Homestretch Haste

“Welcome to the Gala, Pacifist, here’s your ID.” The receptionist handed me a card, and I pushed the double doors open.

The Sunvault Gala was held in a geodome buried beneath the city’s highest sector, a jewel of heatproof glass and iridescent steel carved into the rock itself. The ceiling was transparent, showing filtered views of the glowing cave systems and light rigs designed to mimic the stars. Water ran through glass veins in the walls. Music hummed like electricity. Everything smelled like cooled metal and too-expensive cologne.

We were standing on a floor that cost more than my V2. Probably more than ten of them. But no one here flinched at that. No one looked like they ever flinched at anything.

A hush rolled through the room as the lights dimmed.

And then, the voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Solaris, welcome to the official racer presentation of the Sunvault Grand Prix.”

The crowd responded with applause, not the frantic kind you get at a finish line, but the clean, polite rhythm of people who paid to be impressed.

From the far end of the stage, the host stepped into view. Tall. Dark silver suit. A flawless coat of chrome-black hair and a smile sharp enough to sign contracts.

He held a mic like a conductor held a baton. When he spoke again, his voice bounced off the crystalline dome like he was addressing a throne room, not a racetrack.

“This year marks the sixty-seventh Sunvault circuit, and the most formidable lineup of racers in recent memory. Twenty competitors. Twenty legends in the making. And tomorrow, only one victor.”

I felt Sylvaine shift beside me, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Tonight,” the host continued, “we welcome them properly. When I call your name, step forward to receive your equipment. Each racer will be issued a comm earpiece and a race-linked tablet, synced directly to your V2 diagnostics. These are connected to your designated mechanic, who will also receive a fully controllable maintenance drone capable of performing remote repairs from Solaris during the race. This technology is proprietary, secure, and essential. Treat it as an extension of yourself.”

One by one, the names began.

“Aleya Voss, Obsidian Arc.”

A lean woman in a matte-purple jacket strode across the platform, stoic and sharp-eyed.

“Grimm Orun, Grim.”

Grimm was big, bald, and already had a drink in hand. He grinned like the race was just a party with extra speed.

“Cassien Vale. Nova Raine. Ferro Klee. Andelus Skye.”

All of them walked up, Some bowed. Some smirked. Some barely acknowledged the applause.

Then—

“Gideon Williamson, The Prince.”

The claps changed. Louder, I heard women squeal. More pointed. The way a room shifts for someone important.

He stepped out like he wasn’t even aware of the attention, like it followed him on instinct. Slick black jacket, silver lining.

He accepted the box from the race staff without hesitation, tucked the tablet under his arm, and turned to descend the stairs.

His gaze flicked my way. Just a second. Enough to register. Not enough to mean anything.

He kept walking.

Sylvaine leaned close to me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Just a staring contest I didn’t agree to.”

A few more names passed. I barely heard them.

Then the host said mine.

“Juno— uh—“ he paused for a moment,

“Juno, the pacifist!”

I walked forward.

I climbed the steps, nodded to the staff, and accepted the box.

The earpiece was cool against my fingers. Matte black, low-profile, marked with a discreet white glyph. I clipped it into my ear without thinking.

Then I reached for the tablet.

One of the staff scanned my ID tag.

Her smile faltered.

Just slightly.

Then she leaned toward the console, tapped a few more times. Another staff, an older man in a graphite suit approached and murmured something in her ear.

She straightened.

“Mr.” she said, still polite. “Would you mind stepping backstage for just a moment?”

I blinked. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. Just a brief verification issue.”

She gestured me toward the side hallway.

I turned.

Behind me, Sylvaine narrowed her eyes and took a step forward.

“Where’s he going?” She mouthed.

I just shrugged and followed the receptionist.

“Routine,” the staffer replied. “Won’t take long.”

The backstage room was smaller than it looked, tucked behind folding walls and a haze of low light and cool air. A table. Two chairs. A projection node hovering overhead.

