The dawn of the penultimate day began like any other in the eternal spring of Rosaka, with a soft golden glow that oozed across the horizon and out to the edges of every tree and cloud that framed its celestial border. The dark hues of nighttime and its accompanying stars ebbed away, giving way to the soft blues of early morning and rousing the local songbirds from their rest, and behind them, the last crisp breeze of the day rustled through the trees they called home, carrying with it the faintest trace of petrichor.
The gym was a fine substitute if the weather was bad, but barring that, Cloudy would choose to complete their morning jog outside every time. There was nothing quite like it no matter where they were—the gardens of Rosaka, the mountain paths of Mt. Huaze, even the desert where Iron Marble was held. Glidavik was an exception. And a morning jog was—well, it was sort of like mediation, the way time melted away until Cloudy remembered to start their cooldown lap.
They were particularly absentminded today, leading to an unusually long exercise session. Exhaustion was already settling in as Cloudy began their post-jog stretches, and their companion had already collapsed onto the grass, staring skywards with a glazed look in their eye.
“Tired?” Cloudy asked sheepishly.
Murky emitted a thin wheeze from the ground. “You’re…very fast.”
“Aw, thanks,” Cloudy chirped, sitting down next to them. The grass was still wet with dew. “Don’t sweat it, I’ve got four years of experience over you. But also, if you want to slow down a bit, I don’t mind. Just let me know.”
Murky shook their head, still breathing hard. “I need to catch up, not the other way around.”
They had been like that too, once: sitting on the bench, wide-eyed at their teammates’ accomplishments, being cheered on by them as they dreamed about matching them one day. Cloudy flopped down to watch the sky with them, where the morning light had outfitted the clouds with a rosy golden tint.
“Are you nervous?”
Cloudy craned their head up. Feathery strands of cirrus drifted in packs across the pale blue expanse. “A little,” they admitted. “Our chances are pretty slim, anyway, so there’s not much pressure there.”
“I’m sorry. If I’d done better in Short Track…”
Cloudy shook their head. “It’s not on your Short Track result any more than it is on my Archery score,” they said.
“Still…” Murky persisted.
Twenty-two points between the Hazers and the Stars, Hazy had pointed out between rapid, anxious taps of their pen against their desk. Then their only pathway to the championship would be to win, and for the Stars to place…14th or lower. No, 13th, with the medal countback. And they couldn’t have the Pinkies or the Snowballs earning silver, or they would win.
Slim chances indeed. Winning wasn’t even one-third of the battle. All the days the team had trained together, all the nights that Misty had spent pouring over team strategy, and their sliver of victory came down to this one single event. Slim chances, which was exactly why they had to give it their all.
“It’ll be alright,” Cloudy declared. They turned to Murky and grinned just as sunlight beamed down on the dewy grass around them, turning the field into a sea of diamonds. “Just watch and see. If I can pull off Casino Square, I can bring home a victory here too.”
Perhaps it was the morning light, or perhaps Cloudy’s optimism really did awaken a glimmer of hope in Murky, because their eyes sparkled like the sunlight as they nodded.
June was nearing its end in Rosaka, and the meek spring warmth of April had swollen without fanfare into the pervasive heat of summer. Chatter abounded, blaming the initial heatwave week on the Snowballs’ sudden slowing—vending machines in the athletes’ village sold out of iced drinks in a matter of hours, and air conditioning hummed above silent long into the light and balmy evenings. Bombay complained every day that it was the humidity, not the heat, that got you, and Berry agreed on autopilot every day as the Raspberry Racers staked out their training grounds for the final event.
The dry-wind season blowing through June to August in Orlango took much of the misery out of the season, as well as giant jugs of sugary iced tea “for electrolytes” and orange trees awning every path. Sakura trees were less merciful and barley tea wasn’t quite the same—yet even that difference never bothered Kinnowin. Well, little ever seemed to bother Kinnowin, who’d found Rizzy in the nearest city park, rolling off a day of training through the golden hour and into the twilight.
