motion of it. Despite what the nagging voice of her embarrassment says, a little fall is nothing out of the ordinary. She isn't even the first of the athletes to trip out of their landing tonight.
With a smile and a wave to the crowd, Imogen stands and walks to the scoring area, giving appreciative nods and thank you's to the few comments of praise sent her way. It's harder to ignore the pity she finds in a few faces, but she can't let it linger.
Which is made all the more difficult when her score from the judges pops on screen.
11.50
A drop score. That's totally fine. Just means that Imogen Temult is heading into her last two jumps on the international stage without a safety net. Just means that those tricks need to be big, showy, and perfectly landed to get her over the cut line and into the final twelve of the best women's Big Air athletes in the world.
Just means Imogen has to get a fucking grip.
No big deal.
No pressure at all.
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
"11.50—not the score she was hoping for from that backside double cork 1080."
"Not at all, Ariks. Not at all. You can see it in her face—she's disappointed in her performance, but she is being a wonderful sport about it all the same. Look at that smile! You just know she's going to come back this next run and knock it out of the park. Now, the question is simply will she try at it again and hope she can improve, or will she go for something bigger?"
"A good question with a difficult answer to decipher. She seems shaken by that fall. All we can hope for is that she takes this next jump safely."
"Right on that you are, Ariks. Now, up next we have quite the fierce competitor! From Team Feywild, Yu Suffiad—sister to fellow athlete Dusk Suffiad, who rides under Team Marquet's banner today—prepares to tackle this jump. What can you tell the listeners about Yu, Ariks?"
"Me? Bell, I do believe they're here for the snowboarding, not a personality piece on their broadcaster. But, as for Yu, she has certainly been making a name for herself on the X Games stage, putting herself in a very favorable position for the Gold."
"Oh-ho! Ariks! I knew you had a sense of humor hiding somewhere in there. But, Temult, it seems, will need to put on her very best game-face if she wants to battle it out with our podium favorites in the finals."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
"That was pretty good, kid. You almost had it," Chetney says when Imogen steps out from the top of the elevator and back onto the jump deck. "Let's run it back, stick that landing, and see what we're working with. It won't earn you a crazy high score, but we ain't aiming for number one right now."
"Just gotta put us over the line," Imogen finishes with a tired sigh. "Whose up next?"
"Yu Suffiad. She's got a solid 1440, projected to top out the qualifiers and take gold tomorrow, too." He leans in then, glancing around them to make sure no one's listening before continuing in a hushed whisper. "But between you and me? You had a better 1440 when you were 15 than she's got now."
His eyes gleam with a familiar competitive fire and Imogen feels herself preen at the pure pride in his voice.
But over what? Imogen could've done that 1080 in her sleep a few years ago, and now? She couldn't even land it when it counted most. What's it matter if Imogen's 1440 was better than hers?
"You better wipe that damn look off your face!" Chetney barks, pulling several eyes towards him, including Imogen's, whose shocked face blisters with embarrassment.
"Fuckin' shit—quiet down! What look?"
"That one," He says as he jabs his pointer finger in her face. "The one that means you think you're already beat."
Imogen opens her mouth in rebuttal, but Chetney breezes past her. "You're too focused on the fall, kid. You know what I saw out there just now? A goddamn miracle. For a minute there, I thought you might quit before you even stepped foot in front of those cameras. That you'd completely lose yourself in the air. Maybe have a damn panic attack when you wiped out. But did you do any of that?"
"No," Imogen answers with a resigned sigh. "I didn't."
Chetney shakes his head, exasperated. "Quit moping for a second and listen to what I'm saying!"
He grabs her by the front of her coat and yanks her down to his eye level.
"You proved me wrong."
The words hit her with the full force of a sledgehammer to her gut, but Chetney just keeps on swinging.
"I told Delilah no because I didn't think you could handle this emotionally. Not because I thought you couldn't still do the moves, kid. You're a little rusty, sure, but what do you think you do in half-pipe, Imogen? It's all the same shit!"
"C'mon, Chet, it ain't the same—"
"Oh shut it, I know it ain't one-to-one. But that thing you're so afraid of? That fear you got of the fall? It didn't go away just 'cause you switched disciplines. Instead, you rose to meet it every single day. I've seen you eat as much shit in half-pipe as you did in Big Air, and you still made it all the way to the Olympics. Lie to yourself all you want, kid, but you can't lie to me. You got back on the board back then and every day since—made it back here, because even after everything, you're still in love with that feeling of flying."
Imogen wants to tell him off, drop her board, and ride the elevator straight back down. Leave it all behind again and feel guilty for abandoning this off-the-cuff, bullshit idea instead of—
Her locket sits heavy against her heart, the inscription burned into her skin like an oath.
—instead of the way that Imogen knows, deep, deep down, that Chetney's right.
She isn't falling because she can't do the trick. And though it might be true that the idea of getting hurt off a nasty fall has had her pulling back, Imogen knows that isn't the fear that's keeping her grounded.
It's the fear of what it would mean to let herself love to fly again, to soar higher and higher in pursuit of that feeling of freedom, that keeps sending Imogen back to earth.
