Chaos terrain is a Martiangeological phenomenon: a jumble of mesas, buttes, and plateaus all packed in tight or separated by deep depressions. Some areas of chaos terrain have been leveled as part of terraforming efforts, but not Iani. It’s a huge chunk of mostly untouched land, and a popular destination for hikers and climbers. Flying through the chaos is strictly prohibited, due to the agility and skill required to weave through the towering rock formations without crashing into them.
F0 pilots are the exception, and this is Clarke’s favorite of the on-planet tracks. It shows in how she performs in qualifying.
“How did you go from your power unit failing at the Monza restart and your suspension failing at Tempe Terra to being P4 coming out of qualifying today?”
“My team,” Clarke says, aware that she’s grinning too broadly but unable and unwilling to do anything about it. She’s sweaty, sore, and badly in need of a good stretch, but she feels amazing. Qualifying was amazing. “They’ve fully replaced both of those components and have been working nonstop to test them. The success today was the result of an incredible team effort.”
“This is the same team that, according to Matthew Agresta, you consider—”
“Matthew released a statement providing context that the article you’re about to reference purposefully left out,” Sara says smoothly, materializing at Clarke’s elbow from somewhere in the garage and facing off across from the reporter. “And since Elemental is currently waiting for a court to rule on whether or not that article constitutes defamation, it’s not something Clarke can comment on.”
“You heard the boss,” Clarke says, trying not to let on that her bubble of happiness has popped. She hadn’t quite forgotten about the drama in her life during qualifying, but she did put it out of her mind as she always does while in the seat, and the high of doing well and things going right for once is powerful. It’s every racer’s fatal flaw: One good lap and suddenly anything’s possible again, and there’s nothing they won’t do to chase that feeling.
The out Sara’s provided allows Clarke to retreat to her prep room, where she shakes off the reminder of the Matthew article and showers. She returns to the garage as quickly as she can, working a kink out of her lats (she’s still sore from Tempe Terra), aware that time is tight today.
“We’re not going far,” Sara says, looking Clarke over and apparently deciding she’s acceptable before leading the way to a waiting car. “The shoot’s on-site, here at Iani.”
“The shoot?”
“Julian has a sponsorship photo shoot this afternoon. CuffLinks, the expensive kind. You’re going to hang out behind the scenes, chat with him while he’s in hair and wardrobe, that sort of thing.”
The bubble in Clarke’s chest reinflates a bit. She gets tospend time with Julian after trading messages all week, and she can glide through a photo shoot (especially one that isn’t even hers) in her sleep.
She wasn’t counting on Julian doing the photo shoot shirtless.
He’s notreallyshirtless. A shirt is involved. It’s just completely unbuttoned, and there’s a lot of chest to look at. A lot of abs. They’re down in the basin, rock formations looming overhead, and he’s barefoot in fancy trousers with a heavy cuff glinting on his wrist.
“What is this concept?” Clarke whispers to PK. “Julian comes home to you after a long day at the office and starts getting undressed, but home is literal chaos terrain? Like, outside?”
PK smirks and tilts his holoscreen so Clarke can see traffic stats on the stills that have already been posted to Julian’s account. “It’s nonsense, but it works.”
“He’s very good at, uh. Squinting into the sun?”
As if Julian heard them over the photographer calling out cues and the bustle of various assistants, he raises his hand to shield his eyes as he peers into the distance. It brings the cuff into focus, which Clarke gets is the point, but a laugh tears out of her, and Juliandoeshear that. “Got something to say?”
“Me?” Clarke asks, playing into it as all eyes turn to her. Sara’s flock of cameras, idling up until now because filming for their session isn’t technically supposed to start until Julian’s upcoming wardrobe change, hums into the air. “No, you’re doing great. Very sulky. Very realistic.”
“She doesn’t mean that!” someone yelps. A brand rep, probably, who immediately sets about trying to appease the photographer. “It’s an amazing vision!”
“She’s right,” the photographer says, frowning at theircamera. “Not about the concept, which is fantastic, but Julian—we aren’t getting much variety in your expression. Can we try something else?”
“Like what?” Julian asks, not quite sullen but definitely not enthusiastic, either.
“This is where you come in,” PK says to Clarke.
Clarke glances at him. “What?”
“One of the reasons we’re doing this is because he reacts to you, right? Go make him react.”
“I don’t want to interfere with the shoot!”
“I’ll clear it with the photographer,” PK says breezily, and walks off to make that happen.
Clarke gives it a minute. Sara, sitting farther back on set, flies one of her cameras into Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke swats at it but obeys the nudge, making her way up toward the set. PK flashes her a thumbs-up.
An assistant is touching up Julian’s hair. Clarke goes with the first thing that comes to mind. “So, Julian. What did you do for work today?”
His eyes find her with unerring accuracy, the only part of him that moves so the assistant can keep making minute adjustments. “You know what I did for work today.”
