The Final Gamble

Green Ducks & Kobalts

Las Veglass was known to all as the city that never sleeps. 

Where Midnight Bay had tough restrictions on nighttime light meant to preserve the environment and the city’s unique ambiance, Las Veglass had foregone all of that for its signature enchanting rows of city lights and blinking billboards, advertising a menagerie of pleasures and parties everywhere you looked. Billy hated it, and Meepo didn’t fare much better with the overstimulation either, so they’d driven out to the desert to tour old rocket sites while their coaches and paired racers toured the almost-mean streets surrounding their hotel. 

Cerulean watched Mallard cross from one side of Las Veglass’ central road from behind, pondering how the tricky season hadn’t broken or swayed their confidence. In two days, they’d be fighting on the track over the one-point difference between their teams. Right now, they were just… hanging out. 

Bombay did the same idle introspection with Smokey, a natural convergence of thought. Smokey’s job had changed, their team had changed, but Smokey hadn’t changed- at least not in the way Zuro wanted them to. Seeing them still write on paper and scribble schedules on whiteboards and blow whistles to draw training to a close was a relief. Yes, you could take Smokey out of the Hazers. But there was no power on Marblearth that could take the Hazers out of Smokey. 

“Is there anything you three want to do?” Mallard asked once they’d gotten to the biggest cluster of theaters, not the type amenable to aimless urban wandering. “I’m okay with anything. Really.”

Conscious of their clashing tastes as a quartet, Cerulean settled on something as inoffensive as possible. “How about classical? There’s an orchestra.” 

“Classical? In Las Veglass?” Bombay’s response wasn’t a sneer so much as it was disbelieving. And it was true that the atmosphere of general decadence felt unfit to contain soft strings and weepy piano. But a city that could entertain anyone could entertain them with anything. 

Smokey wasted no time in agreeing. “If it’s settled, I’ll go. There are too many strange marbles around here for my liking.” 

“Those are fans,” Mallard said. Smokey gave them a look that said I know, and I didn’t stutter. “Anyway. Classical is good.” 

Bombay stammered, and tried to dig resistance in further. “What about the circus?” 

The idea got a cold reception. “I don’t like clowns,” Cerulean confessed. 

“And if you’ve seen one clown, you’ve seen them all,” Mallard added. 

Smokey declined to throw their opinion about the circus in the ring, but it was obviously the sort of nonsense that the Kobalts coach didn’t entertain. Training Gnome was enough experience with a clown for one lifetime. “I believe you’re outvoted, Bombay,” Smokey declared. “Cerulean. Mallard. Fetch some tickets.” 

Frowning, Bombay threw out one desperate last-gasp effort at swaying the decision. “Orchestras are horribly expensive, you know,” they said, full of concern, but nobody was swayed. 

“B- Coach. We’re buying on-the-day tickets for a Friday night show in Veglass. It’d be cheaper just to lose your wallet,” Mallard joked. “We’ll be back soon, alright?” 

So thick were the crowds that Mallard and Cerulean vanished as soon as they were absorbed into the moving mass of marbles, leaving Bombay and Smokey by the crossing lights. Bombay let out a little sigh. Even in winter, Las Veglass never got cold enough to turn your breath into steam. “Classical it is,” Bombay concluded.

“You said you liked classical. Maybe in 2022. It was playing in your office, I think, at the stadium…” reminisced Smokey. 

Nothing ever escaped their memory, Bombay thought as they huffed indignantly. “Of course I like classical. I’m no rube, contrary to what you might think. But, er, Gadwall got me listening, so it always puts me in a certain mood, you know?” 

Smokey went quiet. As long as they’d known Bombay, they’d never known quite how to deal with mentions of Gadwall. Nobody lingered in their own past the same way. “I… Well, you needn’t go if you don’t want to,” they said eventually, like a compromise between their inability to say anything helpful and the need to not leave Bombay hanging on their confession. 

“No, no. But if I cry, you can’t hold it against me. That’s my ground rule.” 

Smokey turned back away from sincerity. “Right. Of course.” 

“And don’t exploit my emotional weakness come Sunday,” continued Bombay. “If you want that fifth place, you’ll have to win it fair and square.” 

Smokey nodded. “And if Bumble jumps them both?” 

“The end of days, I suppose,” Bombay joked.

