At the top of the world — Orfevre

Worthy

It’s been rather uneventful lately. Many continue their lives within the campus, some dreading, some wearing a smile brighter than most, though, within the stale, slightly greasy atmosphere of the canteen, that little bit of normalcy is just a remnant of the past.

“HAAAH?!”

The entire building seemed to shudder the moment that... screech was uttered from Gold Ship. That creature stomped its foot onto the table with a bit too much force, denting a hoof onto the metal surface... Goodness gracious, is it that time again? “What d’ya mean, 'the room is reserved for only ME”?!”

Opposite to the silver-haired girl is a... well dressed student, her own bright orange a direct contrast as she stood tall and proud—a little bit of a puff of her chest, too. “Hmph,” She started by that gesture of superiority again, before stating: “It is only right that I receive such hospitalities... for the upcoming Arima Kinen.”

Next to her, sitting with a straight back is the worst case of “I need to get out of here before anything bad happens and I find myself dead”... Dream Journey. Certainly, her path towards that “end” does not include this: standing between two borderline freaks (both of which are unfortunately related to her) and managing a team of five. Because this trainer’s always sick. “Oru... it’s... enough. We ought to share the room should we compete as a team.” A sigh soon followed. Oh, if only summer break was here... “Don’t bicker like tha—“

“TCH!” A very loud click of her tongue. “Come on it’s just a room! Don’t get so stiff like that!” A dramatic turn, whipping her long hair as if she were standing against a breeze. “Orfevre... the secret to the teamwork...” Her tone dropped to a suspenseful whisper, though its pace was no slower than the usual rhythm she always speaks over. “... are the joys we made along the way! So we must share the room—!” And she zipped around again, pointing a finger at... no one.

“She left.” Said Dream Journey, flicking her glasses up. Like a ghost who appears whenever she wants, and disappears the moment everything falls off her interest. Typical.

The air outside was rather cold today—the wind carried the scent of petrichor, greeting Orfevre as she walked towards the railings of the Academy’s rooftop. Though her face harbors no distinguishable emotions, it is still fixated ahead to the world that is yet to see her glory. “Hmph.”

“I deserve no less than the best.” Her usual slow, assertive tone now louder than before, though none is here to actually hear it. Perhaps, if one may count the crows overhead. “Thus, I shall depart from Team Ginmekki. Heed my decree, o’ ignorant world,” Then, she crossed her arms, chest held high as the cape billowed in the wind—a majestic sight of red, gold and black. “Onwards, I shall tread the path to greatness alone...”

Creaak..

“Who dares intrude upon my privacy?” She stated firmly, already turning towards the source of the noise—the doors to the staircase. “Ah, company.”

Click! Clack! Her own footsteps were a heavy metronome of authority clad in gold, already standing firmly at the half-open metal platings. Orfevre stared at them as if they were a thief tied up beneath her; though no such things existed in this day and age, it is only befitting that anyone who has the chance to behold her majestic glory must kneel down just like this nonexistent criminal.

“Your permission to meet me is granted.” She said, holding her ground there as another breeze hits—and flies the cape up once more. “Bow before me, as you must.”

Decree

Today was... a bit too much.

The heat was soaring high this morning, and it really shows. In the distance, the air seems to wither away under the sun, burning down on the turf like an eternal overhead grill... the worst thing to be added on top of it is the humidity. Too much. It’s like a Dutch oven everywhere one could walk.

Still, the training gotta carry on.

The damned weather is already making her cranky, more so when the race is supposed to be a 2500m race. More distance, more time under the sun, less time under the air conditioned room she rightfully deserves. Though she stood tall at the threshold of the locker room, internally, she wanted nothing more about this. Her? Orfevre? Melting down here of all places? It was laughable. “Hmph.”

“Eek!” Someone else was entering, and the first thing they saw was the bright orange hair almost blocking the entire frame. “S-sorry!” Just a runner, coming in for practice.

She didn’t respond.

“You are to be careful next time. I allow no such disrespect upon me.” She said with her usual slow, stern tone, though it now carries a clear message: ‘Don’t touch me. I will bite.” “Move.”

“Y-yes!” Well, now that the girl’s already out... It’s time for her to get to the gates first. The earlier she finishes this, the better.

So without further dwaddling, Orfevre simply turned back to the metal doors, swung them open, then they rebounded from the walls with a bang loud enough to be heard from the outside. Her strides were a perfect, graceful dance strung together even if her mind is really not in the right place. This is awful.

