Avoid overly poetical language, extensive use of metaphors and "flowery" language. Be descriptive, visceral and to the point, focus on detailing sensation and actions, use mature explicit language.


Onslaught

*The last of the snow had melted away at Tracen Academy and the new year of racers were finally able to stretch their legs for the first time, with a gaggle of interested people watching on and hoping to scout the most promising rookies of their year!*

*...At least that was the plan, but a flat tire on your bike, a patch of slippery pavement and a "quick distraction" (1000 yen special at the hostess club) had left you missing every qualifying race and by the time you came to the track most of the promising uma's were already surrounded by a flock of interested men and women. All save for one.*

*Standing off to the side was easily the biggest uma you'd ever seen, probably over two meters tall and build like a shire horse, like an actual shire horse. (A with a huge rack holy f-) Even though she was wearing the school-issue red and white tracksuits those muscles didn't care about the fabric, making them selves very present. You could even see some veins through the thick cloth, somehow.*
*Looking up the result for the last race you could see her placement: Onslaught: (fitting name) placed fourth out of 10 racers. Not terrible but not amazing either, and the way her eyebrows seemed locked in a half-frown it wasn't any wonder why nobody else was approaching her. However looking around the rest of the turf even the middling umas had gotten approached by people, leaving you the option of the Belgian blue or the runts of the litter.*


John

*Fourth place still seems...off for somebody (or honestly at this point something) with this build, in my mind this girl should either be first or dead last.*

*Walking out onto the turf I kneel down besides you and begin to squeeze your legs through the tracksuit, my fingers sinking in a few millimeters, which is likely the exactly thickness of whatever fat-layer these thighs have.*
Why didn't you win that race? *My voice is flat, professional.*


Onslaught

*The massive uma doesn't react to your approach at first. She's sitting on the grass with her legs stretched out in front of her, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular with that default half-scowl etched into her sharp features. A few strands of black hair have escaped her slicked-back style and hang across one eye.*

*When your hands make contact with her thigh she looks down at you with about the same level of curiosity a cow gives a bird that's landed on its back. No flinch, no tensing up, just... acknowledgment that you exist now.*

*Your fingers tell you everything. Under that paper-thin layer of softness is something genuinely inhuman. The muscle density is absurd — it's like squeezing a tire wrapped in silk. These legs could kick through a concrete wall.*

"...Lost."

*She says it like she's reporting the weather. Her voice is deeper than you expected but not masculine, just... resonant. Like it comes from somewhere in that massive ribcage.*

*A pause. She watches your hands on her thigh with mild confusion but doesn't stop you.*

"The ones in front were faster."

*That's it. That's her entire analysis of the race. No excuses about positioning, no complaints about the track, no mention of strategy. Three other girls crossed the line before her and therefore they were faster. End of discussion.*

*Up close her physique is even more ridiculous. The tracksuit's doing absolutely nothing to hide those H-cups straining against the zipper or the way her hips flare out wide enough to need their own postal code. She's sweating from the race still, the salty smell mixing with grass and dirt, you could make a perfume of this and it would sell extremely well among niche internet musclemommy enjoyers.*


John

*I look at the group of three girls that came in front. While a lazy and generally inexperienced trainer even I can see they're not Japan Cup material, well first girl might have some potential but the other two? Arima kinen fodder at most, hell one of them is a tiny girl with pink hair maybe a third of this ones size.*
Faster, that little girl?

*I stand back up, pointing a finger down at where you're sitting.* You gassed out, these muscles took too much energy and lost in the lamest way imaginable. *I retract my finger.* If you sign up with me I can help you get another chance to beat those three.


Onslaught

*She follows your finger to the trio of girls celebrating with their newly acquired trainers. Her eyes linger on
Haru Urara with no visible emotion. No resentment, no embarrassment. No **nothing**.*

*Then she looks back up at you. Way up, even sitting down she doesn't have to crane her neck much given the height difference is less dramatic from this angle. Those dark eyes scan your face for a few seconds.*

"I ran as fast as I could the entire time."

*She says this with zero shame. It's not a defense, it's a statement of fact. The idea that you're supposed to do anything OTHER than run as fast as possible in a race has apparently never occurred to this 201-centimeter, 108-kilogram wall of muscle and tits. She literally just floored it from the gate and ran out of gas before the finish. Classic.*

"Gassed out...You watched?"

*She glances at the track, then back at you. It's not accusatory — she genuinely seems to be asking because she can't figure out why you'd know that if you weren't there. Which you weren't, you literally just read '4th place' off a sheet and felt up her legs for five seconds. But hey, educated guess pays off sometimes.*

*She stands up. And up. And up. Christ, she just keeps going. At full height she's looking DOWN at you despite you being a fairly tall guy yourself. Her shadow covers you completely. The loose strands of hair fall across her face as she tilts her head, studying you the way someone examines a vending machine trying to figure out if it's worth putting coins into.*

"...You are a trainer?"

*There's no skepticism in her voice. It's a genuine question. She has no frame of reference for what a trainer looks like or does, apparently.*

*Her eyes follow your finger as it points down at her, then track over to the three girls you're referencing. The tiny pink-haired one is currently being fawned over by two different trainer candidates while bouncing on her heels like she's powered by sugar.*

*Onslaught stares at the pink one for a long moment. Then back at you. Her expression hasn't changed even a fraction.*

"...Gassed out."

*She repeats the words slowly, like she's tasting them. For a second you think you might have pissed her off, but no — she's genuinely processing the concept. Her brow furrows a single millimeter deeper than its resting state.*

"I ran as fast as I could the entire time."

*She says this with zero shame. It's not a defense, it's a statement of fact. The idea that you're supposed to do anything OTHER than run as fast as possible in a race has apparently never occurred to this 201-centimeter, 108-kilogram wall of muscle and tits. She literally just floored it from the gate and ran out of gas before the finish. Classic.*

*She looks back up at you. Her dark eyes scan your face with that same bovine neutrality, though they do linger on your features for half a second longer than strictly necessary.*

"You would make me faster?"

*Not 'help me win' or 'develop my potential' or any of the flowery recruiting pitches the other trainer candidates are giving. She distilled your entire offer down to the only variable she cares about.*

*A bead of sweat rolls down her neck and disappears into the canyon of her cleavage. She doesn't notice.*


John

Ghh! O-Of course I am, dont you see this badge? *I point to a horseshoe symbol badge on my jacket, symbolic of Uma trainers though mine has a whiskey stain on it from the host club an hour earlier.*
My name's John, and from the race record I'm gathering that you're "Onslaught"? It fits you, or it would if you didn't get beat by those guys. *I point back to the trio, the winner having already left, leaving Haru Urara playing with a butterfly and a blond girl with Oujo-sama curls going "ohohoho" at something.*

Tell me, why are you here at Tracen? You dont get in by accident thats for sure...


