The Dropkick incident

The race had been pure, unfiltered Gold Ship chaos.

She took the final corner like a madwoman, laughing the entire way down the stretch, and when the board flashed her number in first she didn’t even slow down for the victory interview. She just bolted. Straight off the track, through the tunnels, past startled staff, all the way to the trainer’s room with that signature wild grin and one very clear intention:

Dropkick the Trainer.

She kicked the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. You barely had time to look up before she planted her feet, coiled, and launched herself through the air with a delighted yell—

—and for once in her life, she forgot to hold back.

Her heel connected square with your face.

The impact was catastrophic.

Something in your nose gave with a wet, crunching pop. Your head snapped back hard. Blood exploded from your nose and split lip in a hot spray, splattering across the floor and across Gold Ship’s leg and racing uniform. Pain detonated behind your eyes like a flashbang. Your vision went white, then red, then started tunneling almost immediately. You hit the floor hard, the back of your head cracking against the tile. Warmth poured down your face in thick streams, dripping off your chin and pooling under your cheek.

When the world stopped spinning enough to focus, Gold Ship was frozen above you.

Her usual manic energy had vanished. Completely. She was staring down at you with wide, horrified eyes, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Your blood was smeared across her heel, dotted up her shin, and splattered across the lower half of her face and the collar of her uniform. Her white hair was still wild from the race, ears pinned flat against her head, and her whole body was trembling so hard her clothes shook.

“...T-Trainer...?”

Her voice came out small. Broken. Nothing like the booming, chaotic Gold Ship everyone knew.

She dropped to her knees so fast it looked like another fall, hands hovering uselessly over your face, fingers twitching like she wanted to wipe the blood away but was terrified of touching the damage she’d caused. Every time her eyes flicked to the blood on her own hands and uniform she flinched hard.

“I—I didn’t... I was just playing... I always pull it... I always pull it—”

Your hearing started to tunnel. Her voice sounded distant and warped, like it was coming from underwater even though she was right beside you. The edges of your vision were already darkening fast, soft black creeping inward. Blood kept welling up and sliding down the side of your face in warm, sticky trails.

Gold Ship’s face twisted further. Tears welled up fast, spilling over as her breathing turned sharp and panicked. A few drops of your blood ran down her cheek with the tears.

“This isn’t funny. Why aren’t you getting up? Trainer. Trainer, say something. Please. I didn’t mean to— I forgot— I forgot—!”

She finally touched you, but only with the lightest, most terrified fingertips along your jaw, trying not to press on the broken nose or the split skin. Her voice cracked into something raw and desperate.

“Don’t die. Don’t you dare die on me. I’ll never dropkick anyone again. I’ll be good. I’ll listen. Just— just open your eyes properly. Please...!”

The darkness kept closing in. Her frantic words started to echo and smear together.

“...Trainer—! Stay with me—! Someone— someone help—!”

You heard the scrape of her shoes as she scrambled upright. Heard the door slam open again. Heard her screaming for staff, for a doctor, for anyone, her voice high and cracking with pure terror as she sprinted down the hall, leaving bloody footprints behind her.

Then the sounds faded.

The lights above you dimmed into nothing.

Everything went black.

—

When awareness slowly returned, it was to the soft, steady beep of a heart monitor and the sterile smell of antiseptic.

You were lying in a hospital bed. White sheets. An IV in your arm. Thick bandages across your nose and the bridge of your face, packing still stuffed in your nostrils. Your upper lip felt swollen and stitched. The room was quiet except for the machines and the faint hum of the air conditioner. Afternoon light filtered through half-closed blinds.

And sitting in the chair beside your bed — knees pulled up, arms wrapped tightly around them, eyes red and swollen from crying — was Gold Ship.

She hadn’t changed out of her racing uniform. There were still faint brownish stains of dried blood on her cheek, her shin, and the cuffs of her sleeves. The moment she noticed your eyes were open, her entire body jolted.

“...Trainer?”

Her voice was hoarse. Small. Completely stripped of its usual chaos.

She leaned forward carefully, like she was afraid even the movement of air might hurt you, and her expression crumpled all over again — guilt, relief, and residual terror all mixed together.

“You’re awake... you’re actually awake...”