Liliana was bigger than the sun, the moon, and the stars to her. For as long as she could remember, all Imogen wanted to do was fly right up there beside her. Every time she'd start to slip, her mama would turn around and reach out her hand with a smile until she could pull Imogen up a little higher.
When did Liliana get so big that even Imogen couldn't reach her anymore?
Did she turn around one day and see Imogen catching up faster than she expected? Did she see Imogen shooting up to that altitude she'd coveted to feel for so long, and for just a moment, get blinded by the idea she wouldn't be the biggest thing the universe had to offer anymore?
A moment of reckless jealousy that sent her plummeting faster than a meteor—and dragging Imogen right along with her.
Had it been the fear of falling again that kept her stuck there?
Or had it been the fear of flying alone?
For a brief moment, Imogen had thought she'd started to lift off the ground to follow after Laudna—but now, now Laudna's down here, too. Broken and stranded in the dirt.
How could Imogen leave them there? How is she supposed to become much of anything without them?
Imogen's phone buzzes in her pocket.
Her thoughts freeze at the name that flashes across the screen.
She lets the call ring until it drops, leaving only a notification staring back at her.
1 Missed Call from Relvin Temult.
He'd called, for the first time in two years, today. She's sure it isn't to apologize for the screaming match they'd gotten into back then over her growing closeness with Laudna—no, her growing closeness with Big Air.
How many times in the months that followed Liliana's death had he demanded she never set foot on a snowboard again? How many times had he held her mama's accident over her head until he'd had her convinced flying always lead to falling?
Was that what he was doing now? Calling to drag her back from this edge to another while he insisted it was for her own good?
Imogen waits to see if he'll call back, leave a voicemail, a text. Anything.
She waits. And waits.
1 Missed Call from Relvin Temult.
Imogen clears the notification.
Unearthed from beneath, Laudna's radiant, too-wide smile stares back up at her. Her cheek is smushed up against Imogen's own as she crushes her in as tight a hug as she could manage—which hadn't been much. The first half-pipe gold medal Imogen ever earned is looped around her younger self's neck, whose holding the medal itself up to bite down on it for the picture. But she isn't looking at the camera.
It's almost embarrassing how utterly smitten she seems, staring at Laudna from the corner of her eye like she held the whole universe in the palm of her hand. It's Laudna's favorite picture of the two of them. Imogen would rather walk straight off the top of the jump than change it.
Other than Chetney, Laudna had been the only person there for her that day. Sure, plenty people came to watch Liliana's daughter—but it was only Laudna that had been there for Imogen. Relvin hadn't even bothered to offer a simple "Congratulations."
Maybe it's the tears distorting her vision and the exhaustion plaguing her mind, but Imogen swears Laudna opens her mouth and speaks to her straight through the screen.
You are so very capable, Imogen. You do not owe it to your mother, or your father, or me, to stay grounded here alongside us. Not when you were always meant to soar higher than anyone has flown before.
She stares at the photo until the screen fades to black.
Imogen only realizes how hard her head has been pounding when it seems to clear all at once.
"You're right. I ain't been honest with myself. I'm terrified Chet, but I think I'm always gonna be a little terrified." Imogen turns from her own weary reflection to find Chetney's face. There's an almost feral look in his eyes as he watches her silently. It's hard to distinguish whether the bags beneath them are from age or from the hours he spent awake at Imogen's side when he doesn't seem weighed down by either. "So y'know what? Let's fuckin' fly."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
"Ariks, are you seeing this?"
"I suppose I am, Bertrand."
"I can't tell you what happened back there after her first run, Marquet, but whatever it is has brought a different side out of Imogen Temult for run number two! Look at the arc on that backside 1080! If she lands this, I think we just might have a dark horse on our hands."
A blur of purple sails across the screen in three fast, tight spins. He'd never been good with the technical stuff, not like her, but he's got enough wits to know that when Imogen hits the snow board-first and rides off with her arms in the air, it's a good thing.
She looks so much like her.
"That's a 73.25 off that backside double cork 1080 with a Weddle grab, a marvelous improvement from run one and enough to keep her standing, for now. But will it be enough for Temult to make it into the finals?"
"We can only hope."
"Up next comes Feywild's Yu Suffiad! She has put herself in an excellent position coming into this second run with that 90 from her switch backside 1260 on run one. Let's see if her follow up will knock Wildemount's Beauregard Lionett out of first or if she'll need to set her sights on an even better run three."
"Perhaps young Miss Temult has lit a fire beneath her feet, Bell. That is a beautiful fronstide triple 1260 Indy, and I believe the judges are inclined to agree."
"86.50! What a run! With that 90 from her first run, that gives Yu Suffiad a combined score of 176.50, surpassing Lionett's 172.25 and placing her firmly into first! Lionett will have to drop that 85.25 in her next run if she has any hope of grabbing that number one spot coming into the finals."
❆ ⋆꙳• ‧͙ 𓆩ᯅ𓆪 ‧͙˚₊⋆ ❆
Imogen can't wipe the smile from her face.