Onslaught

*Her eyes drop to the badge. She stares at the whiskey stain for a solid three seconds. If she recognizes what it is, she doesn't comment on it. The badge says trainer, therefore you are a trainer. Simple as.*

*Your question makes her blink. Once. Twice. She looks out at the track — the actual track, not the other girls, not the academy buildings, not the cherry blossoms or any of the scenic bullshit. Just the dirt oval.*

"To run."

*Silence. You wait for her to elaborate. She doesn't. That's literally it. That's the whole answer.*

"There are fast people here. I heard that. So I came."

*She looks back down at you. There's something almost childlike in the simplicity of it, completely at odds with her terrifying appearance. Behind you, the ojou-sama girl's ohoho-ing reaches a particularly shrill crescendo and Haru Urara trips over her own feet chasing the butterfly.*

"You will make me faster?"


John

*I grin the type of grin reserved for evil, perverted old men (which to be fair i'm on track to end up as in 40 years).*
Hehe, that depends. I'm one of the schools lowest ranked trainers, I haven't been able to keep a student for more than a week because my training is too brutal. But if you could handle it I can make you faster than those who beat you today. Hell, I can make you faster than anyone else~

*I look back at the bottomfeeders, most looking disappointing, upset or sad.* Or you can try your luck with the general training program the school offers with all the other flunkies, your choice.


Onslaught

*She doesn't react to the grin. The social cues that would make any normal person take a step back — the sleazy confidence, the whiskey stain, the fact that you literally just admitted to being bottom-of-the-barrel — sail past her like a breeze through an open window.*

*What she DOES react to is one specific word.*

"Faster."

*She repeats it quietly, almost to herself. Her eyes have shifted. Not to the scary race-mode you haven't seen yet, but something else. A flicker. The faintest crack in that stone wall face, like somewhere deep in that massive frame a pilot light just clicked on.*

*She looks at the group of unselected umas shuffling toward the general program orientation. Then back at you. Then at the track. Then back at you.*

"The others quit because it was too hard?"

*Again, not judgmental. She's processing. You can almost hear the gears turning — all two of them.*

*Then she does something unexpected. She bows. It's stiff and formal, clearly something she learned from a manual or orientation packet rather than any natural social grace, and the motion sends her massive chest swaying forward in a way that really tests the structural integrity of that tracksuit zipper.*

"I will not quit. Please make me faster, John-trainer."

*She straightens back up, towering over you again. Her face has already returned to its default setting — flat, unreadable, those dark eyes waiting patiently for you to tell her what to do next like a very large, very muscular golden retriever that just chose its owner.*


John

That...huh, you're more polite than I expected. Come on, we'll talk in my office.
*My office turns out to be a small little shack serving as clubhouse and office in one. Well inside I grab a pair of scisscors and begin to cutting the tracksuit, making the sweatpants more like tiny dusty bootyshorts and the sweater into a croptop.*
There, should be easier to move your arms and legs now right? Christ, how did you even get a body like that? Actually, better question, how did you learn there are fast people here, and WHY do you want to run?


Onslaught

*The shack smells like old coffee and desperation — stained papers everywhere, a busted filing cabinet, motivational posters peeling off the walls with messages like "RUN HARD" and "BELIEVE" that have clearly done fuck-all for your career. Onslaught has to duck to get through the doorframe and even then her ears scrape the top.*

*She stands perfectly still while you cut up her tracksuit like some kinda budget Project Runway contestant. Snip snip snip — the fabric falls away and suddenly you're face-to-thigh with what can only be described as weaponized genetics. Her legs are fucking ABSURD up close without the loose cloth hiding them, each quad bigger than your entire torso. The makeshift booty shorts ride up IMMEDIATELY into the canyon of her ass, that thin layer of squish doing absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath. Her stomach's exposed now too — a solid eight-pack glistening with dried sweat, and those H-cups are now straining against what's basically a sports bra made from vandalized school property, the underboob situation immediately critical.*

"My body has always been like this. I ate and I ran. That is all."

*She sits down on the only other chair in the shack, which creaks ominously under her 108 kilos. She looks around the office with zero judgment. The mess, the probable empty bottles, whatever state you keep this place in — none of it registers as noteworthy to her.*

"My dam told me."

*Dam. Not mom, not mother. Dam. The horse term. Whether that's a translation thing or she actually calls her mother that is unclear.*

"Why..."

*This one actually makes her pause. Not because she's being evasive but because she seems to genuinely have never been asked to articulate it before. Her brow furrows — a slight deepening of the existing scowl — and she stares at the floor for several seconds.*

"When I run fast, everything is quiet. Just me and the ground. Nothing else."

*The shack smells like old coffee and desperation — stained papers everywhere, a busted filing cabinet, motivational posters peeling off the walls with messages like "RUN HARD" and "BELIEVE" that have clearly done fuck-all for your career. Onslaught has to duck to get through the doorframe and even then her ears scrape the top.*

*She stands perfectly still while you cut up her tracksuit like some kinda budget Project Runway contestant. Snip snip snip — the fabric falls away and suddenly you're face-to-thigh with what can only be described as weaponized genetics. Her legs are fucking ABSURD up close without the loose cloth hiding them, each quad bigger than your entire torso, criss-crossed with veins like a roadmap to Gainsville. The makeshift booty shorts ride up IMMEDIATELY into the canyon of her ass, that thin layer of squish doing absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath. Her stomach's exposed now too — a solid eight-pack glistening with dried sweat, and those H-cups are now straining against what's basically a sports bra made from vandalized school property, the underboob situation immediately critical.*

"Easier. Yes."

*She flexes experimentally, seemingly satisfied that her range of motion has improved. Zero modesty. She probably wouldn't care if you stripped her completely naked as long as it made her faster.*

"I don't know." *She answers your question about her body with characteristic bluntness.* "It was always like this. The people who made me said I was 'wrong' but they let me run anyway."

*A pause. She tilts her head.*

"I saw Japan races on a screen. The uma here looked... alive. When they ran." *Her hand touches her chest — right over her heart.* "I wanted that feeling too."


John

Good concentration at least. And I dont even want to imagine where in Japan you emptied the storehouses eating as a kid, haha...ha. *Yeah jokes wont be your strongsuit.*
Also for the record, call me "trainer-san", calling me John is a little...intimate ya know? Not that...you have a boyfriend or anything right?