Savage Speeders

They were here. A few minutes ago, they’d finished the season’s final training session, the sky having darkened to an inky black. Quickly retreated for the night, and as they rolled out of the stadium and into the cold and gaudy streets of Veglass, Speedy knew to follow them—but they didn’t.

They rolled to the base of the towering stands, gazed up at it for a moment, and clambered to the top, sinking onto the final row like a ball bearing before shifting themself over to face the stadium. It was massive—the stands wrapped around, and each section was the size of the grass field where Speedy used to train. They swallowed the dark, skinny track suspended in the middle. For nearly three years this track, this stadium, this city, had appeared so stubbornly, in their dreams of this distant land. 

It was strange seeing it empty—tomorrow they’d be full, jam-packed with audience and indistinguishable bright flashing lights. Speedy wasn’t sure what they were—cameras were in there, but the rest—

“Speedy!”

Speedy turned. Left, then right—then they realised the sound was coming from beneath them. Swifty called up from the floor. “What are you doing?”

Speedy couldn’t answer. Swifty seemed to understand; they stood for a minute, sort of awkwardly, then began to ascend the stands. They appeared at their side a few minutes later, sitting down gently next to them and leaning back. Speedy could tell they wanted to say something, but they didn’t—perhaps the sight of the stadium mesmerised them all the same. 

Suddenly, something possessed Speedy. “So Whizzy isn’t coming?”

If Swifty was surprised they’d started a conversation, they didn’t show it. “Yeah, it’s just too long a flight. Especially ‘cause they’d be going alone.”

Speedy nodded. It’d be strange not to have anyone else there—usually the team would be right at the front, cheering Speedy on. But Rapidly’s flu had unexpected complications, and Velocity needed to be on standby for Impact. Veglass was far. 

“Ready for tomorrow?” Swifty asked. 

“Yeah,” Speedy replied. 

The insurmountable challenge hung between them—the faintest possibility to scrape a podium finish, one that had slipped away from them just a week ago. At least everyone was too focused on the battle up front to notice their choke. 

“You’re getting another medal. I can feel it.” Swifty shrugged.

Speedy smirked. 

It wasn’t Swifty’s fault. Snowstorm had turned into a beast from seemingly nowhere—Speedy wondered what Snowy thought of them.

“We’re gonna need a miracle.” They said finally. 

“Well…” Swifty suggested, “We’ve pulled them off before.”

“The team was there.”

Swifty paused for a second, before turning to face them. “We’re a team! You and me. And maybe we do need a miracle. But no matter what happens, I’ll be proud of the way we raced. And as long as you are too, that’s what matters.”

Speedy thought for a little. “You talk too much.” 

Swifty laughed. “I’ll take it.”

They sat for a little longer, before Swifty suggested they get back. Speedy agreed, and together they descended the stands.

“So, the Hazers and the Cats,” Swifty started as they headed towards the door, “Who do you think’s gonna win?” 

“Cats,” Speedy replied.  

“But who do you want to win?”

“Hazers.” Speedy sighed.

Swifty chuckled. “What about the individual?”

“Red Eye, realistically,” Speedy said. “But—”

“I know,” Swifty responded, “I’d cheer for Smoggy too.”

This time, Speedy chuckled. They were almost at the exit. 

It was strange racing Smoggy again. The way they’d flashed by made Speedy feel like they were back at short circuit. But it’d nagged them more than most overtakes did, and overtakes already nagged them a lot. 

Smoggy gave them a brief glimpse into the past: one where they were all six years younger, had snowball fights in the offtimes, and Rapidly was by their side. By now it was long gone, frozen in time and buried with fresh memories of Yeller and Cloudy’s young faces. In front of them, Swifty pushed the door and stepped into the night.

It happened whenever they saw Smoggy, in the press conferences or the cafeterias. When they crossed paths and their eyes met briefly in between them, they wouldn’t linger; they’d just roll by— yet Speedy wondered if Smoggy felt it too. 

Snowballs

Twenty points. 

That was how far Snowy had to jump just to tie. 

Not to overtake. And not to overtake Red Eye, or Smoggy, or Speedy, or some rookie upstart. 

To overtake their own teammate. Snowstorm. 

In a way, it was their own fault. It was self-evidently much easier to win a race against Yellow Eye than it was to win one against Red Eye- Snowy’s own double silvers testified to that. In calculatedly giving themself the races they suspected Red Eye would show up, like a hunter tracking its prey, Snowy had given themself the harder job- and Snowstorm the easier. 

