Chapter 21 – Tamamo Cross POV
"This weirdo deserves to be bitten.…Mmh. He has good food.Fine. Forgiven."
The first thing I noticed about him was that he didn't smell like expectations.
That sounds strange, maybe, but if you've been around trainers long enough, you learn the scent. Sweat, cheap coffee, impatience. The faint edge of hunger that isn't theirs, but yours, reflected back at you. They look at you and already see the race you haven't won yet. The failure you're about to become.
This human didn't have that.
He showed up one morning while I was stretching behind the Fujinomori track, quiet enough that I almost missed him. No clipboard. No whistle. No loud "good morning" meant to test whether I was obedient.
He just… set a bag down.
Food.
Good food.
I froze immediately. Ears back. Tail stiff. Every muscle tight, ready to bolt or bite depending on what he tried next.
He didn't try anything.
He took three steps back. Then five. Then he turned around and sat on the fence, facing the track instead of me.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
I waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. He didn't look. Didn't clear his throat. Didn't tell me to hurry up.
I crept closer, slow and sideways, like I was approaching a trap. The food smelled warm. Real. Not the cheap filler stuff that makes your stomach feel full but leaves your legs hollow. Protein. Carbs. Salt. Something sweet tucked in like a bribe.
I glanced at him.
Still looking at the track.
"…Weirdo," I muttered under my breath.
I took one bite.
Nothing happened.
Second bite. Still nothing.
By the time I finished, I realized something unsettling.
He had already walked away.
That was how it started.
Not with a contract. Not with promises. Just food, silence, and distance.
I hated it.
I hated that he didn't push. I hated that he didn't comment. I hated that he didn't look disappointed when I skipped a workout or cut a run short.
So I tested him.
The next day, I ignored the food.
Left it untouched. Walked past it like it wasn't there.
He didn't react.
He just replaced it later, same time, same quality, adjusted slightly. Less sugar. More fats.
I scowled.
The day after that, I snapped at him. A sharp warning bite in the air when he came too close while setting the bowl down.
Most trainers flinch. Some yell. Some get angry and tell you how "ungrateful" you are.
He just paused.
Then he set the bowl down a little farther away.
"Too close," he said calmly. Not accusing. Just noting. "Got it."
That annoyed me more than if he'd yelled.
Why wasn't he afraid?
Why wasn't he leaving?
Why wasn't he telling me what I was supposed to be?
He started talking after a few days. Not to me. Around me.
Little things.
"Your stride shortens when you're tired," he said once, staring at the dirt. "You compensate with frequency instead of length. It keeps you upright, but it drains stamina faster."
I froze mid-step.
He wasn't watching me.
"…You don't need to fix that yet," he added. "Just know it's happening."
I didn't respond. But my ears tilted despite myself.
Another day.
"You breathe shallow when you're anxious," he said. "Chest first. It's fine in short bursts. Not great if you're trying to hold position through a crowd."
I clenched my jaw.
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
Still, he didn't say the word race. Didn't bring up my losses. Didn't mention how many times I'd come up short before breaking through. Trainers loved numbers. They loved to stack them in front of you like evidence.
He avoided them entirely.
Instead, he adjusted my meals when training intensity went up. Added rest days when my legs trembled. Took one look at my frame and said, "No high-intensity sprints for a while."
I laughed at him.
Actually laughed.
"Ya kiddin'? That's what I'm good at!"
He shook his head. "That's what you survive with. Not the same thing."
I didn't like that answer.
But he didn't force it.
So I tried one of his suggestions anyway, just to prove him wrong.
Shorter warm-ups. Longer cooldowns. Breathing deep through the nose on straights, mouth only on corners. He showed me how to pace my breathing with my steps. Counted softly once, then never again.
"Find your own rhythm," he said. "Mine doesn't matter."
It felt stupid.
It also worked.
I noticed it during a light run. My legs didn't burn as early. My chest didn't feel like it was collapsing inward. I still wasn't fast. Not like I wanted to be. But I wasn't empty either.
That scared me.
Because empty was familiar.
Empty was safe.
Empty meant I knew where the wall was.
Full meant expectations.
I pulled back after that. Skipped a meal. Pushed harder than he suggested. Cut a corner too sharp and scraped my knee.
He didn't scold me.
He cleaned the scrape.
Carefully.
I snapped at him again.
"You gonna say I'm weak next?"
He looked up at me, finally meeting my eyes.
"No," he said. "I'm saying you're trying to win with half a body because you don't trust the rest to hold."
That one landed too close.
I turned away before he could see my face.
The embarrassing part came a week later.
I was brushing my tail in the mirror when I noticed it.
My ribs weren't sharp anymore.