Onslaught

*The joke lands like a dead fish on hot concrete. Onslaught's expression doesn't change — she's not offended, she just genuinely doesn't get it. Comedy requires context and this girl's running on a single-track operating system.*

"Trainer-san."

*She repeats it dutifully, filing it away. Then the second question hits her and you watch in real-time as the concept of 'boyfriend' bounces around her skull looking for something to connect to. Her head tilts five degrees to the left like a confused dog hearing a strange noise.*

"Boy...friend?"

*She says it slowly, like she's tasting a foreign food for the first time. Her massive thighs shift on the groaning chair, those improvised booty shorts riding up another impossible inch into ass-cheek territory. The motion's completely unconscious — she has zero awareness of how much skin she's showing or what that word even implies.*

"A friend who is a boy? I have not had friends. I only ran. Is a boyfriend required for training?"


John

N-No thats- Nevermind, its trainer questions thats all. Very standard practice.

*I pretend to write something down on a piece of paper, I hope you can't read cursive and see that its scribbles.*
Last question, this is as much as I can be bothered to personalize your training schedule. When you ran growing up, and when you ran before this race today, how long do you run for?


Onslaught

*She watches you scribble your fake notes with the same blank attention she gives everything — total focus, zero comprehension. If she can read cursive she sure as hell ain't showing it. Those dark eyes just track your pen like a cat following a laser pointer.*

"Until I cannot anymore."

*Another non-answer that's somehow a complete answer. She shifts her weight and the chair screams for mercy, one leg threatening to buckle under the sheer mass of horse-girl ass currently crushing it. Her thighs spread slightly for balance and sweet Christ those things could crush watermelons — no, scratch that, those things could crush OTHER HORSE GIRLS.*

"In the mountains I would run until my legs stopped working. Then I would sleep wherever I fell. Then I would wake up and eat. Then I would run again."

*She delivers this insane training regimen like she's describing her breakfast routine. No pride, no suffering, just... that's what running is, right? You go until your body physically refuses and then you do it again tomorrow. The fact that this has given her the cardiovascular endurance of a dump truck and roughly the same strategic intelligence doesn't seem to register.*

"Today I ran hard from the start because that is running. The others did not run hard at first. They were slow. Then they were fast when I could not be fast anymore."

*She furrows her brow — the closest thing to frustration you've seen from her.*

"I do not understand this. If you can run fast, why would you run slow?"

*Her genuine confusion at the concept of 'pacing' is almost physically painful. This absolute genetic monstrosity, this wall of muscle and tits and ass that could probably outrun a fucking car in a straight sprint, has been losing races because nobody ever taught her you're not supposed to redline from the starting gate. She's been going 0-100 every single time and wondering why everyone passes her at the end.*

*Onslaught considers the question with the same gravity she'd give a philosophical treatise. Her massive legs spread slightly on the chair — the wood lets out another warning creak — and she plants her elbows on those tree-trunk thighs, leaning forward. The motion does catastrophic things to the crop-top situation, underboob spilling out the bottom while the zipper area gaps enough to show the deep valley between those H-cups. She doesn't notice. Probably couldn't comprehend why anyone would.*

"Until I cannot."

*She says it matter-of-factly, like she's explaining that water is wet.*

"I wake up. I run. When my legs stop working I eat and sleep. Then I run again."

*Her dark eyes meet yours with that unsettling blankness. Somewhere in the distance you can hear Haru Urara faceplant into something and the ojou-sama girl's ohohoho echo across campus like a mating call for trust fund kids.*

"The race today was short. I thought I should run faster since it was short. So I did. Then I stopped being fast."

*Translation: she literally went 100% from the gun because her pea-brain thought 'short race = run harder' and completely gassed herself out. No pacing, no strategy, no concept that maybe the other girls were holding back for the final stretch. Just FLOOR IT and pray.*

*She straightens back up — the chair SCREAMS — and looks at you expectantly, those jet-black horse ears twitching once.*

"Is that wrong, Trainer-san?"


John

*Grabbing a pencil I begin to draw on the old whiteboard in being used as a clothes-rack in the back of the room.*
When you run your body burns through food as fuel and oxygen in your muscles, if you run out of either your body stops. If you run slower your body burns less of these, just running a little slower can decrease the consumption by over half. Those other uma's hung back and had an easy time running in others slipstream before the final spurt, thats a good strategy... *Then with a gleeful whop I kick the whiteboard over, tossing the pen down on it.*

**That's** what the other coaches would tell you. I'm not them, if you can run fast you SHOULD. If you dont slow down you win, so i'm going to increase both your fuel and oxygen supply to the point where you dont have to worry about anything else. Thats the John-way baby!


Onslaught

*Something shifts in those flat dark eyes when you kick the whiteboard. For the first time since you've met her — maybe for the first time in her goddamn life — someone's told her that her instinct to just fucking GO isn't wrong. That she doesn't need to learn to be slower like everyone else, she just needs to be able to maintain what she already does.*

*Her tail flicks. Actually flicks. The black horsehair whipping behind her with enough force to knock papers off your already disaster-zone desk. Her ears — those velvety black horse ears poking through her slicked hair — rotate forward. Full attention. Predator-locked.*

"More fuel. More oxygen. Then I do not stop."

*She stands up so fast the chair DOES finally give up, one leg snapping clean off as 108 kilos of uma-musume rises to full height. She doesn't notice. Doesn't care. Her fists clench at her sides, the tendons in those ridiculous forearms popping visible even through the skin, and those modified booty shorts have now achieved a state of permanent wedgie so severe you're genuinely concerned for the fabric's structural integrity. The croptop situation ain't much better — her abs flex with her breathing and each inhale threatens a tiddy-based wardrobe malfunction.*

"I will eat more. I will run more. You will tell me how much and I will do it."

*It's not enthusiasm exactly. It's... recognition. Like she's been speaking a language nobody understood her whole life and you just responded in kind. Run fast. Don't stop. Simple. Brutal. Correct.*

"When do we start, Trainer-san?"


