Back in the present, the two sat near the glowing engine of the Streak-9, the stars overhead pulsing like distant thoughts.
MeMe hugged her knees, eyes wide. "W–wow…"
Ro-ro rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. "Yeah… I wanna bring Janusz back. Look—I ain't saying I didn't feel like shit after. I did. Still do sometimes. But I ain't gonna stop just 'cause I feel bad. I can't change what I am, or how I think. Guilt don't erase nothing."
He glanced sideways at her, his usual cocky smirk absent. "Now I told you mine, so I gotta know… what are you wishing for? Like, really?"
MeMe looked down, fingers twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. "It's not gonna sound as cool as yours…"
Ro-ro leaned back, arms behind his head. "Try me."
She took a breath, then said softly, "I just wanna be human. So I don't get picked on anymore."
Ro-ro's head snapped toward her. "HUH?! MeMe, that's dumb as hell! If that's the reason, then just ignore 'em! There's plenty of folks who don't care you got glowy eyes and sky-hair."
MeMe didn't even flinch—just hugged her knees tighter, voice trembling slightly. "Yeah, well… try not caring for half your life."
She swallowed hard, eyes misting.
"When I went to school—it was all humans. They called me 'lightbulb.' Or 'space rat.' They spit in my food. Put gum in my hair. Pulled my antennas. Beat me up behind lockers just because I looked different. Even the teachers joined in sometimes. One blamed me for stealing just 'cause I looked 'untrustworthy.'"
Ro-ro's face darkened, the rage in him quiet and simmering.
MeMe kept going. "Then I moved out, thought it'd stop. Got my own apartment. Still didn't matter. They whisper. They laugh. Or they just look at me like I'm contagious." She let out a bitter chuckle. "One time someone left a fake alien autopsy poster on my door. I laughed, but… it hurt."
Ro-ro looked away for a moment, his jaw clenching. Then: "Wait… MeMe, how old are you?"
MeMe blinked. "Eighteen."
Ro-ro crossed his arms. "I'm twenty. Guess we're both technically adults then."
She tilted her head. "Why'd you ask?"
Ro-ro shrugged, forcing a half-smirk. "I dunno… Guess I just wanted to know my racing partner. The real one. Not the girl who acts all sunshine and sparkles all the time."
MeMe gave a shy smile. "I am sunshine and sparkles."
"Yeah, well… now I see you're more like sunshine and a few thunderstorms too," Ro-ro said, nudging her shoulder. "Still... damn. I guess you really have been through hell. Where'd you say all that happened?"
"Atlanta."
Ro-ro raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Atlanta? Atlanta-Atlanta? I didn't even know they were still racist down there! I thought that place was like future-jazz and food trucks and robot dog parades."
MeMe giggled weakly. "There are robot dog parades. Still doesn't stop jerks from being jerks."
Ro-ro leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well, screw 'em. I don't care if you're made of stardust and alien noodles—you're still one of the only people I don't wanna punch after five minutes."
MeMe smiled, brushing a strand of glowing hair from her face. "That's… probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
Ro-ro grinned. "Don't let it go to your head."
They sat in silence for a few seconds, the low hum of the ship filling the air between them.
Then Ro-ro added, quietly, "You don't need a wish to be human, MeMe. You already are. You're way more human than most of the dirtbags I've met."
MeMe blinked fast, trying not to tear up. "Thanks, Ro-ro. Really."
He stood, stretching. "Yeah, yeah. I'm still not going soft, alright? I'm just sayin'—next time someone messes with you, I'll break their face."
"Thanks," MeMe laughed. "But maybe just scare them first?"
"No promises."
Meanwhile on The luxury blimp floated high above the shimmering planetary atmosphere, the vast race course displayed in holograms all around the panoramic windows. Inside, golden chandeliers swayed gently. Rich elites in jeweled suits and gravity-defying dresses sipped rare liquors, laughing as they bet on the lives of racers like it was a game of poker.
Mr. White stood by the observation glass, hands clasped behind his back, his perfect white suit practically glowing under the dim lighting. A bored expression crossed his face as he watched the chaos unfold far below.
"Hmm," he muttered to himself, eyes scanning holographic stats. "So… 890,000 racers still alive. The rest? Dead… or cowards."
Just then, a surge of blue particles materialized beside him. A tall, slim man appeared—mid-fifties, sharp, surgical in posture. His gray hair was slicked back with precision. He wore a tailored Versace suit, the black trim and yellow accents glowing faintly in the dark. His most disturbing feature: four optical implants, three nestled around the right and left sides of his face, one glowing red ominously.
Mr. White turned, a plastic smile forming. "Ah. Mr. Akira. I didn't even realize you were on the blimp. Come to enjoy the show with the rest of the gods?"
Akira's tone was ice. "Shut it, White. I didn't come for your theatrics—I have questions."
Before White could answer, a flash of light signaled the arrival of a group of news reporters, teleporting in with holo-cameras, drones, and mics extended.
White raised a gloved hand, his smile gleaming. "You'll have to wait, dear Akira. Duty calls."
He turned to the reporters like an actor stepping on stage.
A female reporter, sleek and severe in a neon-red blazer, stepped forward. "Mr. White, the galaxy wants to know—why did you start The Iron Circuit?"
Mr. White gave a charming chuckle and stepped forward, holograms shifting behind him to show scenes of cheering crowds, alien racers, explosions, and exotic planets.
"Simple," he said. "I wanted to bring aliens and humans together. I wanted people to be inspired—to race, to dream, to earn their way through fire and stars. The Iron Circuit isn't just a competition—it's history in motion."
Another reporter asked, "So what exactly does the winner receive?"
White smirked, stepping into the center of the room, lifting a crystal flute of synthetic champagne.