“A moment?” Kinnowin hailed them, country-polite. Rizzy had managed to go as incognito as possible amongst the Racers fans, but there was no keeping eyes off of the O’Ranger’s captain, who never hid their identity and had already attracted a distant crowd of chattering fans. “You look well.”
Rizzy smiled. Kinnowin never turned off the charm offensive, either. “I’m trying. Want to join me?”
“If you don’t mind it,” replied Kinnowin.
The Village had sprung up adjacent to one of Rosaka’s largest and oldest ornamental parks, inhabiting the space where an aching, labyrinthine entertainment and business complex had sat before an unceremonious demolition. It was built after the Pinkies’ league win but prior to the successful League bid, hosting regional tournament delegations in the shadow of the Ampinktheatre, but its capacity and its state-of-the-art equipment betrayed its true purpose. Razzy had told them all that; it was the sort of thing their captain cared about. Rizzy preferred the urban convenience over the O’Ranger’s more scenic all-on-site strategy, and that was as much as they could say.
“You’re racing tomorrow,” Kinnowin asked, leading, as they passed the cooling breath of an ornamental fountain.
Rizzy blanched. “Yes,” they stammered. “Well, I don’t have a choice. Apparently Stone Toss doesn’t count—I wish!” Intending to laugh, they only managed a dry chuckle.
Kinnowin reciprocated, warm and quiet. “Finale as your only event. You’re the bold type.”
“Someone has to throw away all the hard work we’ve done.” Razzy’s Sprint, Rezzy’s Funnels, their Relay and their Stone Toss—two belonged to them, but not really, not like an individual event would.
Kinnowin frowned. Rizzy didn’t like how a frown looked on Kinnowin. It wasn’t natural. They swallowed and thought hurriedly of something more reassuring to say. “Or it’ll be fine. How’s Tarocco doing?”
“I’m not worried about a thing.” It wasn’t much of an answer. Rizzy couldn’t name it exactly, but there was a distance to the words, as if they were speaking through a pane of frosted glass, like they didn’t know each other at all. But they hadn’t exactly overflowed with sincerity either. “Crepe?” Kinnowin offered, passing a vendor.
“If you’re buying.”
They hadn’t always had these chances. Since their debut, all the Snowballs knew was heartbreak—missing qualifying, relegation, being cut from m1… Snowstorm had slugged it out like trekking through a blizzard. Eventually, they’d escaped: it came with a price, and they’d left the weight of two behind. Now, with every medal, the blizzard days receded.
Fighting them through was Snowy, dragging their broken team with a burning drive to right their wrong. They stared down the dunes before saving them from relegation, single-handedly taking the fight to Red Eye and putting “Team Snowy” on the map. Yet their efforts could only drag them so far; shunned to the shadows of the Cats or the middle of a standings table—and every blow drove the fractures between the team deeper.
Perhaps they’d never escaped the blizzard. As their bridge to the past, Snowstorm couldn’t guide Snowy to the future. The task left them helpless, forced into a room above the blizzarding field where they could only watch the others struggle in the snow.
They’d had this chance once; poor Snowdrift bore the weight. Their nothing of a team didn’t deserve nice things, and Team Momo emerged victorious without a fight. After they’d lost it, the fracture threatened to tear them apart, and Snowstorm felt freshly twenty-one, hearing Snowflake sob through the night.
Still, they worked hard. In a twist of fate, Snowstorm would prove themself on the biggest stage yet.
–
“You don’t need to be nervous.”
Snowstorm didn’t like how Snowy saw through them. They’d been sitting in the lounge where they’d meant to discuss last-minute strategy, cotton-candy skies outside inching them closer to the fateful day.
“Whatever. We don’t have good odds anyway. I’ve just gotta race.”
Snowy’s face flashed knowingly, carefully. “You don’t have to rub it in. I know I didn’t do so well. I should’ve helped… our position.”
Snowstorm scoffed, wearily. “Dude, you’re Snowy. Don’t talk as if you suck.”