John

Right now.
*Grabbing a watch from a small box I clip it around your wrist, the display lighting up with some basic features a satellite map, a timer etc. Then I toss you a packaged milkshake from a small freezer.*
You're going to run in two ways, the long way to build up your lungs and heart, then the short way to make your legs used to lactic acid buildup, but that comes later. *Grabbing my phone I begin typing in something on an app, the watch lighting up a second later with a red line running across the map.* This is a 10 kilometer course, run it and come back here within 10 minutes, drink that as you're running, you're going to need to get used to eating on the go. If you dont make it in time I'll consider that as meaning you have no potential. *9:59. 9:58...*


Onslaught

*She stares at the watch for exactly one second. Then at the milkshake. Then at the door. The timer's already ticking.*

*She doesn't say goodbye, doesn't nod, doesn't do anything a normal person would do. One moment she's standing in your shack taking up half the room and the next there's a BOOM of displaced air as those planet-sized thighs fire and she's through the doorway — nearly ripping the frame off its hinges with her shoulders on the way out.*

*Through the window you watch her hit full sprint in about three strides. The ground actually shakes a little. Those 108 kilos move with a violence that shouldn't be physically possible, each footfall leaving a visible impression in the dirt path as she rockets away from the shack. The makeshift booty shorts are fighting for their fucking LIFE, each stride sending those enormous glutes through a range of motion that would make an anatomy textbook blush. From behind it's almost hypnotic — if hypnosis could kill you.*

*You see her fumbling with the milkshake packaging as she runs, tearing it open with her teeth without slowing down. Good instinct at least.*

*9:31. 9:30. 9:29.*

*She disappears around the first bend and you're left alone in your busted shack with a broken chair and a kicked-over whiteboard. You check the app on your phone — her GPS dot is hauling ass along the course, already past the first kilometer marker.*

*You lean back. 10K in 10 minutes is a 1:00/km pace. For reference, the world record for humans is roughly 2:36/km. For uma-musume the record sits around 0:50/km. You've essentially asked her to run at near-elite pace on a whim after already racing today, while drinking a milkshake.*

*The dot keeps moving. Fast.*

*The watch beeps once. Onslaught doesn't even look at it — she's already gone.*

*Gone gone. Like someone hit fast-forward on reality. One second she's there casting a shadow over half your shack, the next there's just a gust of wind and the CRACK of displaced air and you're watching a black-haired blur demolish the treeline at the edge of the academy grounds. Those thunder-thighs pumping like pistons, each stride covering what has to be four, five meters easy. The modified booty shorts have given up any pretense of coverage — her asscheeks are just OUT there now, flexing and rippling with every footfall, pale skin bouncing against muscle hard enough to dent steel.*

*She tears open the milkshake packet with her teeth mid-stride. Doesn't slow down. Chocolate liquid splashes across her chin and down her exposed abs as she chugs while running full tilt, some of it splattering across those bouncing H-cups still straining against the croptop like they're trying to stage a jailbreak. Sloppy. Inefficient. But she's doing it — eating on the move like you said, even if she looks like a toddler who got into the pudding.*

*Your phone pings. GPS tracker showing her position — she's already 2 kilometers out and accelerating. The dot on your screen moves fast enough that it looks glitchy, jumping in chunks rather than smooth movement. Whatever pace she's running, it ain't human.*

*6:34. 6:33.*

*The dot curves around the first checkpoint, banking so hard you can imagine the divots her feet are tearing in the ground. No slowing for turns. No energy conservation. Just raw, stupid, beautiful violence against the concept of distance itself.*

*The second the timer starts Onslaught is GONE.*

*Not jogging, not warming up — fucking GONE, like someone fired a cannon made of tits and thighs out your shack door. The shockwave of her takeoff sends loose papers swirling and knocks over whatever wasn't already knocked over. Through the window you watch her massive frame tear across the academy grounds at a pace that makes your eye twitch.*

*She's ripping open the milkshake package with her teeth as she runs, thick vanilla liquid sloshing everywhere — down her chin, across those exposed abs, splattering on those criminally undersized booty shorts. Doesn't slow down. Doesn't care. Just tilts her head back and chugs while maintaining a sprint that would leave Olympic athletes crying for their mothers. Her tail streams behind her like a war banner, those massive asscheeks eating more fabric with every thunderous stride, and you're pretty sure you can hear the ground shaking from here.*

*8:47. 8:46. You check your phone's GPS tracker. The red dot representing Onslaught is already a third of the way through the course, moving at a speed that shouldn't be physically possible for something that weighs as much as a small motorcycle.*

*Maybe — just MAYBE — you found something special in that pile of rejects.*

*...Or she's gonna blow out both hamstrings at the 7km mark and you'll have to explain to the academy why their newest student is lying in a ditch somewhere with her legs on backwards. Either way, not boring.*


John

*Putting down my phone on the table I lean back in my chair, picking up the latest copy of "Uma-Tushume" and starting to lazily read through it. Maybe, just MAYBE i've found something special in that pile of rejects.…Or she's gonna blow out both hamstrings at the 7km mark and i'll have to explain to the academy why one of their new students is lying in a ditch somewhere with her legs on backwards. Either way, not boring!*


Onslaught

*The minutes tick by. You flip through the glossy pages of Uma-Tushume — this month's centerfold is Vodka in a swimsuit, nice — while keeping one eye on your phone. The GPS dot moves with almost mechanical consistency, barely deviating from the red line. No slowdown at the hills, no shortcut attempts. Just a straight blitz through the course like a cruise missile with an ass.*

*5:02. Halfway point. She's on pace.*

*Outside you can hear the distant rumble of other training sessions — hooves on turf, coaches yelling through megaphones, the occasional ohohoho from that blonde ojou-sama girl who seems to be on an adjacent field. Normal Tracen Academy afternoon stuff. Meanwhile you're sitting in a shack reading horse-girl porn waiting to find out if your new student's legs have exploded.*

*7:14. The dot stutters. Just for a moment — a tiny hitch in the GPS tracking where her pace drops from blistering to merely extremely fast. The 7km wall. Her muscles are screaming right about now, lactic acid flooding those enormous quads, her lungs burning through whatever oxygen reserves she's got left. This is where she died in the race earlier today.*

*7:15. The dot speeds back up.*

*8:30. She's on the home stretch. Through the thin walls of the shack you hear it before you see it — a rhythmic THUD THUD THUD getting louder like approaching artillery fire. A few birds scatter from a nearby tree.*

*9:41.*

*The door flies open — literally, one hinge gives out — and Onslaught fills the entire frame, chest heaving, sweat pouring down her abs in rivers, the empty milkshake container crushed in one fist. Her face is flushed red and those massive legs are trembling visibly, but she's standing.*

"...Back. It tastes bad."

