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Congratulations Comely Material Morning!
Well. Pink finally got her name. Good for her. Good for her.
Somehow, Bullet'n Board couldn't bring herself to care too much. She wasn't jealous of Morning, (or would she go by Material?) because every horse deserved a name, but her victory symbolized something... else.
Something that caused Bullet's stomach to turn.
"Bullet, hi!" The racer looked up at her name, meeting the gaze of Morning.
The pink-haired girl bounded up to her, beaming brightly. Bullet attempted to match her energy, but the cheer she mustered up could only make her mouth smile.
"Hey Morning." Bullet moved attention away from her face by sticking her hand out, "Great racing out there."
Taking the bait, Morning completed the handshaking without a second thought. "Thanks! I knew if Resolute could pull off a win on her third race, it was just a matter of time for me!"
"Well, it's nice to see the rookies get on the board early." Lest they end up like cyan.
Morning nodded vigorously, "Yeah yeah! Although, I gotta say that I might not've won if Jovial was here..."
Well. At least *she* said it. It wouldn't surprise Bullet to know that everyone else was also thinking the same thing, but it would be mean- neigh, cruel, to bring it up.
Which meant it was surprising that Door Knob didn't say anything first. That bitch was always somehow constantly in the way at the most inopportune times.
"Ah, nonsense, I'm sure even with Jovial in the race you would've won." Bullet lied through her teeth.
"No, it's okay." Morning said, ears drooping just a bit. "Frankly, I'm glad Jovial wasn't here. I got a couple of words out of Realism, once."
Her smile dropped. "I... I didn't want to end up like her, or... cyan."
Throughout the sentence, Morning's voice had steadily lowered in volume. Still, even at a level barely above a whisper, the mere mention of cyan seemed to halt the other locker room conversations, a chill going down each racer's back.
"...You'll do fine, kid. You'll do fine."
Bullet wished that she was able to mean it.
Genuine or not, though, the sympathy managed to turn Morning's lips upwards.
"Thanks, Bullet. I know you aren't Jovial, but reassurement from the second ranked horse in the league means a lot to me."
Bullet was going to vomit.
A dense pile of stones jumped and twisted in her gut, sended waves of revulsion up through her spine. She could feel the acid crawling from her throat, coating the inside of her mouth with an electric sting. Her breath paused, in preparation to eject a vile liquid from her body.
By the time she pulled herself back together, Morning was gone, off talking to her fellow newcomer.
Bullet let out a singular, desolate, chuckle.
Second rank. What a fucking joke.
Oh, sure, by all accounts she had the second most wins out of everyone, but what was 3 victories compared to Jovial's eight? Nothing. Spare fucking change. She was looked up to as an achievable goal, as something to realistically shoot for, and all she had were less than half of the wins of the best racer.
Jovial. Jovial. Jovial.
If Bullet was any more petty she would die of envy. It would be so, so easy to hate Jovial for- for stealing wins from hard working horses like herself, or the few nameless racers still left in the league.
But she wasn't, and so she didn't.
To deny how much Jovial Merryment worked on the practice courses would be to deny the Earth its rotation around the sun. There was no point in causing a fuss- if anything, her taller frame made it harder for her to win races, and yet here she was.
Not like Bullet. Not like this sad, average sized, blue haired girl, who's gotten three wins near the start of her career. When was the last time Bullet had reached those carrots? It wasn’t the race before this, or the one before that, or the one before that.
No, the last time Bullet won was when she got her name. That was eight races ago.
Eight was shaping up to be a cursed number for her, wasn’t it. There was an eight-race dry streak, through all the different tracks and courses placed before her. Eight agonizing races of a slow, gradual descent towards the inescapable pit of feeling like she was a fucking fraud.
And there's the rub.
The number two racer was a sham! She doesn't deserve her position! She'd been coasting off of the very first race, where there were only 4 racers, and then two other very early victories in the season!
That was the reason Morning’s words squeezed her stomach so, the reason her victory only added to the ever growing straw pile upon her back.
But she was still the second ranked, because who else could be in her position?
Resolute Mind Afternoon and Comely Material Morning were total rookies! Door Knob's only wins were against cyan and Superpositional Realism in special 3-way races! Superposition wasn't even fit to race most of the time, not after she was taken away, and cyan hasn't returned! Yellow seemed more interested in literally fucking Jovial than she was in winning! She didn't even have a name!
The most likely candidate for a second rank was Afternoon Skybox, and she was in the exact same fucking boat. On track to get a podium position, and her last win was when she was named.
So. Bullet'n Board was stuck. Stuck in second place because she wasn't good enough for first. Stuck in second place nobody else was good enough to take it from her.
She was going to be sick.
"Yo."
An arm landed on Bullet's shoulder. She blinked, forcibly yanked from her own head.
Downtown Skybox was there, leaning against her with a piece of hay in her mouth.
"Ah, what's up-"
"I don't know what you're thinking about," Skybox steamrolled over Bullet's greeting, "But it's probably some stupid fucking bullshit that doesn't actually matter."
"It is not-"
"Yeah I don't care. There's a new ice cream parlor that opened up nearby. Let's go talk about feelings over a sundae or something," Skybox started walking, pulling Bullet along with her, "The season's over, it's just the tournament left. You can't race while emotionally constipated."
"I-" For a moment, Bullet resisted. "...Fine."
Maybe Skybox would understand. She was chill like that.