Snowy pursed their lips. Just as Snowstorm expected a smirk, they spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
“… What?”
“I’m sorry.” Snowy took a breath. “For being so… stuck in my head for so long. I should’ve helped you.”
“What, you mess up in some races and now you feel like the rest of us?”
“Huh?” Snowy was taken aback. “No, I’m saying I was an ass and I’m sorry.”
Snowstorm shot up from the table. “Really? I’m racing for the championship tomorrow, and you pull this on me?” The words boiled over, and heads began to turn, but Snowstorm didn’t care. “It should be you, huh? It’s always you.”
“Storm—” Snowy spluttered.
You have no idea how nervous I was when I screwed up. How stressed I was when I called Snowflake for the first time in three years. How selfishly happy I was when I outscored you.
“No,” Snowstorm stopped. You don’t get to make things right. “You don’t respect me.”
“Snowstorm!” Snowy exclaimed. “That’s not—what do you want me to say? I don’t want to keep hurting you! I don’t—”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Snowstorm said coldly.
Snowy’s expression changed. Something retracted, and for a second it pulled Snowstorm from their rage. Snowy looked… young.
“You’ve worked hard. It’s too late for me now.” To help. “But I believe in you, Snowstorm.”
I believe in you, Snowstorm.
From then on, Snowstorm’s memory was hazy. Snowy had got up and left, probably, leaving them alone in the lounge to think about only one thing.
What am I doing?
–
Snowstorm clambered into bed, curling away from Rosaka outside their window. The last time they’d raced a finale, someone had told them to race for themself.
Don’t think about what Snowy said. Or what you said. Or how you’ve waited for that for years. Of course, the most selfish fantasy of clinching the victory still lingered, but Snowstorm forced it away too.
You don’t have good odds, but just think about how nice it’d be if you won. Surely then you’d be out of the blizzard, for real.
As the rented microvan paced down the highway, Rosaka’s skyline began to disappear behind the horizon, and Yellah got their first glimpse of the countryside since their arrival. Pinky Toe, riding shotgun, passed them a sakura candy from a bag in the centre console, politely unwrapped for ease.
“So you’re immediately a better player two than Kinnowin ever was,” Yellah declared. “That fry hoarder. ‘Split an extra-large’, what a scam. We should’ve been riding together in Impact from the start.”
Pinky Toe smiled, flustered. “It’s okay. I owe you for this, after all.”
“Owe me?” Yellah snorted. “For what? I always wanted to drive one of these things.”
“Helping me fetch my parents to watch the final event together… It’s a lot to ask of someone from a different team. They have their own car, but Rosaka isn’t built for cars like Amalanta, so it’s too stressful for them. I’m surprised you even have the time.”
“Beats doing more event drills with Mellow.” Yellah glanced ahead and behind as another car passed. “I never knew you grew up on a farm.”
Pinky Toe nodded. “I’m not surprised. I only really talk about it on Rosakan news programs. That kind of thing probably isn’t interesting to someone from another region. Speaking of news, they’ll be talking about us on the evening radio show soon. Do you mind if I…?” they said, gesturing to the AM dial.
“Go ahead. I didn’t even notice it was on, honestly.”
Low radio hum filled the car. “It’s still on the business talk segment,” Pinky Toe mumbled. “Can I ask you something?”
“You don’t need to ask permission every time. Aren’t captains supposed to be assertive?”
Pinky Toe brushed off the remark. “Your captain… It’s my fourth event, will Yellow take it badly? With MVM on the line.”
Yellah scoffed. “After what happened with Sand Rally, Yellow has no right to worry about your impact on MVM. And maybe if they hadn’t come 14th, the whole season wouldn’t have become such a salvage job for me.”
Pinky Toe went quiet. Everything above the soft hum of the electric engine was silent. “Sorry. Did I sound too mad?”
“It was very… honest,” Pinky Toe replied, “and I’m not sure if it answered the question.”