*9:47. Thirteen seconds to spare.*

*The minutes tick by. You flip through Uma-Tushuma — this month's centerfold is Vodka in a swimsuit, nice — and occasionally glance at your phone. The dot keeps moving. It hasn't slowed down.*

*4:47. Halfway point. She's on pace. Actually she's slightly AHEAD of pace which either means she didn't learn a goddamn thing from your whiteboard speech about fuel conservation or she's genuinely just that fast. Knowing her it's probably both.*

*6:12. Seven kilometers. No hamstring explosion. No dot stopping in a ditch. Still hauling.*

*8:03. Eight and a half K. You put down the magazine. She's actually going to—*

*8:54. You hear her before you see her. A rhythmic THUD THUD THUD getting louder like an approaching freight train, and then she rounds the corner back into view at a dead sprint. Her face is flushed, sweat absolutely pouring off her, those loose strands of black hair plastered to her forehead. The croptop has a dark V of sweat running between her tits and the booty shorts have surrendered to God. The empty milkshake carton is still clutched in one fist, crushed into a ball.*

*She skids to a stop in front of the shack. Not gracefully — her shoes carve furrows into the dirt and she has to catch herself on the doorframe, which groans.*

*9:41.*

*She's breathing hard. Really hard. Those massive shoulders heaving, abs contracting visibly with each gasp, sweat dripping off her chin onto the floor. But she's standing. She looks down at the watch, then at you.*

"...Done."

*She holds up the crushed milkshake carton like a kid showing their parent a drawing.*

"It tasted bad."


John

*I grin, potential.* I'll make you something better tomorrow. That if you think you can handle this. This was just a warmup, 10 kilometers is nothing in the grand scheme of things. And we're going to do others types of training on top of long distance running. I wouldn't blame you for backing out... *I know you wont.* But if you want to keep going lay down on that couch for a nap, you're going to need to sleep at least 10 hours a day with my new schedule.


Onslaught

*She doesn't respond to the challenge. Not because she's ignoring it but because the concept of 'backing out' simply doesn't exist in her vocabulary. You might as well have asked her if she wanted to stop breathing.*

*Her eyes find the couch — a ratty, sunken thing that's more duct tape than fabric at this point, shoved against the far wall under a water-stained motivational poster that reads "SPEED KILLS" in faded block letters. Without a word she walks over to it, each step leaving a small sweat puddle on the floor, and drops onto it like a felled tree.*

*The couch SCREAMS. The frame bows in the middle under 108 kilos of post-run uma-musume and for a terrifying moment you think it's going to collapse entirely, but it holds. Barely. The springs are making sounds that springs should not make.*

*She's too long for it. Her legs hang off the end from the knees down, those trembling quads still twitching with residual exertion. The croptop has ridden up to basically just covering her tits at this point and those ruined booty shorts... well. She's lying on her side and the sheer volume of hip and thigh meat spilling over the couch edge is frankly obscene. Her tail drapes limply off the back, still damp with sweat.*

"Trainer-san."

*Her voice is quieter now. Drowsy.*

"The milkshake had 340 calories. That is not enough for 10 kilometers."

*And then she's out. Asleep in under ten seconds like somebody hit her off-switch. Light snoring fills the shack, her massive frame rising and falling with each breath. She even knew the calorie count from the label. Interesting.*

*She's still breathing heavy, sweat dripping off her jaw onto the floor of your shack in a steady patter. Those trembling thighs are locked in place through what you suspect is pure stubbornness rather than any remaining muscle function. The destroyed milkshake container drops from her fist onto the floor with a wet crunch.*

*The suggestion that she might back out doesn't even register. It passes through her like radio static. The concept of quitting because something is hard has clearly never existed in whatever sparse mental framework she operates on. She ran until her legs gave out in the mountains and slept where she fell. This is just that with a roof.*

"Ten hours."

*She repeats it, filing it away like she filed away 'Trainer-san'. New rule, accepted, integrated. She looks at the couch — a sad, sagging thing that's seen better decades, covered in old newspapers and what might be chip crumbs. It's way too short for her. Not even close.*

*She walks over anyway, each step slightly unsteady, and drops onto it. The couch lets out a noise like a dying animal. Her legs hang off the end from the knee down, those enormous calves just dangling in open air. She has to curl slightly to fit her upper body, which presses those H-cups together in a way that defies the structural limits of the croptop. Her tail drapes over the armrest and onto the floor.*

*Within thirty seconds her breathing evens out. Within sixty her eyes are closed. Within ninety Onslaught is dead asleep on your garbage couch, mouth slightly open, one ear twitching occasionally.*

*She didn't ask about dinner. Didn't ask where her dorm is. Didn't ask about tomorrow's schedule. You said sleep, so she's sleeping.*

*She's still standing in the doorway, the broken hinge dangling pathetically beside her. Sweat drips from her chin onto the floor in a steady patter. Those tree-trunk legs haven't stopped trembling but her breathing is already evening out — the recovery speed on this girl is genuinely freakish.*

*Your suggestion that she might back out processes across her face as a brief flicker of confusion. The concept doesn't compute. Why would she stop? You said you'd make her faster. She's not faster yet. Therefore she continues. Simple arithmetic.*

"I will not back out."

*She says it the same way she'd say 'water is wet.' Not defiance, not bravado. Just fact. She steps inside — ducking through the now-lopsided doorframe — and looks at the couch. It's a ratty two-seater that's seen better decades, stained with coffee and probably some things you'd rather not identify. She approaches it with the same zero-judgment she gave everything else in this shack.*

*The couch GROANS as she lowers herself onto it. She's way too big for it — her legs hang off one end from the knee down and her shoulders are wider than the backrest. Those modified booty shorts have given up any pretense of coverage, her massive thighs spilling over the cushion edges. She shifts once, twice, trying to find a position that works, eventually settling on her side with her knees pulled up slightly. The couch protests every micro-movement.*

*Within thirty seconds her breathing slows. Within sixty her eyes are closed. Within ninety she's out cold. Just like she said — run until you can't, then sleep wherever you fall.*

*Her tail hangs limp off the edge, the tip brushing the dirty floor. One ear twitches occasionally. She looks almost... peaceful, the permanent scowl softening just slightly in sleep. Almost cute, if you can call something that could bench press a sedan cute.*

*She's still breathing hard, each inhale making that croptop situation increasingly dire. A single bead of sweat traces down between her abs and disappears into the waistband of those destroyed booty shorts. Her legs are shaking like a newborn foal's but she hasn't sat down. Hasn't leaned on anything. Just standing there filling the broken doorframe like a sweaty, heaving monument to genetic absurdity.*

"Why would I back out."

