A Unicorn's Tale, Part 8

8.

     Just at the precipice of my final race I was thinking of my first night in Tokyo with my small room and the blaring speakers, which I realized were actually live time tickers for all the imaginary races rather than, as I had come to believe, a kind of hazing. Mikey had a similar set-up in his headquarters, and during my infrequent visits I had seen him listening and muttering and occasionally jotting down some figures for the gross tons which were won and lost in a matter of minutes.
     Anyway, Mikey and I stood at our stations in the last minute before the race commenced. The crowds on the rooftops had been cleared away to limit distractions. It was only us and the other teams posted along the rows where the sweets tables normally stood.
     “Where’s Larry?” I asked Mikey. He had never been so late before. We used Larry as a third member of our team, a sort of back-up if Mikey completely blew his top, a fancy way of saying that Larry did not care so much, because he did not get any candy out of the deal – only I did, and only enough for a day’s pay. Mostly I was looking for points – we were looking for points – Mikey was pushing for points so that my ranking could reach the top five percentile.
     “He said he isn’t coming,” Mikey told me. He polished his hooves on the tile, trying to be nonchalant, but even through my slight nerves I could see he did not know where to direct his eyes.
     “You know where he is,” I said.
     “No, Octavian.”
     I knew something was up. He never called me anything other than Kid or its equivalent.
     “No, you don’t know where he is, or no, you won’t tell me?”
     “No,” he said.
     I seemed to have unfrosted his cupcake a bit, so I backed out of the question game. It would turn out to be a mistake for my future prospects.
     I heard iron hooves, which were sometimes used in bounce training. I beg your pardon; it was actually the sound of several unicorns trotting in unison between the stations until they reached the center of the rooftop. They stopped marching and suddenly the roof was silent.
     One of the burly unicorns opened his mouth and said, “Where is Silverhorn?”
     There happened to be another Silverhorn on the rooftop, a Shaniah Silverhorn. She stepped forward. “Hello?”
     “I’m sorry.” The burly unicorn cleared his throat and said, “An Octavian Silverhorn, also known as Eight. Where is Eight?”
     I had figured that this was not a normal visit by the authorities’ regulations enforcers. I had almost counted on my acquaintances and colleagues murmuring “Eight, who?” and pretending they had never known of my existence.
    I was therefore incredibly surprised when every single unicorn turned in my direction.

Read the Ninth Part