"Now that's what I'm talking about, kid!" Chetney whoops. "How ya feeling?"
She sees right through to the real question underneath. Can you handle going bigger?
Damn does it feel good to have an answer to that one. "I'm feelin' great, coach."
Chetney grins wildly, glancing around before pulling her in to huddle. "Alright. You need to hit this next one hard if you wanna make it over the cut line, ya hear? While that fall has you sitting low, I think you just bein' here's got the rest of these chumps feeling like they got something to prove, cause there's been some big numbers put up. Hard to guess what'll happen in run three, but my guess is you're gonna need at least an 85 to close that gap and leave yourself a little room. You up for that?"
Imogen presses her locket further into her skin and nods. "Yeah. I am. Think I know what should get us there, too."
Chetney's eyes narrow. "You say you wanna try a 1440 right now on no fuckin' sleep with no practice and I'm putting you in a headlock."
"Hell, Chet—no I ain't gonna do a fuckin' 1440."
"Just checkin' you ain't got a concussion or some shit from all that fallin' earlier."
"Fuck you," she laughs. "No, I wanna try a 1260."
Chetney nods slow. "1260's good, you land that and you'll probably get somewhere in the 80s. But you're grinning like a damn Cheshire cat, so what ain't you telling me?"
"Well, I'm thinkin' if everyone wants to see a Temult in action so bad," Imogen pauses, spinning her fingers in an approximation of the trick they both know like the back of their eyelids. "Then we give it to 'em."
He raps his knuckles against the side of her helmet, that competitive gleam in his eyes doubling down. "You're smarter than you look, kid."
"Hey!"
"It's a compliment," Chetney huffs, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards despite the way he tries to hide it. "Alright. Let's do it."
This time, when Imogen steadies herself at the jump's peak, a rush of excitement topples the thrashing undercurrent of her fear.
Chetney gives her a fist bump and a double thumbs-up, the old man grinning wide and crazed as Imogen shifts her left foot forward, dropping into her fakie stance. Jump drowns out the wind rushing past her helmet. She smirks when she catches herself nodding along to it slightly.
The kicker comes quick, but she's ready for it this time.
Imogen finds a spot with as little damage from all the tricks as possible and glides in its direction carefully, working to maintain her speed as she approaches the ramp.
She throws her right arm across her body and brings her shoulders with it, swinging the tail of her board up just as she's about to takeoff from the lip. As the momentum carries her through the first half of the spin, Imogen drops her knees low, grabbing the toe edge of her board between her bindings with her left hand.
Front arm in place, Imogen pulls her right arm behind her back leg, tucking the inside of her elbow against her thigh as she reaches for the sliver of board behind her back binding. The heel edge connects perfectly with her glove as she comes out of her first cork. Truckdriver secured, Imogen holds both edges tight as she swirls through her second, feeling like an astronaut in one of those human-sized gyroscopes.
Imogen knows she won't get more than a few seconds of air at most. But in those few precious moments she spends suspended up here, it feels as though time stretches endlessly before her.
The crowd is a blur of different country colors and faces contorted in varying degrees of shock and awe. Each one stares up at her from below, some mid-scream, some hiding behind their hands, but all of them are watching, waiting for the moment things go just right—or very, very wrong.
Imogen's chest rises in slow motion as she pulls in a breath, shifting the locket beneath her jacket.
She glances towards the landing.
"C'mon, Mama!" Imogen shouts from atop her daddy's shoulders, wide-eyed as Liliana sails through the air in a spiral, once, twice, then a third time, all while spinning around in as many rotations. "Land it!"
The audience crushing them in on all sides chants the words with her in unison, all of them foaming at the mouth to be the ones who watched Liliana Temult make history.
Imogen holds her breath as her mama lets go of her edges, lining up the board with the pile of snow beneath her.
Land it land it land it—
Imogen rockets through the air as she twirls through her third cork.
She drops both her edges, re-centering herself as she brings her board around in a final half spin.
Big Air Star Liliana Temult Becomes First Woman to Land a Cab Triple Cork 1260 with Truckdriver, Wins X Games Gold.
"That's gonna be me someday, Mama."
"I don't doubt it for a second, lighnin' bug."
"—land it, land it, land it!"
The chant washes over her, drowning out the music in her ears and the sound of her own thundering shout as she plummets toward the ground.
Against her will, Imogen's eyes slam shut as she prepares herself to come down hard.
But her body never hits the snow.
The crowd erupts in a clamorous uproar as her board touches down perfectly. The momentum of her landing carries her straight into the audience barricade, nearly forcing her through it. A cameraman helps catch her and pushes her back over the top. She barely remembers to smile at him in thanks. Barely remembers to breathe before she's pushing all the air from her lungs.
"Yeah!" Imogen belts in a long, drawn out cry, dropping to her knees as her legs give out beneath her. The cacophony around her only grows deafeningly louder in response, then louder still as her score flashes on the screen, until she can't even hear her own heart thrumming in her chest.
93.00
For a long, precious moment, there is no silence for Imogen to fear.