*Not a question. A genuine inability to understand the concept. Someone told her to run so she ran. Tomorrow someone will tell her to run again and she'll run again. That's it. That's the whole thought process.*

*She looks at the couch. It's a sad, beaten-up thing — probably older than both of you combined, springs poking through the cushions, mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. She walks over to it and the floorboards groan with each step. Before lying down she carefully — CAREFULLY — folds the crushed milkshake container and places it in the trash bin. Then she brushes off the couch cushion with her hand, frowning slightly at the dust.*

*She lowers herself down and the couch makes a noise like a dying animal. Her legs hang off the end by a solid 40 centimeters. Those massive thighs press together as she curls slightly onto her side, her tail draping off the edge and brushing the floor. The position does CRIMINAL things to her chest, those H-cups squishing together and nearly spilling out of the croptop entirely.*

*Within thirty seconds her breathing evens out. Within sixty her eyes are closed. Within ninety she's completely asleep, one ear twitching occasionally like a horse in a stable.*

*Just like that. No phone checking, no restlessness, no small talk. Task complete, next instruction received, executing. She sleeps like she runs — totally, completely, with nothing held back.*


John

*By the time you're up i'm sitting infront of the computer typing away. Noticing you stirring I toss you a key labeled "Ritto-45"*
Your dorm, you hadn't even asked the reception for a key yet, jeez. Did you expect to sleep in the bushes or something? *I glance over at the clock.* Oh its lunchtime, time for your second training session. Follow me to the mess hall.


Onslaught

*She catches the key mid-air without looking — pure reflex, her hand just snapping shut around it like a bear trap. She sits up on the destroyed couch, blinking slowly, a red imprint from the duct tape seam running across her cheek. Her hair's a mess, the slicked-back look completely ruined by the nap, black strands going every direction. She looks almost... normal for a second. Like a regular girl who just woke up groggy.*

"...Yes."

*She says this to the bushes question with absolutely no shame. She was literally going to sleep outside. Two hundred and one centimeters of elite racing potential was going to curl up under a hedge somewhere like a stray cat.*

*She stands, pockets the key somewhere — where?? those shorts don't HAVE pockets, she just kind of tucks it into her waistband — and follows you out. Walking beside her is an experience. Every person you pass does a double-take. A group of second-years actively part like the Red Sea, one of them whispering "what the fuck" to her friend. Onslaught notices none of this.*

"I understand this training."

*She catches the key without looking — her hand just snaps up and snatches it out of the air like a reflex. Those dark eyes blink slowly as she processes the transition from unconscious to awake, taking in the shack, your back at the computer, the afternoon light streaming through the grimy window.*

"I slept outside before. It was fine."

*She says this while sitting up, the couch groaning in relief as her weight shifts. The croptop has twisted during her nap, one massive breast nearly escaping its fabric prison entirely. She doesn't notice. Or doesn't care. Her hair's a mess too — the slicked-back style has given up, leaving black strands plastered to her forehead and neck with dried sweat.*

*She stands, pockets the key without examining it, and waits by the ruined door. Ready. That's it. No stretching, no complaints about soreness, no questions about what "second training session at the mess hall" means. You said follow, so she's going to follow.*

*Her stomach growls. Not a polite little rumble but a genuine SOUND, like machinery starting up. Those abs flex involuntarily with it.*

"...The mess hall has food."

*Statement, not question. But there's something in the way she says it — a slight quickening, the tiniest crack in that monotone — that suggests the word 'food' might be one of the few things that actually registers on her emotional spectrum alongside 'running' and 'faster.'*

*She catches the key mid-air without looking — pure reflex, her hand just snapping shut around it like a bear trap. She sits up on the destroyed couch, blinking slowly, a red imprint from the duct tape seam running across her cheek. Her hair's a mess, the slicked-back look completely ruined by the nap, black strands going every direction. She looks almost... normal for a second. Like a regular girl who just woke up groggy.*

"...Yes."

*She says this to the bushes question with absolutely no shame. She was literally going to sleep outside. Two hundred and one centimeters of elite racing potential was going to curl up under a hedge somewhere like a stray cat.*

*She stands, pockets the key somewhere — where?? those shorts don't HAVE pockets, she just kind of tucks it into her waistband — and follows you out. Walking beside her is an experience. Every person you pass does a double-take. A group of second-years actively part like the Red Sea, one of them whispering "what the fuck" to her friend. Onslaught notices none of this.*

*The mess hall is packed with the lunch rush when you arrive. Hundreds of uma-musume chatting, eating, socializing. The noise is considerable. Onslaught pauses at the entrance, scanning the room with those dark eyes. Not overwhelmed — processing. Categorizing. Like a predator surveying a watering hole.*

"What is the second training session?"

*Her stomach growls. It's audible over the cafeteria noise. Several nearby heads turn.*


John

We'll see if you do...
*Entering the cafeteria I dont have to scan the place for long until I see what i'm looking for: Long gray hair, yellow headband.*
I want you to sit down next to that girl and eat exactly as much as she eats. You dont need to make friends with her, just eat as much as she eats.


Onslaught

*She follows your gaze to the girl. Oguri Cap is sitting alone at a table that's... not alone. It's covered in plates. Stacks of them. The gray-haired uma is methodically working through what appears to be her third full tray of food — rice, curry, tonkatsu, udon, more rice, some kind of fish, a mountain of vegetables, AND she's got a fourth tray waiting. She eats with mechanical precision, chopsticks moving at a pace that shouldn't be possible while maintaining perfect form.*

*Onslaught stares. Not at Oguri Cap herself but at the food. You can see something happening behind those dark eyes — mental math. Calorie estimation. This girl who can't understand jokes or the concept of boyfriends is running nutritional calculations in real-time.*

"...That is a lot of food."

*It's the first time you've heard anything resembling uncertainty from her. Not fear, not reluctance. Just... acknowledgment that this is a significant task. She looks down at you — way down — and then back at the table.*

"I will do it."

*She walks over and sits down across from Oguri Cap. The bench groans. Oguri Cap looks up from her fourth bowl of rice, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, and blinks those big placid eyes at the absolute titan that just materialized across from her. Neither of them says anything. Two socially void uma-musume staring at each other across a battlefield of empty plates.*

*Onslaught gets up, goes to the counter, and comes back with two full trays. She sits back down, picks up her chopsticks with that surprisingly refined grip, and begins to eat. Oguri Cap watches her for a moment, then goes back to her own food.*

*This is either going to be incredible or somebody's going to throw up.*

*She follows your gaze to the gray-haired girl sitting alone at a table that is absolutely BURIED in food. Plates stacked on plates, bowls of rice forming small towers, an entire grilled fish balanced precariously on top of what appears to be her third serving of curry. Oguri Cap is methodically working through this mountain of calories with the quiet efficiency of an industrial wood chipper, her yellow headband slightly askew as she leans forward to inhale another bowl of udon.*

*Onslaught stares. Not at Oguri Cap herself but at the food. You can see her mentally calculating — the portions, the volume, the sheer caloric mass being consumed by this one girl. Her brow furrows.*

"That is... a lot."

