Page 1 of Citius

Prologue

Morgan

Gymnastics World Championships, Montreal

Bright lights danced across the darkened sports arena like shooting stars, swirling and pulsing in time with the hype music. Stylized cartoon gymnasts tumbled across the video boards, performing vaults on a hypnotic loop—a taste of the thrills yet to come.

“Standby,” an event staffer called.

I stood in the athlete entrance tunnel with seven other international gymnasts, waiting for the event to start. The air was thick with anticipation. We earned the eight highest scores during qualifiers, securing this chance to compete for the vault world title—myworld title—and we all wanted it.

“Ready, champ?” my teammate, Grace Arata, asked over my shoulder, fingers tapping an excited rhythm against my back. Pheromones with the effervescent fizz of lychee soda tickled my nose.

Our scent-blocking leotards and the constant stream of pheromone neutralizers pumped into the arena dampened her excitement, ensuring her pheromones wouldn’t disrupt the other gymnasts.

No one thrived in competitive environments more than Grace, our team’s sixteen-year-old wunderkind—and the newly crowned queen of omega women’s gymnastics.

After leading us to the team gold medal, she won the individual all-around title by a comfortable margin. The media couldn’t get enough of her.

I was a grizzled old-timer in comparison, a few weeks shy of twenty-two, with more than my fair share of talent and success. But at my age, most elite omega gymnasts were on the verge of retirement. A mature omega body, with its wider hips and lower muscle tone, struggled to defy gravity, something the uneven bars liked to drive home every time I touched them.

At five-foot-four, I was considered tall for an omega gymnast, which made me less agile and aerodynamic than someone like Grace—a barely five-foot-one teenager whose body had yet to develop fully.

With any luck, I had another year or two of competition left in me.

“Of course I’m ready. The real question is,” I said, turning to playfully pinch her cheek, “how are you going to beat me with such sloppy landings?”

Grace’s competitive streak emerged, puffing up her cheeks and squaring her shoulders with determination. “Oh, you aresogoing to regret saying that!”

Her words landed like a jovial tap from a sparring partner rather than a true challenge. While Grace routinely earned big scores, she also made avoidable mistakes—knees too bent, not getting enough height, and taking steps on the landing.

You lose the advantage of doing more complex, higher-scoring vaults if you don’t fight for every tenth of a point. That was the key difference between Grace and me. She trusted her inherent talent to place somewhere in the top three, while I was a stickler for technique and clean execution, which led to consistent results—almost always good enough to win.

That’s why I was heading into the event final as the top qualifier, and Grace squeaked into fourth despite our comparable number of total possible points. She hadn’t beaten me head-to-head yet, but it was only a matter of time—and I welcomed the challenge.

The cartoon gymnasts transitioned into a live broadcast of the entrance tunnel. Cheers exploded from the audience as the camera panned across us, a group of focused young women wearing a random assortment of warm-up gear. A strong security presence hovered out of frame.

Some girls stretched while others jogged in place.

The Canadian gymnast at the back of the line had her eyes closed, miming the lift of her arms and twist of her shoulders as she visualized her vaults. A native of the host city, Montreal, she was the home crowd’s favorite, earning robust applause when she appeared on-screen.

The camera zoomed in on Grace and me next, prompting a freshwave of cheers. We wore matching scarlet leotards with a galaxy of crystal stars swirling around our torsos. I tended to keep my styling simple, but not today. Grace had insisted that our makeup match, too, hence the silver glitter eyeliner and the explosion of curly ribbons around the base of my brunette bun. A winning look, or so Grace claimed, better suited for her own rosy freshness and glossy black hair.

It was all too easy to imagine how we were being hyped up by the commentators—the sport’s new darling facing off against the defending champion. Who would emerge victorious, and what might it mean heading into an Olympic year?

The announcer got things started. “Please welcome your competitors for the omega women’s vault final!”

Bianca, the seventeen-year-old newbie from Italy, walked out first. She had performed well all week and seemed to take the pressure in stride, flashing a cute smile and love heart at the camera.

“Representing the United States of America, Morgan Van Daal!”

The announcer dragged out my vowel-laden name as I took a firm step into the spotlight and raised my arms to wave at the enthusiastic crowd. The heightened energy of the arena flowed over me. I couldn’t help but savor the heady thrum.

While the camera was still on me, I tucked my ring and middle fingers against my right palm, the hand sign forI love you. Then, I made a diagonal motion in front of my chest.

Flight.

It was the message I sent to my family at the start of every competition. With four parents and six siblings, it was rare for more than one to attend an event in person. My youngest siblings had only seen me compete on screen, but they loved cheering me on, even in replays. So, I found a simple way to reassure them that I could feel their love and support, no matter the distance between us—a gesture they returned in droves. My phone was full of heartwarming selfies of my littlest siblings flashing the flight sign, reminding me once again that my family was my wings.

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