That was what Snowy wanted to tell themself. The typical thought, the standby excuse, the default setting on their mental washing machine- it’s Red Eye’s fault. 

It lasted until Snowy rewatched Snowstorm’s race at Sparkle Central, for no other reason than to reassemble the puzzle from its component parts.

Thank you for believing in me, everyone, the radio blinked. 

Snowy rose, and began to pace. Snowstorm was out in Veglass, a well-earned break, a reward for putting their team in the position they were in. All Snowy had to do was defend 3rd against Speedy.

Everyone.

Snowy’s phone blinked from where they’d left it on their bed. A little sprightly chirp that quickly repeated itself. They scooted the desk chair over to check what was going on. 

Snowfall: Boarding for the transfer flight is on. See you two in a few hours.
Snowblast: Unless Snowfall loses the boarding passes!
Snowblast: (joking)
Snowdrift: make that three
Snowdrift: me and Misty are just getting something to eat at a diner
Snowdrift: we’ll be there ahead of you

Snowy’s body couldn’t decide whether to relax or tense up. Relax, because nothing unexpected had happened. Tense, because they were coming to watch the final race, and just the idea reminded them of sitting alone in the stands during the previous season, pretending there was no bite to being the only team without any of its other members there to watch the final showdown. 

It was also hard not to think of the past. If Snowstorm had equaled them last season, the Snowballs would have won. If Snowstorm had equaled them in Season 2, they wouldn’t have been cut. And if Snowflake had equaled them in Season 1, then everything might have- 

Snowy forced themself to think no further, to scrunch their eyes and blank their mind. 

Casino Square. Racing. Red Eye. Defending 3rd place. Getting to grips with a new track their team hadn’t raced on before. There weren’t many of those left, so it was a rare pleasure. Next season, Mellow Meadows and Mirage Meowntain would have to come back, and the Glaciers too, with Sleet Street- Glide was hanging around with Sheet, actually, and their ridiculous new lap record that had overwritten Red Eye’s, so perhaps they could make a personal appeal…

The thoughts of Snowflake gradually vanished. In their place, the future stood.

–

Snowstorm waited by the dusty curb for the car they’d seen a picture of in the photo message, a smart white rental with an open roof that was vastly more modern than the grubby minivan they were used to driving back home in Snoronto. Snowdrift and Misty would be inside. 

In the Las Veglass traffic they seemed to wait forever, but eventually it rocked up casually, all sleek lines and modern engineering. Ironically, Snowdrift was the one driving. 

“Snowstorm! King of the Castle!” Snowdrift exclaimed from the open seat, echoing the embarrassing nickname Blizzard had given them (and which the radio had decided to run with). Snowstorm bit back the instinct to push it back, and put forward the biggest smile they could manage. 

“That’s me,” Snowstorm reaffirmed. “Been too long.” 

“Eleven weeks. Almost twelve.” Snowdrift unlocked the doors, freeing them both, and went in for a hug. Misty was polite enough to look away as Snowstorm reciprocated.

“Aren’t you two worried about missing the next Impact event?” they asked. But Snowdrift just brushed it off. 

“What are they going to do? Penalise us? Most of us are here,” they laughed. “My first M1 finale. In the audience. But, my first.” 

Snowstorm sighed, loosening their grip. “It’s exhausting. Do not recommend.” 

“Those are the words of someone who wants to keep the wins to themself,” Snowdrift retorted. 

Behind them, Misty had already taken their bags and disappeared. Snowstorm didn’t blame them. 

It was different, to try and do what the Snowballs hadn’t managed. To try and beat the Crazy Cat’s Eyes. 

Indigo Stars & Solar Flares

Ringo had a taste for luxury that their racers didn’t share. Years as a famous musician had accustomed them to fancy hotels and shining lights long before the League and M1 were even thought of. Indie and Diego, meanwhile, had spent most of the season dazzled by just how good the M1 racer treatment could get. Sitting in Las Veglass’s biggest and best buffet, Diego got the feeling that this was Ringo-good, not Stars-good. 

Ringo had already loaded their plate up. Coconut shrimp, fatty Hunluen-style roast meat, a whole grilled steak still relaxing in its own juices, and plump fresh fruit doused in ice cream in a bowl to the side. Diego’s plate sat next to it, dishwasher white and empty. 

