The Hedgerow

It wasn’t the sights nor sounds of Puyallup that bothered him, but the stench of decay mixed with chemical waste. For decades the urban sprawl had been a polluted dump, and yet here he was, squeezing past orks, elves, and half a dozen other varieties of metahumans to find his seat.

“The race started ten minutes ago!”

Zaron scowled and lowered the volume of his earbuds. “What did I say about the shouting? You know, you’re not nearly as bossy in person.”

“You’re not sitting where she could see you, right?” Charge asked, disregarding all previous comments.

“Yes,” Zaron muttered dryly. “I’m in the front row right by the finish line.” Having entered from the cheap seats, he meandered to the west side of the racetrack where an old hedgerow had survived years of abuse and served as a barrier between bleachers and the asphalt.

“Sneaky isn’t your strong suit, dude.”

Tugging his “Aztechnology Loves You!” ball cap firmly in place, Zaron plopped himself onto a bench.

“Inconspicuous as the dead.” He glanced to his left, and a mom with a half cyborg kid looked everywhere but at him as they moved to find a new seat.

“How’d you find her, anyways?” crackled Charge over the private com.

“A little work and some bribes.”

Charge scoffed. “So you punched a guy.”

“Punched his mom.”

“For the love of –”

“I’m yankin’ your chain, dumbass.”

He actually wasn’t.

Zaron’s gaze was fixed on the race. Boxed in at fourth place, Ginger on her new bike tore around the north bend. She was relaxed and patient. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His shoulders tensed as fifth place tried to crash her.

“- time. Any time. I’ll start singing –”

“What?!”

“I said your name at least five times! Pay attention!”

Zaron huffed. “I’m not here to gossip, Charge. This takes a lot of attention.”

“Bull. Shit.”

“I’ll make you come do field work.”

“Is her suit cute?”

“You’re distracting me.”

“It’s not me who’s doing the distra –-” Zaron turned off his earbuds.

On the track Ginger faked out the third place racer and tore ahead. Even from his shoddy seat and bad view of the giant screens he could see her posture shift, coiling in a timed preparation to make her move.

If it hadn’t been for a two week trail of leads that had gone cold months earlier, Zaron would never have found clues leading him to Ginger. And if he hadn’t slipped away from the Expo that day she’d had never gotten her bike….

First, second and third place pulled away from the pack as they headed into the final lap. A buzzer blared and the holo-screens flashed. Final Round: Kill Zone. Every racer poured on the speed. The racetrack flashed with magic of every color as the racers fought without mercy through the last lap.

Zaron brushed distractedly at his shirt, attempting to banish the memory of her back leaning against his chest. He could see her, waiting… waiting… then in a calculated, too-close-for-comfort move, Ginger whipped her bike around and exploded like a shooting star into first place.

The crowd went wild.

Still sitting in his seat he gaped at the screens as the illuminated redhead skidded to a stop, ripped off her helmet, and lept into her jubilant pit crew’s arms.

His muscles ached as other people caught her and crushed in to celebrate. The flash of starlight still spotted his vision. How had she used magic? A whole week he had lived another life with her, no magic, no hints, no nothing. But now she wasn’t just the specter in the Matrix, but also the stars he’d seen on the tower roof.

It was her. It always had been.