Into the Churn

by Hayley Reese Chow

“So basically what we’re saying is, you’re one of us now.” He pulled her in under his other arm before rolling his eyes dramatically. “Even if you’re with that chaffer, Sterling.” Ezren’s eyes widened, strange tears swimming in her vision. “So you’re not mad?” “Get it in your head, E, we like you,” Simon said with a soft chuckle. “Definitely more than Sterling.”

Simon ruffled her hair. “Atta girl, now you’re sounding like a real royaler.” And for the first time, as Ezren stood grinning with her teammates, she felt like one.

A wavy teal design edged her dark eyes, and her magenta-streaked brown hair swirled into a braid gathered at the base of her neck. Suns, she was beautiful. He bent down, gently brushing a kiss against her lips. The touch of her skin sent an electric jolt through him he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to.

“Atta girl, E.” Grady grabbed Ezren in a friendly headlock, and Foster smothered the jealous impulse to shove him off.

Despite her usual positivity, the nerves were getting to her. And how could they not? This was her first real royale. Ever. And she was going in with a second-rate topsuit. The thought made him want to strangle Harland.

“What logs? Which suit?” Foster asked, adjusting his goggs around his helmet. He’d fixed every one of those suits so often, he knew every inch of them. There was no way he would’ve missed a weird entry like that. “That suit you have in the corner of the armory. I was trying to see if I could patch it for a backup, but the code is seriously scrambled. Looks like it was a bad update on a race day, and then someone tried to erase it or something.” Foster froze.

Although this was a shorter race than the BRR, the qualifier was easily the most chaotic, unpredictable race. Only the top fifty doubles would qualify for the BRR, and although each team could only qualify two doubles, their extra royalers could still knock the competition out of the running.

Shaking away the irritation, he straightened and tried for a half smile. He wasn’t here for her today. He was here for Ezren.

Grady smirked at him in solidarity, and for the briefest of moments, it was like before. When they’d been teammates. Friends.

And no matter what happens, just remember of all the teams here, you’ve come the farthest. Grown the most. And no matter what, I’m proud as chaff to be your coach.”

Ezren turned to the others, her brows sloped up with a worried smile. “Good luck.” Bex nodded, and Grady knocked his forearm against Ezren’s. “Last one to the finish line buys me a drink.” Ezren laughed. “I like mine with a little umbrella in it.” “What a coincidence, so does Grady,” Foster said. “I’m so glad you remember my order from our last bet,” Grady returned. Foster bit back a smile

As a kid, he’d whispered it right along with them as he’d watched on the holopros, dreaming of being at the starting line, of bringing pride back to Belethea.

“Be strong. Be swift. By legs, wheels, and fists, we go into the churn. We race, we fight, and we live to do it again. For ourselves, for Belethea, and for each other. May Casolla keep you safe, the suns keep you warm, and the storm winds blow you to the finish.” Her ice-blue gaze met each of theirs, her voice growing stronger. “Belethea, mother of mountains and skies…” “Protect us,”

Into the churn.” “Into the churn,” the royalers echoed.

And when the race started, they would do one of two things: run straight for the finish or pause to crush the Beletheans while they had the numbers advantage.

He moved to put himself, Bex, and Grady between Ezren and the other team. Grady nodded at him in understanding, his shoulders already tensing as he bounced from foot to foot. Foster wasn’t sure when they’d stopped hating each other or if the peace would last, but one thing was certain: no one wanted to see Ezren get hurt.

he tapped his helmet gently to Ezren’s, wishing he could kiss her again. “Yes. We’re going to make it,” he breathed, his chest tight with uncertainty.

With the blast of the gun, Ezren’s legs took on a wild, primal mind of their own, and she sprinted across the dirt.

But behind him… was chaos. A chaos that only made her legs churn faster.

Pain sparked behind Ezren’s eyes, but her body reacted as Bex had trained her.

Foster’s worried gaze looked her over, his suit muddy, but nothing obviously damaged.

The knot slowly untwisted in her stomach as she let the run take over, her legs stretching and her mind emptying of everything but the sky and the ground in front of her.

