"Is it true you've accepted a spot as a commentator for the Champions Cup?"
"The joke was that I'm only doing it because you aren't running, so I'm your proxy."
Rampage continued his work as the general manager of Team Nemesis. Since Sunday Silence—the team's cornerstone—habitually dumped all administrative tasks onto him, he didn't have much choice. Even if he wanted to find a substitute, there were very few trainers capable of standing beside Sunday without crumbling under her sheer intensity.
While they spoke, Rampage decided to dig a little deeper.
"If you're my 'proxy,' then the commentary booth is going to be way more star-studded than it has any right to be. So, what's the real story?"
"Apparently, the American URA is getting twitchy about me entering the Legend Race," Sunday replied, her voice laced with irritation. "They sent someone over to act as a training partner for the Champions Cup entry just to make a statement."
"'Someone'? Who?"
"Easy Goer."
Rampage nearly dropped his tablet.
"Are you serious? They're bringing in a heavy hitter like her?"
"I heard from the Old Man. Seems the URA over there is losing its mind over the Legend Race. After getting thrashed by Japan at the Breeders' Cup, they're desperate to remind everyone what American power looks like."
"What a load of crap. They're dragging Easy Goer all this way just for a show of force?"
"Stupid, isn't it?"
Easy Goer. Sunday Silence's eternal rival. She was the polar opposite of Sunday: a blue-blooded aristocrat with a flawless pedigree and a breathtaking physique. She had racked up overwhelming victories, been named the Champion Two-Year-Old, and was hailed as the true successor to the legendary Secretariat.
It wasn't an exaggeration to say Easy Goer was born with everything Sunday Silence lacked. Their rivalry was the stuff of legends back in the States—the struggle between the "Ugly Duckling" and the "Golden Child."
"That bastard says she wants to see me," Sunday spat. "But as far as I'm concerned, she's ancient history."
"You're awfully cold to your greatest rival."
"Hah! Then you tell me, what the hell am I supposed to say to someone who had the nerve to tell me she envied me? What does she know about my life? Nothing. She's just a sheltered little princess spouting delusions from her greenhouse."
The two had clashed countless times during their careers, and that rivalry had carried over into their lives as Uma Musume. Technically, Sunday had the superior record, but at some point, she had completely severed ties with Easy Goer. It had happened at a post-race party.
"I couldn't beat her. I have to admit that. I envy you."
That was what Easy Goer had said during an interview when asked for her thoughts on her rival. In that moment, Sunday Silence's interest in the girl vanished. Her hand, which had been gripping the microphone, went limp. She let it slip through her fingers, allowing it to clatter onto the floor.
"...We're leaving. Trainer. Old Man."
Without another word, she had walked out of the venue, Secretariat and her trainer in tow. People had tried to stop them, but the three had vanished into the night, leaving a bewildered Easy Goer behind. Sunday had never spoken to her again.
"She loved racing. She even loved racing against me," Sunday said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Back when we were active, I was fine with that. I thought, 'Okay, she's someone who truly loves the sport.' I thought she was enjoying our life-and-death struggle. But that was it."
Easy Goer loved racing, yes. But it wasn't the deep, soul-consuming devotion of someone like Mejiro Ramonu. She merely adored it.
"She must have had a grand old time, being pampered and praised while she ran. Everything was handed to her on a silver platter. She had parents who loved her for loving the sport... and she has the gall to say she envies me? Don't make me laugh."
Sunday stepped down hard on the turf. It wasn't a loud sound, but every member of Team Nemesis instantly froze and looked over. The sudden, suffocating wave of rage and murderous intent emanating from her was so physical it made it hard to breathe, even though her face remained a mask of cold indifference.
"What part of me is 'enviable'? Is it these legs that everyone called ugly? Is it the body that was so broken by an accident I didn't know if I'd ever walk again? Is it being thrown away by my own family? She doesn't know a damn thing. To me, racing isn't some pretty thing to be adored. It's not just about the satisfaction of running... To me, a race is a slaughterhouse. It's a death match where you bring every single thing you are and try to kill the person next to you. With these legs, I have trampled and murdered the dreams of everyone I've ever beaten."
This was the fundamental divide between them. To Easy Goer, racing was a joy—much like it was for Silence Suzuka. But to Sunday Silence, racing was war. It was a battlefield where you fought with every ounce of your soul to crush your opponent, and then carried the weight of their shattered dreams as you moved forward. She knew how warped that mindset was, but she accepted it. It was the only way she knew how to live.
"The winner has to shoulder the dreams of the loser. She ran her whole life without ever being taught that. I have zero interest in someone who hasn't changed, and has no intention of trying."
"I see..." Rampage sighed. "Just... try not to start a fistfight within five seconds of seeing her face, alright?"
"Depends on her. If she starts talking more nonsense... HEY! How long are you lot going to stand there gawking?! If you aren't running, I'll start snapping necks! GET MOVING!"
"Y-YES MA'AM!!!"
The Nemesis girls snapped out of their daze and scrambled back to their training. Rampage couldn't blame them; the conversation had taken a dark turn. He'd have to smooth things over with them later.
"I guess you just lost all patience for a pampered brat who thinks your suffering looks 'cool,'" Rampage remarked. "If she wanted to admire someone, she should have looked at your trainer or the Old Man."
"You can say that again. Anyone with half a brain can see Easy Goer had more natural talent than me. I've got nothing but respect for the two people who managed to polish a piece of junk like me into this."
"I don't need her respect," Sunday muttered. "If she's got any to spare, she can point it at them."
This was a different kind of grudge than the one between Rampage and Flora. On one side, you had a girl who probably didn't even realize she'd caused an insult; on the other, you had an Uma Musume who had spent her life biting back at destiny. A "civilized" encounter seemed unlikely.
"Even so, try to be the adult here," Rampage pleaded. "From what I hear, she really is a pure-bred, high-society lady through and through."
"Ugh. I wish she was more like McQueen. Maybe I'll blow off the commentary gig and go watch a baseball game with her instead."
"You two are still as thick as thieves, huh?"
"We went to Koshien recently. Next time, we're doing a food tour in Hokkaido and catching a pro game."
"Try to show a little restraint," Rampage muttered, though he was secretly relieved to see the shadow leave Sunday's eyes, replaced by the familiar spark of a much healthier rivalry.
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