I poked at them, confused. Turned sideways. Pressed again.
Still there, but… softer.
I stared at myself like I was looking at a stranger.
When had that happened?
I thought back. The meals. The rest. The days he'd quietly replaced training with walking, stretching, breathing drills.
I hadn't been counting.
I always counted.
I counted calories. Steps. Losses. Days until I was told I wasn't enough again.
Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped.
That night, I sat across from him while he packed up.
"…You trying to trick me?" I asked.
He didn't look up. "Into what?"
"Trusting you."
He thought for a moment.
"…I'm hoping you'll decide that on your own."
I huffed. "Annoyin'."
"Yeah," he agreed easily. "I get that a lot."
Silence settled between us. Not tense. Just there.
"…If I race again," I said slowly, "what would you change first?"
That was the first time I asked him something like that.
He took it seriously.
"Positioning," he said. "You burn energy fighting the pack early. You don't need to lead. You need clean air."
I frowned. "But if I fall back..."
"You don't fall back," he interrupted gently.
He gestured vaguely.
I imagined it.
It felt… doable.
"…And if I lose?" I asked.
He zipped the bag closed.
"Then we eat," he said. "We rest. We adjust."
That night, lying in bed, I realized something terrifying.
I wouldn't mind if he stayed.
I didn't trust him yet. Not fully. Trust took time. Scars didn't vanish just because someone was kind.
But I was fine with the idea.
Fine with him standing trackside. Fine with his voice in my ear, reminding me to breathe. Fine with knowing that if I stumbled, someone would be there to catch me instead of writing me off.
"If he's lying," I thought, staring at the ceiling, "I'll bite him later."
My stomach was warm. My body felt heavier in a good way.
"…But until then," I added, eyes closing, "I'll eat."
And for the first time in a long while, I slept without dreaming of the finish line disappearing in front of me.
Character Sheet — Tamamo Cross (Original / Malnourished)
Name: Tamamo Cross
Nickname: The Frail Comet / White Lighting
Origin: in story, a malnourished but naturally talented Uma Musume who drew attention due to her innate speed and intelligence.
Trainer Type: Raw Talent + Adaptive Instinct
Personality
Playful Survivor: Despite frailty, she maintains a mischievous, energetic streak, teasing competitors with her agility.
Determined Heart: Knows she's smaller than most, but refuses to back down; races become a test of cunning over brute force.
Sensitive and Alert: Highly perceptive of both environment and rivals, reacts quickly to threats.
Trusting but Wary: Loyal to trainers who prove reliable; cautious with strangers due to past neglect.
Subtle Mischief: Uses her small size and unexpected speed to surprise larger opponents.
In-Race Mindset: Moves like a shadow, swift, clever, exploiting openings rather than overpowering. Her small frame and agility make her unpredictable and difficult to box in.
Physical Traits
Light Frame: Underfed, slight build; sacrifices durability for speed and quick reflexes.
Shorter Stride: Less ground coverage per step, but can make sudden bursts that are hard to anticipate.
High Agility: Nimble and flexible, capable of weaving through gaps others can't.
Fragile Endurance: Requires careful pacing; prolonged stress can wear her down quickly.
Strengths
Natural Talent: Innate speed and competitive instincts shine despite frailty.
Agility & Maneuverability: Can dodge, weave, and exploit small openings effectively.
Psychological Edge: Opponents underestimate her, giving her tactical advantage.
High Adaptability: Learns from each race quickly, adjusting strategy on instinct.
Weaknesses / Limitations
Physically Fragile: Vulnerable to long races, rough competition, or aggressive interference.
Energy Constraints: Cannot sustain peak speed for long distances.
Underfed / Recovery Needs: Susceptible to fatigue, illness, or minor injuries due to malnutrition.
Overconfidence Risk: Her natural talent can make her attempt risky moves that overextend her.
Racing Style
Nimble Opportunist: Avoids head-to-head brawls; seeks gaps and openings to exploit.
Sudden Bursts: Uses small, sharp accelerations to surprise larger competitors.
Clever Stalker: Can pace behind a leader and strike at the perfect moment.
Psychologically Unsettling: Her unexpected speed and evasive maneuvers force opponents to constantly react.
Trainer Relationship
Thrives under trainers who combine patience, careful care, and strategic guidance.
Requires nurturing and tactical advice; raw talent alone is not enough to win races at this stage.
Symbolic Representation
Embodies raw potential and survival instinct.
A small, overlooked competitor whose brilliance can shine when guided properly.
Represents the before phase the "diamond in the rough" waiting for proper nurturing.
Taglines
"I may be small, but I can't be ignored."
"I repay kindness with victory."
"Talent shines even through hunger."