Ezren nodded and did what she did best—she ran on.

He smirked at Ezren, sweat streaking his face under his helmet. “And plenty of terrasails.”

He reached over and squeezed her knee. “You’re doing really well, Ezren.”

He reached over and pulled her head onto his solid shoulder. “Rest on me.”

Foster laced his fingers with hers, but he didn’t look at any of the other teams as he strode up to the race official with the hummingbot perched on her shoulder. “Sterling/Hart, checking in.”

“Sterling/Hart vs. Brook/Talmadge in arena two,” boomed the speaker.

As she braced for the blow, Foster leapt between them, shoving her close to the ring’s edge.

She laid her body over Foster’s form, wrapping her arms around him, and then rolled them both out of the ring.

“Sterling/Hart vs. Phanik/Phanik in ring three.”

And Ezren flew across the stage. Her foot slammed into Callie’s face, and the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. With another kick, she was out. One down.

“Winner: Sterling/Hart,” the announcer boomed.

“But they just announced we’re the 41st to advance, so we’ve got to—” “Grady/Gunderson wins,” the announcer blared again. “The 43rd team to advance!”

Foster swallowed. Now Bex and Grady had done the same fodding chaff, and he hadn’t even said anything. He should’ve done something. Called them fodding back. What kind of teammate was he?

“There’s something about it though, isn’t there? Something that makes you feel alive?” “Yes. It’s the proximity to death,” he deadpanned. She rolled her eyes, her expression steadying into a genuine smile. “No, it’s being in Belethea, I think. I’ve seen more of it today than I have in the last three years, and even if I have to fight for it, I would gladly do it again.”

Foster’s gaze lingered on her—a bruise purpling her eye and cheek, her lip swollen and bloody, and her eyes gleaming and passionate—and he was sure she’d never looked more beautiful. If this was what she wanted, he would run through a hell-storm for her. But he’d be chaffed if he wouldn’t be holding onto her the whole time.

But still, he kept his grip tight on her as he ran, his mind focused on each and every step.

For Ezren, and her dream of Belethea. He could do this for her. And maybe for himself too—proving what he was capable of, that Belethea had a right to be there, and they were worth fighting for.

Yes. If she could do this, so could he.

Foster barely had a chance to close his gaping jaw before Ezren yanked him up. “Yes, thirty seconds can make a huge difference.” Foster looked at her in wonder, muddy and serious as she gazed through the downpour at the sky. He still found it hard to believe this girl was for real. “A game-changer,” he murmured.

“Here comes Belethea’s very own Sterling/Hart finishing in seventeenth and qualifying for the BRR. That’s a new Belethean record!”

They’d actually qualified. A rookie team. Belethea was going to the BRR. He whirled her around, lifting his head back and howling at the sky while the crowd roared.

His arms tightened around her, more debris beating into his back in the worsening burst. “Ezren, w-we can’t.” His chest heaved, the panic nearly choking him. “We have to get inside. Let the storm trucks handle it.”

Fodding chaff, he hoped Simon was okay. But there was no way he would lose Ezren too.

Foster was sure he’d pass out right there, but doubts cut into his mind. If Bex was in critical condition, why hadn’t her mayday gone off with her location? Had her suit malfunctioned? Like Vieve’s? Two faulty suits on the same team? The odds had to be slim. Could someone have tampered with them? Was that the race day update Ezren had mentioned?

As she left, Ezren finally burst into the sobs that had brimmed in her eyes all day. He gathered her in his arms as she cried, pulling her tightly to his chest, needing to be reassured that she was safe beside him. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her from the common area and into a side breakroom, laying her down on a wide couch. But when he tried to pull away, she only laced herself around his neck, burying her face in his chest.

But the only thing Foster was sure of as they drifted off in a wave of pain and exhaustion was that Ezren had been right from the start. This stupid race was a fodding death trap.

She hated how Foster said his first name so softly, as if he were too fragile for the usual brusque manner they shared.

“I mean, Bex’s suit malfunctioned, Syl,” Foster said. “It didn’t even send out a mayday signal. Just like Vieve’s. Someone must’ve tampered with it.”