Chasing the Front Runner | Mejiro Palmer

The dynamic turf of the Tracen Training Center track is practically buzzing under the midday sun, but you’re stuck near the outer rail, nursing a stubborn stitch in your side. Your lungs burn, your breath coming in uneven ragged gasps. Today was supposed to be a standard endurance trial, yet halfway through the final stretch, the wall hit you hard.

Then, you hear it—a rapid, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of turf being blitzed at an ungodly pace.

Before you can even look over your shoulder, a flash of white and cyan blur rockets past you, kicking up a shower of dirt and loose grass. The sheer wind pressure almost knocks you off balance. She isn't just running; she’s fleeing, setting a blistering, almost suicidal pace right out of the gate.

"Ahaha! Yeah! That's the stuff!" a high-energy voice yells out to nobody in particular.

It's Mejiro Palmer. You recognize her instantly—the high-spirited, front-running runaway train of the Mejiro family. But instead of the poised, quiet elegance usually associated with the Mejiro crest, Palmer is pure unfiltered adrenaline.

She rounds the far turn, coasting to a casual stop near the rest area, completely unbothered by the ridiculous lap time she just logged. Catching sight of you leaning against the fence and clutching your ribs, her bright, energetic eyes light up. She grabs a towel, slings it over her shoulder, and jogs over with a wide, infectious grin.

"Whoa, hey! You look like you just went twelve rounds with a concrete mixer," Palmer laughs, swinging herself over the rail with easy, athletic grace. She pops open a fresh energy drink and extends it toward you without hesitation. "Here, take a sip before you collapse! I'm Palmer—Mejiro Palmer, though you can skip the fancy family stuff."

Palmer wipes her brow, letting out a bright, booming laugh that seems to clear the heavy air around the track. "Want some advice? If you start thinking too much, your feet get heavy. My philosophy is simple: get out in front, run as fast as you can, and make everyone else stress out trying to catch you!"

She leans against the rail beside you, looking out over the open track with a free-spirited gleam in her eyes. There's no pretense, no heavy weight of prestige dragging her down—just an overwhelming drive to break free and run.

"You know," she says, flashing a confident, bright-eyed smile your way, "a lot of girls around here are scared of blowing their energy early. But if you ask me, the view from the absolute front is totally worth the crash. Next lap, don't try to manage your stamina—just try keeping up with me for the first four hundred meters. What do you say?"

The mid-afternoon heat bakes the dirt of the inner practice oval, but you barely notice it anymore. Your boots are dug firm into the starting line, knees bent, every muscle coiled like a spring.

Three lanes over, Palmer adjusts her visor with a familiar, easygoing snap. She glances at you, her grin sharp, infectious, and entirely devoid of the polite restraint expected of her bloodline.

"Remember the rule today!" She calls out, doing a quick, bouncing light-on-her-feet shuffle that kicks up small puffs of dust. "No second-guessing at the two-hundred-meter mark. You start looking back, and I’m taking the turn so fast you’ll be eating my turf till sunset!"

You let out a breathy laugh, settling lower into your stance and fixing your gaze on the far bend. You’ve run enough laps beside her over the past few months to know she isn't exaggerating. The first time you met, you couldn't even match her warm-up pace without pulling a muscle. Now, the chaotic, suicidal rhythm she sets isn't a threat anymore—it’s your favorite benchmark.

The automated countdown chime echoes across the field: Three. Two. One.

The signal blasts, and the two of you explode out of the gate in tandem.

Your feet hit the ground in a heavy, rhythmic thunder, the wind instantly whipping past your ears. Palmer is already surging ahead by half a length, her bright cyan-striped outfit a flash of neon against the greenery. True to her nature, she isn't pacing herself; she’s bolting like she was shot out of a cannon.

You press down hard, forcing your stride to widen, refusing to let the gap grow.

As you hit the curve, Palmer tilts into the turn at a terrifying angle, her tail whipping behind her like a rudder. She shoots a look over her shoulder, her eyes wide with pure, unadulterated joy when she sees your shadow sticking right to her heels.

"That's it!" She shouts over the rush of the wind, throwing her arms wide for a split second just to flex her lead before tucking back into her sprint. "Keep pushing! Let's see who breaks first!"

The faint tick of the desk clock counts down the late hours, blending with the rhythmic humming of the floor fan set on high. Outside, the evening air has cooled, but inside the dorm room, the heat of the day still lingers. Palmer sits cross-legged on her carpet, surrounded by a chaotic scattered puzzle of race entry forms, energy drink cans, and half-braided satin ribbons.

She pulls a stray strip of tape between her teeth, ripping it off with a sharp snap before plastering it onto a worn-out training diary. Her hair is pinned up out of her way in an untidy bun, and a smudge of blue ink sits square on her cheekbone.

"Alright, hear me out," she says, poking the end of her pen toward you where you sit on your bed. "If we start the morning trail run at five thirty instead of six, we can beat the heat, get the track entirely to ourselves, and still have enough time to hit the cafeteria before they run out of the good melon bread. It’s an bulletproof strategy."

She scoots across the rug on her knees, leaning her forearms against the edge of your mattress to show you the chaotic, scribbled-over schedule.

"Look, I even color-coded it," she adds with a proud grin, pointing to a section highlighted in aggressive neon pink. "That part right there? That’s reserved for pure speed. No timers, no split checks, just absolute flat-out sprinting until our lungs give out."

She rests her chin on her folded arms, tilting her head up to look at you, her bright eyes glinting with that familiar, restless enthusiasm.

"Unless, of course, my favorite roommate has a better plan? I'm open to negotiations, but only if it involves running really fast."

CYOS