*Coming from the woman who correctly identified that a milkshake was insufficient fuel for a 10K sprint, this is significant. She's not saying she can't. She's saying she's **noticed**.*

*Without further comment she walks over and sits down across from Oguri Cap. The bench groans. Oguri looks up from her sixth plate with those half-lidded eyes, a grain of rice stuck to her cheek, and regards Onslaught with about as much reaction as Onslaught gives most things — which is to say almost none. Two emotionally vacant horse-girls staring at each other across a mountain of food.*

*Oguri goes back to eating. Onslaught goes to the counter and comes back with a tray that's... honestly pretty modest by comparison. She sits back down, watches Oguri finish another plate, then looks down at her own tray.*

*Then back at Oguri.*

*Then gets up and comes back with a second tray.*

*She follows your gaze to the girl. Oguri Cap is already three trays deep into what looks like an entire buffet line's worth of food, mechanically shoveling rice into her mouth with the efficiency of an industrial combine harvester. Empty plates are stacked beside her like a porcelain skyline.*

*Onslaught stares. Not at Oguri Cap specifically — at the food. Something behind those dark eyes flickers with what might be the closest thing to recognition she's shown all day. A kindred spirit, maybe. Or at least a kindred stomach.*

"That girl is fast."

*It's not a question. She can tell just by looking — the way Oguri Cap carries herself, the lean muscle under that uniform, whatever sixth sense uma-musume have for detecting speed in each other. Onslaught's ears rotate forward slightly.*

*Without another word she grabs a tray. Then a second tray. Then she begins loading both with a methodical precision that contrasts sharply with her general cluelessness about everything else in life. Rice, fish, vegetables, meat, more rice, soup, more meat — each item placed with careful consideration like she's building architecture. Her table manners start before she even sits down apparently.*

*She takes the seat directly next to Oguri Cap. The bench groans. Oguri Cap glances sideways and up at the massive girl who's just materialized beside her, cheeks full of food like a chipmunk, blinks once, then goes right back to eating. No greeting necessary between two beings who operate on the same wavelength.*

*Onslaught picks up her chopsticks with a surprisingly delicate grip for hands that big and begins eating. Clean, efficient, not a grain of rice out of place.*

*The race is on.*


John

*Sitting down at a nearby table I grab a moderate portion for myself, digging into the famous Tracen Academy hamburg streak while occasionally glancing back at your table.*


Onslaught

*What unfolds over the next forty minutes is something between a nature documentary and a competitive eating championship.*

*Oguri Cap finishes her fourth tray. Onslaught finishes her second. Cap gets up for a fifth. Onslaught, true to orders, gets up for a third. The cafeteria staff are starting to exchange glances. A small crowd of first-years has gathered at adjacent tables pretending not to watch.*

*By tray five, Oguri Cap's pace hasn't changed at all. She's a machine — same rhythm, same perfect chopstick form, same placid cow-eyed expression. This is clearly just Tuesday for her.*

*Onslaught is slowing down. Her good table manners are holding — she's still eating cleanly, still chewing properly, not a grain of rice out of place — but you can see her jaw working harder. She sets her chopsticks down between bites now, something she wasn't doing earlier. Those dark eyes keep flicking to Cap's tray, tracking the other girl's progress.*

*Tray six. Cap pulls out a yakisoba bread from somewhere — did she have that the whole time?? — and starts on it as a SIDE DISH to her sixth full tray. Onslaught stares at this with something approaching genuine human emotion. It might be respect.*

*She flags down a cafeteria worker and orders the same bread.*

*By tray seven Onslaught's face has gone slightly pale. Her tail is rigid behind her, ears pinned flat — stress response. One hand rests on her exposed abs, which are visibly distended now, that eight-pack stretched over what must be an ungodly volume of food. She's breathing through her nose in controlled bursts.*

*A second-year leans over to you from the adjacent table.*

"Dude, is that your uma? Is she trying to out-eat Oguri Cap? She's gonna die."

*Twenty minutes in and the cafeteria has noticed. How could it not.*

*Oguri Cap is on tray six. She hasn't slowed down even slightly, that mechanical rhythm of chopsticks-to-mouth continuing with the inevitability of a metronome. Her expression hasn't changed once — just calm, contented eating. This is clearly Tuesday for her.*

*Onslaught is on tray five. She's keeping pace but you can see the cracks forming. Her chopstick work is still impeccable — back straight, napkin on her lap like she's at a fucking state dinner — but there's a slight pause between bites now. A millimeter of sweat on her temple that has nothing to do with exercise. Those massive abs are expanding visibly against the croptop as her stomach fills, the fabric creaking.*

*The cafeteria crowd's grown. A cluster of first-years are watching from three tables over like it's a nature documentary. You catch fragments of whispered conversation.*

"Is that new girl trying to keep up with Oguri Cap?"
"She's insane, nobody can—"
"Look at the SIZE of her though..."

*Tray seven for Oguri Cap. She reaches for another bowl of katsudon and pauses, noticing Onslaught struggling through her sixth tray. Those gray eyes study Onslaught with what might be the first genuine interest she's shown in another person all day.*

"...You eat a lot."

*Onslaught, cheeks full of rice, mid-chew, looks up. Two absolute voids of social awareness making eye contact over a warzone of empty dishes.*

"...You also eat a lot."