“Eat,” Ringo insisted. “You need the energy.” 

Diego hesitated. “I’m not hungry,” they said, and pushed the plate further away. “Too many nerves. And I don’t want an upset stomach while I’m racing.” 

“Bold words from the racer who said they didn’t think they had a shot at beating Bumble at Casino Square,” Ringo teased as they pushed the empty plate back where it had sat before. The bead of flop sweat dripping down their brow made Diego feel like a cartoon; they blamed it on the heat, too many marbles, too much food. 

“I should still try. And whether I’m cut from the roster or not, I’d like to break out of the bottom twenty.” Half of what was being implied- and I can’t do that if I’m full of pizza and mini pastries– went unsaid. Ringo seized on the rest. 

“So now you think we’re coming back next season,” Ringo quipped. 

Diego went still. They’d been through the numbers- the chances of them dropping below 10th were tiny. Maybe the Pinkies and Mellow Yellow could get the jump on them if Diego couldn’t muster a third good performance, but even dropping to 11th required the kind of terrible luck that only existed as dread and apprehension in Diego’s mind. 

Numbers didn’t lie. But they didn’t convince the primal instinct of disappointment that Diego had nurtured through years of being snubbed. The part of their brain that said you’re not meant to be here. And of course Ringo had witnessed those anxieties firsthand. 

“I… Coach. Fine. I think we’re getting another season.” Even the nascent sense of pride that had burned since the 2023 Showdown couldn’t make Diego care whether it was with or without them. A top ten meant their waiting wouldn’t have been for naught. But admitting that good things could happen made Diego twitchy, and they didn’t let the sentiment sit for long before obligingly taking their plate to the serving stations. 

“I’ll go eat,” they declared, penitent. “We’re in Veglass, after all.”

–

Even in the vast gulf between their points and their situations, the Solar Flares had landed on the same idea as the Stars: when in Veglass, eat food. Indie met Ember at the end of the queue for dessert, two plates piled high, one savoury and one sweet. They were drizzling a skewer of marshmallows and strawberries with the sticky melted chocolate that flowed hypnotically from a big metal fountain at the end of the line. 

“That looks good,” Indie said. They’d been much more conservative with their selections where Ember had gone all out. “You must have quite an appetite.” 

“You work one up doing nothing,” Ember joked, chocolate dribbling on little mousse cakes and tender mini pancakes. “What about you? You deserve it.” 

Indie blinked. “Deserve it?” 

“Sure. Deserve it. On consistency, you’re the best rookie we have this season. Yeller- uh, I can’t talk, but at least one of you can race in the fog.”

Faced with an all-consuming blush, Indie’s immediate instinct was to brush the compliment off and deny it. Scrambling, they went for the diversion. “Rosa still has a race tomorrow,” Indie said softly. 

“Sure, but you went five races without placing in the bottom half. You and Diego could be the next Bumble and Stinger,” Ember declared confidently. “We’re rooting for you two, anyway. Me and Radiance.” 

“Even though we’re beating you?” Indie asked. 

Ember shrugged. “Someone’s got to light the coals under the old guard.” 

“The O’Rangers-” Indie almost said, before thinking better of themself. “Well, I’m happy. And I had a lot of fun.” 

Don’t stress about the positions, Ringo had said, all the way back at Sakura Garden. 

“Then that’s what matters,” Ember concurred. “And for what it’s worth, I had fun too.” 

Hazers

Wakefulness came to Cloudy in steps – slow, meandering, the same way fresh fog rolled into the valleys every morning back home.

The first step was to linger on the threshold of lucidity, not so much awake as much as it was no longer asleep. Senses came to them as if filtered through thick cotton: bedsheets, a pillow, the slight chill of air conditioning. Beyond their closed eyes there was a dim light. The desk lamp.

They hadn’t meant to fall asleep, just take a ten minute break from race prep by curling up on the hotel bed and listening to Hazy’s pen scratch away, but clearly, they’d dozed off somewhere in the middle.

“Keep your voice down.” Hazy’s voice sounded as if it was coming from far away.

Smoggy’s reply was laced with amusement. “Still? It’s been over ten minutes.”

A tired chuckle. “They’re still asleep. Let them rest.”

I’m awake, Inner Cloudy offered, a little sluggishly. Outer Cloudy made no comment. Everything felt heavy.