Another official walked in. Shorter, sharper, no patience for ceremony.

“Juno?”

I nodded.

He held out a dataslate. “We’ve verified your racer credentials and sync ID. Everything looks good.”

“But—” I said.

“There’s a small issue.”

Sylvaine leaned in.

He went on. “The Grand Prix runs through a secure payout system that connects directly to the Hunter Guild database. All prize money must be tied to an active hunter license or guild-recognized sponsor ID. This is for fraud protection, transfer tracking, and legal routing.”

I have no idea what any of that means.

“And if I don’t have one?” I asked.

“Then there’s nowhere to send your winnings. And no eligibility to participate.”

Sylvaine stepped forward. “You’re joking.”

He gave her a flat look. “I assure you I’m not.”

I stared at the earpiece in my palm.

All that speed. All that buildup. All the races, all the near-misses, the blood, the training… and here I was, standing in a glass room underground while the walls closed in.

My voice came quiet. “So what happens now?”

I watched as she followed him back stage, unbelievable that you’re a mechanic.

I rested my face in my palm, why are you doing this, is this come kind of revenge? That’s not like you.

You disappeared behind the curtain and the ceremony continued to fall out racer’s names.

What are you doing with that boy?

They didn’t emerge from backstage the rest of the ceremony.

After everyone dispersed to converse I branched away from my team to go search for you. I even went back stage, you weren’t there, I asked the receptionist for what happened, they told me that Juno wouldn’t be able to participate due to an invalidity in his requirements. I couldn’t help but let out a sigh.

“Tomorrow all racers will take a train to Carlotti, the start of the Sunvault race at 9am! Thank you for your time. Rules will be reiterated the day of.”

The surface was deathly still.

Dust whirled in loose spirals over the forgotten rooftops of Carlotti, an ancient village half-buried in the sand. Most of its buildings had collapsed centuries ago, swallowed by wind and time. What remained looked more like bones than stone filled with light, but sun-bleached and worn smooth by endless erosion.

Above it all, perched on the edge of a rusted comms tower, stood two figures in black.

The first was tall. Straight-backed. Wrapped in faded desert robes reinforced with plates of old-world metal. Their face was obscured beneath a glass mask, cracked and darkened by soot.

The other was shorter. Younger. Face uncovered, eyes wide and impatient as he leaned over the edge to look down at the skeletal village below.

“You sure it’s time?” the younger one asked.

A pause.

Then the masked figure spoke, voice quiet, controlled, almost reverent.

“…It’s finally time. I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite some time.”

The younger one shifted, glancing at the large cylindrical device half-buried in the sand near the center of the ruins. Its casing was matte gray. Its base pulsed with a low, rhythmic hum.

“Is that thing really gonna work?”

“Of course it will,” the masked one replied.

He reached into his coat and drew out a small remote—covered in hand-etched glyphs, rusting at the edges. His fingers hovered above a single switch.

The wind screamed softly between the broken arches of Carlotti. Below the dunes, something rumbled. Faint. Distant.

The younger man hesitated. “The thumper, how deep did we plant it?”

“Deep enough.”

Another pause. Then the masked one tilted his head toward the south, where Solaris surely resided beneath the sand.

“The era of sanctuary,” he said coldly, “is over.”

A shiver passed through the younger one.

For as long as anyone could remember, monsters, beasts, cryptids, aberrations, refused to cross within two hundred miles of Solaris. Some said it was the electromagnetic fields. Others whispered of deeper, older reasons. Wardings. Deals. Blood.

But tomorrow, that invisible line would vanish.

Tomorrow, the Grand Prix would run its final heat through the upper tunnels.

And something would answer the call.

The masked figure turned away from the tower’s edge.

“Let the city cheer,” he said. “Let them race.”

He raised the remote.

“Tomorrow, we will make the true horrors of this world come to light.”

Then he flipped the switch.

And far below the earth, something began to wake.