Clarke wants to be like Delphine when she grows up.
“Should we be expecting more of this in the second half of the season?” the reporter prods. “More of Delphine and Julian, neck and neck, vying for the trophy?”
“I guess we’ll have to see,” Julian says.
“I guess we will,” Delphine echoes.
“Thrilling stuff, guys, thanks,” the reporter says dryly, to asmattering of laughter. “Clarke, can we expect to see more performances like this out of you, too?”
Clarke’s been given talking points for this press conference, reviewed with Naomi through the bathroom door while Clarke took a rapid post-podium shower. She arranges her face into what’s hopefully the right blend of happiness and humility. “I hope so! The team’s been working so hard this whole year, but that effort hasn’t really been reflected on the scoreboard until today. It’s great to be able to bring home the points they deserve.”
Julian makes that same disgruntled sound from last week. The acoustics are different around the winner’s armchair, though, and the whole room hears it this time. Silver Sight—Clarke should really learn his name at some point—tips forward in his chair, eager. “Julian? You disagree?”
Julian looks at Val, and the whole room notices.
Pilots check with their principals or PR people before answering questions that might be controversial all the time, but Julian doesn’t, because Julian doesn’t answer those questions. If Julian doesn’t like what he’s being asked, he’ll just stare at the asker until they get uncomfortable and walk it back. It was hilarious to watch the first dozen or so times, before the press wised up and stopped trying to bait him.
Silver Sight is relatively new to the F0 scene, though. And stupid, besides, to have followed up on a noise Julian obviously didn’t mean for anyone to hear. But Julian’s checking in with Val and the guy standing next to her, who must be Chronicle’s equivalent to Naomi, like he’s asking for permission to answer.
Val and the guy confer, quickly and quietly. Val looks back to Julian and shrugs.Up to you.
There is a very specific way Julian holds himself when he’s about to do something that blurs the line between reckless andcalculated, like he’s readying for a fight. He does it now, as he picks up his mic and says, clearly, “I just think it’s interesting that Clarke’s talking about how hard her team’s been working when anyone with eyes can tell Elemental’s incapable of building a ship that can keep up with her.”
Clarke drops from a peak of happiness into a fiery pit of anger and confusion so rapidly that she gets dizzy. Why is he doing this? What does he get out of criticizing Elemental so bluntly?
The reporters are all talking over one another as soon as Julian’s done speaking. Naomi makes a vicious hand movement at Clarke, who rushes to salvage this. “That’s not true.”
Julian fixes her with that stare, the one that makes journalists back off. “You’re saying you’renotoutperforming your ship? We’re twelve races in and you’ve DNF’d five times, all due to mechanical failures. And even when you’re not DNF’ing, your ship’s falling apart. What was it at Rio, again, that made you lose pace? Or at Gale Crater?”
Clarke takes a slow breath, tries to get a grip on her rage. “We’re making improvements. Today showed that—”
“Today was a fluke. A miracle, really, that you managed to keep that brick in the air long enough to get across the finish line. You’re one of the best pilots of our generation, but you’re wasted at Elemental.”
Pride hits Clarke’s veins at the compliment, comes into contact with her barely restrained anger, and sets her blood churning. “Sounds like you’re spending an awful lot of time thinking about me. I’d say we should take this outside and settle it on the track, but I think we both know what would happen.”
Julian’s eyes are still locked on her. “Yeah. I’d win.”
“Because you’re in a ship that’s got—what was it, again?” She lands the phrasing deliberately, borrowing his words from amoment ago. “A thirty percent higher development budget than any of the mid-pack teams? You’re right, Julian, your ship’s better than mine. Congratulations on having deep enough pockets to buy victories.”
Julian does the thing with the set of his shoulders again. “Fine. You and me, same machinery, any track you like. We can use last year’s Chronicle ships.”
“Fine,” Clarke snaps, already hungry for it.
“Great,” Julian seethes. “Val?”
It throws Clarke, because she’d gotten so caught up in Julian that she’d all but forgotten they aren’t alone in the room. The reporters are watching gleefully. Delphine has pressed herself back into the couch cushions to get out of the way. Naomi looks like she’s trying to set Clarke on fire with her mind.
“Absolutely not,” Val says, and the adrenaline rushes out of Clarke’s body. A few reporters boo. “Yes, yes, I’m the wettest of blankets. The list of reasons we will not be endorsing an unsanctioned duel using retired Chronicle hardware is so long that we’re going to run out of time in this press conference before we get through them all. Next question.”
Someone lobs Delphine an easy ask about Provenance’s plans for mid-season break. When Clarke’s gotten herself pieced back together, she chances a glance at Julian. He looks completely unaffected. Unbothered. Engrossed in Delphine’s answer.
He sees her looking. He winks.
Clarke’s gonna kill him.
9
It’s Clarke who ambushes Julianin the hallway behind the stage this time.