"The rewards are… legendary," he said.
He counted on gloved fingers:
"1. Infinite Wealth – Billions in credits. Rare tech. Priceless artifacts from civilizations long lost.
2. Immortal Fame – Your name carved into the digital bones of history, remembered forever across the stars.
3. One Wish. Anything. A resurrection, a throne, a second chance… or perhaps, vengeance."
One of the reporters leaned in. "How exactly can you grant someone a wish, Mr. White? That seems… impossible."
White raised a finger. "Now now… where's the fun in spoiling the surprise?" He winked. "Just know—it can be done. And only one racer will get it."
A taller reporter stepped forward. "Do you really think it's possible for anyone to complete a five million mile race?"
Mr. White's grin widened. "Across hostile planets, asteroid fields, warzones, lava plains, and space-time anomalies?" He leaned close, eyes wild. "Yes. Because this race attracts the capable. The desperate. The obsessed. Only they make it that far."
He spun theatrically, raising his arms. "Did you know the Galactic Council tried to claim this race was their idea? Tried to wrest control? Told me it was too dangerous."
He laughed. "Fools. Bureaucrats never change."
A small reporter with thick lenses asked timidly, "What are the official rules?"
White cleared his throat with mock ceremony, and a massive glowing scroll appeared behind him.
"Ah, yes. The sacred laws of The Iron Circuit:
Rule One – Reach the Finish Line. No shortcuts. You must hit all the key waypoints.
Rule Two – Combat is Allowed. Sabotage your enemies, kill them if you must—but endanger spectators? You're done. Disqualified. Or worse.
Rule Three – AI Limitations. You may have AI support, but the racer must make all critical decisions. No autopilot.
Rule Four – Survive. Because victory means nothing if you die before claiming it."
The room buzzed with approval and awe—until one reporter, holding her mic close, hesitated… then asked softly:
"…How do you feel about your father's death?"
The air turned still.
Mr. White's smile vanished like a light cut off. His eye twitched. The flutes on the nearby table shattered from the sudden spike in psychic pressure. One of the drones fizzled out.
He stepped forward slowly, cold fire in his voice.
"My father," he said, tone low and controlled, "was a man who believed in order. In legacy. In building something eternal."
His gloves creaked as he clenched his fists.
"He also believed I wasn't ready… wasn't worthy. That I'd turn everything he built into a circus."
White looked directly into the camera drone now, eyes practically glowing.
"Well, Dad," he said, voice flat, "look at me now. Still standing. Still winning. And they love me."
He turned back to the room with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Next question?"
The reporters had just finished scribbling notes, drones zooming off with footage. The lights dimmed slightly as the air outside the blimp began to change—orange and brown hues mixing with the fading blue daylight.
Another reporter raised their voice. "Mr. White—why did you launch this leg of the race on April 19 specifically? Seems like a dangerous time…"
White clasped his hands behind his back and strolled toward the massive viewing glass again, his polished shoes echoing on the marble floor. He smiled without turning around.
"Excellent question," he said with a flourish. "You see, dust storms often form in northern Mexico this time of year. They're most active in spring—March, April, May. Violent, blinding, unpredictable."
He pointed a single white-gloved finger outward.
"And right on cue…"
Gasps rose around the blimp as the guests turned to look out. On the horizon, a massive wall of dust—like an angry god rising from the desert—surged forward across the land. Blinding. Relentless.
"Behold," White said, smirking. "The Gauntlet of Grit. One of my favorite planetary hazards."
Cameras zoomed. Guests cheered. The feeds showed racers far below, vehicles struggling for traction as their navigation was ripped apart by sand and static. Visibility dropped to zero. Roars of engines echoed over the broadcast speakers.
White turned to the reporters. "Let the galaxy watch. Let them witness greatness clawing through nature's fury."
As the attention shifted to the visuals, Akira grabbed White roughly by the arm and dragged him into a quiet corner behind a shimmering glass partition.
Akira's voice dropped, but his fury was palpable. "Can we fucking talk now, White?"
White shrugged off the grip and adjusted his collar. "Whoa now, Mr. Akira, this suit is worth more than your entire little agency. Try not to wrinkle it."
Akira scowled. "I don't care about your credits or your ego. I've been watching you for a long time. You're not doing this just for some fantasy about unity or entertainment. What's the real reason you started this race?"
White's smile returned, but it was colder now.
"You want the truth?" he asked, stepping closer. "You think you're owed that? You think just because you've got history with my father that I'll spill everything?"
Akira's glare tightened. "I know you, White. I know how calculated you are. This isn't about unity, and it sure as hell isn't about sport. So, again—what are you hiding?"
White turned away, sipping his drink, voice calm and playful.
"In due time, Akira. In due time, you'll see. But for now—just relax. Mingle. Enjoy the endless wine and caviar. Bask in the screams of dying racers from every corner of the galaxy."
Akira shook his head, eyes burning. "You're out of control."
"Correction," White said, looking over his shoulder with that sharp smile, "I'm in control. Every step. Every planet. Every mile. Every death."
From the viewing deck, the rich continued cheering as a racer's vehicle was swept off-course and exploded in a sand vortex.
Akira growled under his breath. "Fine. I'll wait. But if I find out you've crossed the line—"
White cut him off, waving a hand dismissively.
"Please. You'll find out soon enough, Akira. And when you do… well, I'm curious what you'll do about it."
He turned back toward the crowd, his voice rising as he rejoined the party.
"Let's turn up the volume! Let them feel the wind and chaos! This… is Iron Circuit history!"
As Akira stood behind, watching with unease, the dust storm began consuming everything below—and somewhere within it, Ro-Ro and MeMe braced themselves for hell.