Thus, the humid air outside greets her again—the moment she stepped outside, it’s as if the souls of a thousand beings rushed out from behind her, cooling her ever so slightly before leaving Orfevre to be cooked under the sun. Hot and humid air makes her head hurts. Hot and humid air makes her entire body weak. It’d be nice if they trained indoors... of course, no race tracks are large enough to be under a closed roof. Anyhow; she made her way through the paved path, each click of her heels fraying further at her nerves. This is awful.

Thud!

“Ah! P-pardon me!” Someone else had just bumped into Orfevre. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

Who even is this? She vaguely remembered this girl before. Winning something. Doesn’t matter.

Her day had been ruined the moment it started. Now it just got amplified by a thousand. Her crank-o-metre is ramped to the MAX. Her limit is now. This is the highest order of disrespect, the worst of heresy, the most terrible offense. How dare she? To do something like this to her? HER??

“You... your actions are inexcusable.” She stated, crossing her arms as her chin lifted slightly. Those celestial blue eyes now bore down onto the poor uma beneath her, even if it was a matter so trivial... though her tone didn’t raise, nor did it stray away from her usual assertiveness—one could practically hear her scream for a bucket of ice dumped right over her head. “Kneel. My supremacy demands no less, and-“

Someone was behind them. Ah, if it isn’t her dear trainer.

“Just in time.” She said, turning around before directing her thumb over her shoulder at the girl. “Discipline her.”

..?!

“Under my decree...”

“...discipline. Her. Immediately.”

Second

“IT’S TREVE! TREVE WINS WITH A HUGE LEAD!”

Why?

And how?

She was the pride of an entire nation. The tyrant who was also the hope of her people.

The air rushed through her face is a barrier of its own, dragging her down right as the homestretch came to view—yet the difference seems to be too big to defy. Bright orange strands are tugged completely backwards, crosswind seemingly another thing to hold her back down.

She can’t do it. When that realization hits, it's like a whole tide crashing against her. The cheers, the screams, the thundering sounds of other runners on the turf—it all seemed to mock her instead of driving her forward. The first Arc, she got 2nd by a head’s length. Now... now it seemed so improbable.

Teeth clenched tight until her jaws hurt, Orfevre put every single ounce of strength into the strides she took to leap for the finish line. 300 more metres.

Closer.

Closer.

“And it’s a dominating win by Treve! A seven length lead so far on the homestretch! Is it too late?” The narrator said over the megaphone, yet it seemed to sting her pride even further. “Will any from the pack take back the lead for the 2013 Prix?!”

She will. She will have to.

“That..” A breath. Eyes steeling, she made her final resolve: losing this here, now, is a disgrace. All of her stamina, betting on the final gamble. “...will be.... ME!”

A stomp down the turf followed right as she surged up from the pack, pushing in... by inch closer.

“Orfevre pushing up! She’s pushing up! She’s breaking from the pack—“

“—NO! Hot on her trail is Intello! Will the German takes the 2nd?!”

Orfevre took a glance out left. No one. A glance right... and there was another girl, blitzing down the line with the same pace as she herself is.

No.

She will not yield.

“Stay—“ Another breath came out, right as the gap closes... “—DOWN!”

Another surge, she leaped forward to aim for 1st once again. Closer. Closer. CLOSER!

The roar of the spectators, the cheers they speak... it WILL be for her.

Her mind narrows down to the very stretch in front, a black form and the green blurring with blues. No space left to spare, she must run... until she wins Japan it’s first Arc win.

“Aand Treve takes it! A 5 length lead!”

That announcement, however, stripped her of all her drive, searing the harsh truth right down her core like an ironing brand.

God damn it all.

Orfevre had slipped right through the crowd of interviewers before anyone even saw her. No standing between the victors. No stage. No nothing.

Within the dry, cold air of her own hotel, she crashed down the bed with one swoop. Second again. Not by a neck’s length like last year anymore. But five.

She was all Japan had. Nakayama Festa won second. El Condor Pasa won second.

No one in Japan had won first.

Disgraceful.

Flipping onto her back, Orfevre simply stared at the ceiling with the usual expression—though it now marred itself with a sense of bitterness, defeat and perhaps something more... emotional. The sting in those eyes are undeniable at this point.

When the door knocked, she simply responded with a “Come in.”

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