The room dipped further into shadow as Smoggy shifted, blocking the lamp. “Discuss it with me, then. How’s it looking?”

Bad. Not impossible, but bad. Not even a perfect weekend guaranteed success, depending on how qualifiers went.

“Slim.”

Smoggy made no reply, but Cloudy could imagine their face – a mix of frustration and resignation at another possible season where they came so close yet so far. 

Cloudy remembered Casino Square, viscerally. They remembered the lights, the glamour, the night they’d joined Misty on the rooftop and gazed at the city skyline together with hope in their hearts, and the night where it all fell apart. 

I don’t want that to happen ever again.

So much had changed since then; now Smoggy was the one accompanying them, giving advice like brake here, you’ll carry more speed out of the turn or you can make fun of Speedy on the radio, they won’t find out. And Hazy now stood where Smokey once did, working on strategy docs until the dead of night and mingling with marbles who remembered them better as league captain than league coach. It was easy to imagine them now, leaning over a desk with papers strewn wide, putting together an analysis only possible by someone who had raced M1 themselves.

So much had changed, yet so much had stayed the same; Smoggy tearing through the field with a grin of pure audacity, Hazy rising to meet them like old times. Smokey was there too, reduced, but present in reciprocated greetings, plates of cut fruit, and a stern whisper behind closed doors: if White Eye ever does that again, tell me. 

“Hazy.” Smoggy’s voice cut through the silence. “Put the pen down. You’re stressing yourself out.”

Cloudy cracked an eye open as Hazy sputtered. “I’m not.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m…” Hazy broke off whatever retort they had with a sigh. “Don’t tell me you’d be satisfied with second. I know you.”

“‘Course I don’t want second,” Smoggy said. “But you know what I’m talking about. Finales, and….” they trailed off.

“…it’s my job, Smogs.”

“Then talk to me.”

From Cloudy’s vantage, their teammates were only two shadows on the walls. Hazy’s shadow lowered their head, reluctantly.

“We’ve been matching CCE blow for blow all season,” they murmured. “It all comes down to this.” The silhouette looked up. “If we win, then we pull off the impossible: defeating them on equal ground. If we don’t…we continue our legacy. We go home again saying ‘we did all we could, and it wasn’t enough.’”

Smoggy said nothing, just listened with rapt attention. 

“But giving up isn’t who we are, is it?” Hazy continued. “It’s not over until it’s over. As long as there’s a chance, no matter how slim, we go all in on it.” They paused to take a breath. “I have full faith in Cloudy. A perfect weekend to start, a perfect weekend to finish – and then we’ll be champions. We’ll make history.”

Smoggy laughed, a little breathless. “…I’m so glad you’re back.”

I’m not racing without them, Smoggy had whispered, the day before Cloudy had left for Razzway.

Hazy smiled back. It was in their voice. “…me too.”

–

“Okay, so I’ll pick up Misty in the afternoon… anything else?”

“That’s about it. Thanks for taking care of that.”

Papers shifted – Hazy, probably – while someone – Smoggy, probably – patted the base of Cloudy’s bed.

“Do you still want to wake them up? There’s still tomorrow morning.”

There was a pause as Hazy considered it.

“No,” they eventually decided, and Cloudy kept still as they heard them approach. A few seconds of rustling later, they felt the comfortable weight of a blanket settle around them. 

“Good night, Cloudy.”

The lamp turned off with a click, plunging the room fully into shadow, and Cloudy waited for the door to close before turning over to stare at the window. A sliver of light bypassed the blackout curtains, a golden cat’s pupil shining from the dark.

Taking a deep breath, Cloudy let their mind wander, imagining themselves gliding across the track, each move so practiced they could do it blindfolded. 

Please let this be it, they thought, sinking back into the realm of sleep with every passing second. Please…

In their dreams, the championship lingered ever closer.

Crazy Cat’s Eyes

Being the second racer was all Yellow Eye had ever known. It was so ingrained in them that they’d never dreamt of wanting more. Winning team championships was already the happiest they’d been in sport, and the joys of winning an individual one on top of it were reserved for Red Eye and Red Eye alone. 

But they’d put together their best season yet, complete with a medal rainbow, all by themself. They didn’t expect celebration, and they knew to keep their head down; but the joy of their success filled them with an unwavering glow. It followed them everywhere, like a stress-free reality filtered through permanent sunshine. Its arms were outstretched, inviting Yellow Eye in; you’ve done a great job, you can relax now. You’ve earned it.