Yellah sighed, and Pinky Toe handed them another peeled candy. “Actual answer? You’re fine. Yellow doesn’t hold grudges. They and Razzy are even better friends than they were in 2019.” They merged from the highway down a quieter regional road, towards the village of Pinky Toe’s origin. “I actually admire it.”
Pinky Toe frowned. “Is this about Panther?”
“It’s not not about Panther.”
“Panther’s good,” Pinky Toe conceded quietly. “This should’ve been their event, and yet… Well, if it’s a question of winning at home, maybe the captain has to take responsibility. That’s my excuse.”
“Okay, you really are a captain,” Yellah laughed. “I bet Yellow would say the exact same thing.”
High in the cloud-patched sky, the sun was starting its gradual descent towards evening, tinting the world pink and orange. The roads turned nostalgic, fresh tarmac became worn, and dark, dry dirt turned under the wheels of the microvan.
“Did you have a good time?” Pinky Toe asked, catching the first glimpse of their childhood home from the window. “When I think about it, that’s what I want. For the memories to remain.”
The car drew to a stop in the dirt driveway. “Are you kidding?” Yellah laughed. “I had the time of my life.”
Following the Rosakan trend, a pop-up version of Vespa’s diner had been launched near the Village, only to become so overwhelmingly popular that Honey had caught them talking about a permanent move. A new influx of fans attending only for the final few events kept lines long from dawn to dusk, opening hours creeping earlier and later than Vespa had hoped—or planned—for. Minty Mint had endured Ruzzy’s pleas for insider access for weeks without ceding ground. But Vespa, ever-loyal, had still rented out the venue free of charge for the Hubelino teams the night before the Showdown finale, Buzznyan-style burgers and milkshakes lining every faux-vintage surface and metal-lined table.
Minty Mint, Swax, and Ace sat together in the cozy corner booth they’d requisitioned, vaguely sequestered from the chatter of their more senior teammates. A slick modern action blockbuster played fullscreen on Minty Mint’s laptop, nested in a collage of yellow-and-black burger wrappers and paper plates.
“You just don’t know when to quit,” a grizzled marble growled through the screen, shrouded in darkness. “Because of you, Sharkmarb will return and terrorise the citizens of Aslipi.”
“But as long as Sharkmarb remains on the loose, Aslipians can never know true peace,” replied the unseen protagonist. “Sharkmarb and I grew up together. And as Turtlemarb, it’s my responsibility to bring them to justice once and for all… Even if it costs me my own life.”
Minty Mint stubbornly turned the volume higher as Minty Flav and Hive’s laughter sounded from behind them. “Then you’re a fool, Turtlemarb.”
Swax reclined against the plasticky booth seating. “Am I missing something? Why are we watching a bad movie?”
“Hey, it’s… Okay, but it’s not that bad,” Mint protested, guarding the laptop.
“Objection. It’s bad,” Ace declared. “Diamond’s made me watch enough of this heroes-and-villains stuff to know a lump of coal when I see it.
“Just because you went to law school—look, a 60% on Spoiled Oranges isn’t bad, it’s just mediocre.” Mint protested further, voice rising. “Besides, I don’t even want to watch it! We’re trying to get in Frank’s head so I can win the Showdown.”
“By watching their movies and eating our body weight in burgers and ice cream?” Ace asked.
“What’s the problem? The ice cream represents the Jawbreakers, and we’ll be howling at the full moon later to understand the Wolfpack, too,” Swax added. Minty Mint shot them a you’re not helping look and returned to watching the movie, where Turtlemarb and Sharkmarb had just begun to duke it out with CGI laser beams and flurries of ocean water.
“I don’t think Frank can do that in real life,” Ace added unhelpfully.
“But you can never be too careful,” joked Swax.
Mint kept watching. Any other time they would’ve laughed, confessed to their bad taste, and talked loudly over the dialogue. Watching Frank, though, smiling through the screen with the signature movie-star twinkle in their eyes, one irrational thought whirred and kept them silent—I’ll beat you, and when I do, everyone will see in me what they love about you.
