Your hooves dig into the soft turf, spraying up dirt. Your flank is damp with sweat, trickles dripping down your forehead between your eyes in a tantalizing manner, urging you to toss your mane around, shake it off, but you can’t, because it will throw off your speed and flow.
Going around the bend now. You feel your jockey squeeze his thighs, hit you lightly, urge you faster. You feel like you are going as fast as you can already, but stretching your neck, you dig your hooves in harder, lunge faster, and all at once, over the sound of thudding hooves, snorting and sharp yells from the riders, you hear what you had been waiting to hear forever; cheering.
“Seabun! Seabun! Seabun!
The cheers are like rockets to your legs – you shoot forward, mane and tail streaming behind you! Your heart thrums in time to your hooves, you are the wind now; nothing can get in your way as you get flank to flank with the final opponent, that one opponent that always seems to win. But not today…today your hooves are on fire, today you will win, today your glory will be –
“Seabun!”
A harsh voice yanks you rudely from your dreams, and you startle, hooves flailing. A yelp sounds from nearby, along with a solid thunk. You crack your eyes open in time to see the bleary figure a familiar face hovering you over, muzzle wrinkled as he backs away, head ducked away.
“God’s sake, Seabun, watch yer ‘ooves! Kickin’ round like tha’, you were dreamin’ o’ tha’ bloody race ‘orse again, wer’n’ ye’?”
Locke’s voice snaps you out of your bleariness as you blink your eyes open to the day, wincing as the harsh sunlight cuts into your sensitive pupils. Waiting until they adjust, you squint at your dorm mate, his dark, mossy green colored muzzle curved in a silent smirk. His darker colored mane was well groomed, making it clear he had been hours up before you had.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grumble, your voice thick from sleep. Moving from your side, you brace your hooves against the soft bedding to lift your rear up in a luxurious stretch, your limbs trembling from morning stiffness.
“One more of those dreams and ‘ye can find yerself a new dorm ‘erd!” Locke informs you, though there is no real threat behind his voice. Three years into the university, the two of you couldn’t be closer.
Grumbling a retort about barely sleeping as it was harder to deal with Locke’s snoring, you jump down from your university-issued dorm cot, the springs creaking as they are relieved from your weight. You stumble past your dorm mate and long term friend with heavy hooves, to the bathroom to relieve yourself and begin your morning routine.
As you begin to shake out the knots in your mane, your eye catches itself in the mirror, and you pause, scrutinizing yourself. A lighter shade of turquoise blue-grey pelt covers you from muzzle to tail, though your mane is a sea-blue that no matter how hard you try to tame it, always seems to fall over your eyes in a very unorganized manner, giving you one of those cliché ‘bad stallion’ looks, though in truth you know you are far from. Breaking rules and holding that title was Locke’s job, though you supposed you got that reputation by hanging around the stallion.
After cleaning yourself up a bit with a splash of cold water, you are more fully awake, and to further help you along, Locke pops his face in, eyeing you over contemptuously. “Ready ‘fer class, lass?”
Shaking your mane out one last time only to label it a lost cause, you follow Locke out, grabbing your school saddle last second and toss it on your back. You find yourself briefly imagining the weight of a jockey swinging onto your back, and trot ahead of Locke, glancing back at him with a mischievous grin.
“Race you,” you challenge, and by Locke’s groan, it is clear that this is not the first you have ever challenged him; in fact, it is almost a daily thing.
Locke rolls his sea-green eyes, but kicks up his pace into a canter. “You’re on, Seabiscut.”
And with that, you are off with a glorious whinny, the ringing of an imaginary gunshot playing in your mind.
“Same old, same old,” a drained Locke groans as you both slump out of your final class.
You know Locke enjoys his course, but he is always one for moaning about anything and everything. Well, everything apart from the female company he keeps most nights. You on the other hoof thoroughly relished each and every class. How you got paired up with him is a mystery.
As you make your way to the bar, cutting through various settings in the campus, (Locke flashing handsome grins at the nearest mares around) you can’t keep your mind off that dream. Locke chats on and on about his nightly endeavors, however not a word of his registers. Instead you feel the kick of a jockey against your side, the taste of grass and soil as its kicked back into your mouth, the roar of-
“I.D. please,” a gruff voice calls out for the third and final time. You snap back to reality to see that you’re already at the usual place, fifteen minutes from the Campus.
Making sure you’re not just seeing things again you scan the pub. Empty stools against the counter; the pool table in the corner, missing three balls; a group of elderly ponies finishing their drinks before the clocks strike the hour... everything looked to be in order.
“How did we get here so fast?” you ask with a frown. The bartender leans against his one of his beer taps, waiting impatiently on you.
“We walked,” Locke replies, he too growing frustrated upon waiting for his drink. He pushes a hoof against you in a snipe-ish tone. “Would you just give 'em your I.D.?”
“It’s in your jacket!” you snipe back.
Locke rummages through his jacket, which, like his coat and saddlebags, is green, just a ‘different shade’ as he would say. The bartender rolls his eyes, nearly giving up with you both, but Locke pulls out the small blue card just in time and hands it over.
“I dunno why you ask us for I.D., we’re in ‘ere most bloody nights,” Locke complains as the bartender looks over your card.
“I don’t know why we come before everypony else gets here,” you tell to him absently, sick of this almost-daily routine. The place is dead every time you enter, and it isn’t an hour before ponies really start filling it. Not that you were one for much action, but with just Locke and a few elderly ponies for company, the place could get old pretty fast. Not to mention how the music they played never seemed to match your taste.
The bartender hands back the card, his eyes darting between the both of you. “The usual?” he asks, seeming to have decided to stop hassling the two of you for your identifications.
“Yeah,” Locke says with a smile, before turning to you. “We’re ‘ere before anypony else, right? So we ge’ first pick o’ whichever mare walks through them doors.” Unless Seabiscuit walked through those doors, you couldn’t care less, but you nod dutifully, as you do almost every evening. You almost have his speech memorized at this point, though you figured that despite Locke's outgoing and daring ways, he seemed comforted by the familiarity of routine. Almost like a race horse going 'round and 'round on a race track, no variation, just the familiar dirt in front of you to dig your hooves into...
“Plus, we’re a bit drunk, since we’re an hour ahead of t’group, so they’ll think we’re a bit more fun, right?” Locke is carrying on, unaware of how your mind wanders.
“Right,” you reply with little enthusiasm. The bartender places down two pints of golden ale, and flips his washtowel over his shoulder.
“You hear about that racer you’re always raving about?” he asks you in a rather more quite tone. You shake your head and lean in, ears twitching up, intrigued to hear the news. “Turns out he was in an accident a couple of days ago.” the 'tender confesses.
Your stomach turns, keeping any words from leaving your muzzle. “Don’t worry, he’s fine." The bartender assures you. "Well, fine for an injured racehorse. He’s been put up close by, at the hospital. In town, actually.”
“Ugh, 'ere we go,” you hear Locke murmur beside you.