It even stayed with them as they leaned against the doorframe in the garage, listening to Red Eye and White Eye’s rapid-fire discussion. Yellow Eye could barely decipher their words… catch them on the draft, don’t let them stretch the lead.

They yawned like a lazy cat basking in the daylight, which, to their credit, they were. Usually they’d be squashed right up between them, fighting for helpful remarks that’d maybe make White Eye go, damn, I didn’t think of that. But they weren’t today, that gave Yellow Eye the slightest smidge of satisfaction. 

They barely registered the meeting’s end. Red Eye and White Eye shuffled around before heading out. White Eye stalked through the door, but Red Eye waited. 

“Yellow? Let’s go?” They asked. 

“What?” Yellow Eye jumped slightly, rubbing their eyes. “Yeah, sorry.”

They rolled together in silence, emerging on the street. Late afternoon sunlight ricocheted across the city, and various shadows stretched dramatically across the shiny roads beneath them. Yellow Eye saw one that looked like a face. 

“… We have good odds, just as long as the track doesn’t mess me up I’ll be right up there for first.”

They arrived at the crossing. The traffic lights in Veglass blinked a cheery tune Yellow Eye didn’t recognise. 

“… I still can’t believe there weren’t any consolation points awarded,” Red Eye droned on.  “Like, I know I was caught up in the wrong place, but there was definitely a starting gate malfunction.”

The traffic light stared back stubbornly, refusing to turn green. Yellow Eye blinked sleepily. “The team argued everything they could. There’s nothing you can do.” 

“I know,” Red Eye groaned. “But still.”

Finally, the traffic light beeped its celebratory theme, and the two cats rolled forward. 

“White Eye’s already told me I’ve got the individual, but it’s much nicer with the team trophy too.” 

You think? Yellow Eye looked down at the striped crossing, which was painted rainbow. “Yeah, for sure.”

Red Eye continued, but Yellow Eye couldn’t focus. It almost felt strange; Red never talked this much. Just another privilege of being a worthy teammate… life was unfair. 

They reached the other side of the street. “Like I said though, that conveyor belt is out for me. We should have looked out for Smoggy more. Cloudy was who I was worried about.”

Suddenly, Yellow Eye stopped. 

“We need to keep Smoggy behind!”

Yellow Eye grit their teeth, frantically darting over their shoulder to check the gap. 

“Smoggy’s the priority. Please confirm.”

What could they do? It was for the team, for Red Eye. They knew that. 

But I want this, they thought. 

It’s not about you. It’s never about you. 

“… copy”

“Again, it’s all because of that conveyor belt.” Red Eye’s voice sounded from next to them. They had turned, and the hotel appeared amidst their vision. “Otherwise I’d have won by now. But there’s still a chance something goes wrong and I—”

“Why are you so worried?” Yellow Eye said. The sun made them dazed, and they just kept rolling forward, but Red Eye slowed down. 

“What?”

Yellow Eye was almost amused. “You’re gonna win. You’re Red Eye.” 

“… You really think so?” Red Eye frowned. 

“Yeah,” Yellow Eye shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

It was the truth. Yellow Eye simply couldn’t see a different outcome. Everything we’ve done for you. 

Red Eye paused, then they grinned, slightly.. “That means a lot to me, coming from you.”

Yellow Eye blinked. The sun was as bright as ever. Red Eye didn’t seem to notice though, still talking animatedly by their side. “Like, honestly, I don’t think I could’ve done this without you, y’know? And you’ve been amazing this season. Three medals! I’ve gotta watch for my job.”

They bumped them, hard against the side. Yellow Eye wasn’t expecting it, so they stumbled on the concrete floor. Red Eye laughed as they regained their footing. We’re here,” they remarked. “The hotel’s right there.” 

They marched past them into the entrance, signaling for Yellow Eye to follow. They obliged, trailing after their teammate into the building. The sun had just started to set, reflecting Red Eye’s glass surface with hints of gold. 

What would I do without you?

Credits

• Writers: Toffeeshop, Io Twelve, Millim
• Copyeditors/Editors: Toffeeshop, Io Twelve, Millim, GhostDM
• Graphic Designers: Emmun_Isaac
• Reference: Marbula 1 Season 6
• Release: 18/01/2026