It was a busted old pen that leaked its contents while it wrote, but Diego couldn’t bring themself to care enough to switch it, leaving ink stains smeared from the notebook to the table and their glass. Every time the dice landed, they marked another notch in two columns. It was a 10-sided die; one through eight meant a stroke in the left column, rapidly outpacing its neighbour, nine or ten meant a mark to the right. Two words were written in messy scrawl above the columns: WIN and PODIUM.
Ringo’s diagnostics—via Berry—were clear; a four out of five—or eight out of ten, Diego reasoned—chance to win, and a one-in-fifty-five-thousand chance to lose their grip on the podium completely. They were under strict instructions to not even consider that as an option, though Diego’s mind drifted naturally to it anyway; what else in their life had such low odds, yet still happened?
They didn’t apologise for the strange behaviour—it looked strange, no doubt about it—when Bingo rolled and began to watch them silently. Ringo had taken everyone else out from the village to thank the Hyuvian fans camping out in Rosaka Castle Park for the open-air finale screening; Bingo had been delegated, in Ringo’s words, the responsibility of ensuring Diego didn’t spontaneously combust from anxiety.
“Are you stressed?” Bingo asked, a few dice rolls in.
“Yeah,” Diego mumbled. The sight of a 9 filled them with unease. They marked it dutifully anyway.
Bingo rolled close enough to read the notebook page. “All events and no fan meets makes Diego a dull marble?”
“I’m running sims,” they replied.
“I’m under direct orders from Coach to stop you getting in your own head. Diego, bud, your dream journal is getting confiscated.”
Diego grumbled noncommittally and marked another tally in the PODIUM column. It had been a bad few rolls. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re anxious,” Bingo diagnosed to the contrary.
Some foundation of Diego’s mind creaked. Their grip on the pen tensed; the plastic cracking. “No, it’s only winning the biggest marble sports tournament on Marblearth for my team, the thing I’ve—technically—been training my whole life to do and that’ll define my entire future career. Why would I be anxious about something like that? Am I stupid?”
Bingo recoiled and rolled their eyes. “Fine, worry about it until you pass out if you like. Sorry for doing my job, I’ll tell the boss I tried.” They left with no fanfare, before Diego could protest or apologise, abandoned to their notes.
Diego looked over the second filled-out page. Taking a deep breath, they found their phone, and called Rezzy. The phone barely had to ring.
“I was wondering if you’d call. Getting ready for the big day?”
“In a way.” They paused. “I’m losing my mind. Does that count?”
Rezzy’s voice softened. “It’s hard to recommend.”
“You know why,” Diego said, dry.
“I have in fact been looking at the scoreboard. Not that I wasn’t impressed before, but seriously, you’re something else.” Rezzy’s voice was warm, and Diego felt themself relax in some fragile way. It was the most relief they’d gotten since Sumo, clearing out the ring in 4th and realising suddenly how impossibly close yet terrifyingly far away winning the League was.
“Winning the Marble League. Or not. Whatever I do tomorrow, everything changes forever. I can never go back.” Diego swallowed. “Only forward.”
“Half true,” countered Rezzy.
“What?”
“You’ll go forward,” they said, “but you’ll have your team, and you’ll have me, and everyone else. Just in case you were thinking of letting the fame get to your head.”
Diego almost smiled. “And if I lose it?”
“Stars keep shining.”
Darkness hung over Rosaka, a thousand twinkling city lights drowning out the starry sky. Diego shut the notebook and peered through the half-open curtains, imagining the constellations of pink and purple hanging over a place so far from home.
“I hope,” Diego muttered. “Talk tomorrow, alright? I have to apologise to Bingo.”
“If you can fit me in with the press conferences.”
“… I’ll do my best.”
Credits
- Writers: Io Twelve, Millim, Toffeeshop
- Copyeditors/Editors: Io Twelve
- Graphic Designers: Toffeeshop
- Reference: Marble RallyCross | Marble League 2026 🌸 | E16
- Release: 20/6/2026
Project Marblearth 