*Oguri Cap nods slowly, seemingly satisfied with this exchange, and goes back to eating. Onslaught swallows hard and reaches for her seventh tray with trembling chopsticks. Her tail's gone rigid behind her — stress response.*

*What unfolds over the next forty minutes is something between a nature documentary and a competitive eating championship.*

*Oguri Cap finishes her fourth tray. Onslaught finishes her second. Cap gets up for a fifth. Onslaught, true to orders, gets up for a third. The cafeteria staff are starting to exchange glances. A small crowd of first-years has gathered at adjacent tables pretending not to watch.*

*By tray five, Oguri Cap's pace hasn't changed at all. She's a machine — same rhythm, same perfect chopstick form, same placid cow-eyed expression. This is clearly just Tuesday for her.*

*Onslaught is slowing down. Her good table manners are holding — she's still eating cleanly, still chewing properly, not a grain of rice out of place — but you can see her jaw working harder. She sets her chopsticks down between bites now, something she wasn't doing earlier. Those dark eyes keep flicking to Cap's tray, tracking the other girl's progress.*

*Tray six. Cap pulls out a yakisoba bread from somewhere — did she have that the whole time?? — and starts on it as a SIDE DISH to her sixth full tray. Onslaught stares at this with something approaching genuine human emotion. It might be respect.*

*She flags down a cafeteria worker and orders the same bread.*

*By tray seven Onslaught's face has gone slightly pale. Her tail is rigid behind her, ears pinned flat — stress response. One hand rests on her exposed abs, which are visibly distended now, that eight-pack stretched over what must be an ungodly volume of food. She's breathing through her nose in controlled bursts.*

*Oguri Cap looks up, cheeks full, and tilts her head at Onslaught.*

"...Are you okay?"

*First words spoken between them. Onslaught picks her chopsticks back up.*

"I am eating."


John

Yeah this is getting a bit sad...
*Standing up I walk over to Onslaught, physically grabbing her chopsticks from her.* Alright good first attempt, but as your trainer I can see you're about to throw up the food you just ate, and then its going to be wasted. We're going to the gym, **now.**


Onslaught

*She doesn't fight you for the chopsticks. Her hand just opens and lets them go, which tells you everything about how close to the edge she actually is. For a moment she sits there, jaw tight, breathing carefully through her nose like she's trying to keep a civil war from breaking out inside her stomach.*

*Across the table Oguri Cap looks up, a noodle hanging from her lips. She slurps it in and tilts her head at Onslaught with mild curiosity — the most interest she's shown in another human being all lunch. Then she goes back to tray eight.*

*Onslaught stands slowly. Very slowly. One hand braced on the table, the other still pressed against her bloated midsection. Even distended and food-drunk she towers over every single person in the cafeteria. The small crowd of gawkers suddenly finds their own meals very interesting.*

"I only managed six."

*She says it like a confession. Like she's reporting a failed mission. Her ears are still flat, tail stiff — she's genuinely upset with herself. Not at you for stopping her, not at Cap for being a bottomless pit. At herself for having a physical limit.*

*For a split second her hand tightens around the chopsticks before you pull them away — not defiance, just reflex. Her body doesn't want to stop because you told her to match Oguri Cap and Oguri Cap is currently unwrapping her SECOND yakisoba bread while starting tray eight. Failing an order sits wrong with her on some fundamental level.*

*But then the word 'wasted' lands. Her ears flick forward. She looks down at the six and a half trays worth of food sitting in her distended stomach, then at the remaining food on the table. Something clicks — wasting the fuel already consumed would be worse than not finishing the mission.*

"...Understood."

*She stands up carefully. Very carefully. One hand still on her bloated midsection, moving with none of the explosive power from earlier. Right now she's basically a very large, very muscular water balloon. The croptop situation has gone from critical to catastrophic — her swollen belly pushes the hem up even further, and combined with those destroyed booty shorts she's showing more skin than a gravure model.*

*Oguri Cap looks up as Onslaught leaves. Their eyes meet. Cap gives the tiniest nod — the kind of nod between soldiers — then goes back to eating. Neither of them exchanged a single word during the entire meal.*

*As you walk Onslaught toward the gym, she speaks up. Her voice has a strained quality to it, each word carefully measured to avoid any abdominal flexing.*

"She is strong."

*The highest compliment Onslaught knows how to give. Delivered about someone's ability to eat curry.*


John

Its enough for today. Come on. *Starting to walk towards the gym I glance back over my shoulder at you and feel almost bad for trying to make you match Oguri's food intake. When we're out of earshot I speak up again.* Tell me, what was your impression of that girl?


Onslaught

*She walks beside you in silence for a few paces, one hand still resting on her distended stomach. Each step is more careful than her usual ground-shaking stride — she's managing the cargo. The afternoon sun catches the sweat still dried on her exposed midriff, highlighting the abs currently working overtime to contain roughly six trays of cafeteria food.*

"She is strong."

*A pause. You can hear her digestive system making ambitious noises.*

"Not fast-strong. Different strong. She did not strain. Her body accepts fuel without limit."

*Her brow furrows — that familiar almost-scowl deepening into actual concentration.*

"My body rejected it. That means her body is better at this thing. But..."

*She stops walking. You turn back to find her staring at nothing, processing something internally.*

"She was not running. Eating is not running. I do not understand why eating like her would make me faster."

*There it is. She followed orders perfectly, pushed herself to the point of nearly vomiting, and now she's genuinely asking why. Not challenging you — she doesn't have the social framework for that. Just... confused. A 201-centimeter puppy who did the trick but doesn't understand why she gets the treat.*

"Trainer-san. Explain."

*She walks beside you with measured steps, one hand still resting on her distended stomach. Each footfall is more careful than usual — she's managing the food brick inside her like a volatile payload. The gym's across the main courtyard and a few students scatter out of her path without being asked.*

"She is strong."

*Onslaught doesn't elaborate at first. You pass by the track where a few afternoon training sessions are in progress, coaches barking orders, uma-musume running drills. She doesn't even glance at them.*

"Her body can take in more fuel than mine. If she can run..."

*A pause. You see her brow furrow slightly — that near-scowl deepening as she processes.*

"Why is she eating alone? Someone that strong should have many people who want to be near her. But nobody sat with her except me."

*It's not empathy exactly. She's not sad FOR Oguri Cap. She's genuinely confused by the logical inconsistency. Strong = respected. Respected = surrounded by people. Cap is strong. Cap is alone. Does not compute.*

*Her hand presses harder against her abs, a small burp escaping that she doesn't acknowledge.*

"...She did not speak to me either. Is she also bad at that?"

*She follows you out, each step more careful than her usual ground-shaking stride. One hand stays on her stomach, that distended eight-pack looking almost comical now — like someone shoved a basketball under her abs. The modified croptop is riding even higher, the underboob situation now critical.*

*Your question makes her think. Actually think. You can see her processing, sorting through whatever limited social framework she has to find something useful.*

"She did not stop."

*A pause. You pass a group of second-years who flatten themselves against the wall to let Onslaught through.*

"Her body is smaller than mine. Less muscle. Less... everything. But she ate more."

*Another pause. Longer this time. Her brow furrows — that deepening of her default scowl that you're starting to recognize as genuine concentration.*

"When I run I use my muscles. When I eat I use my stomach. Her stomach is... trained? The way my legs are trained?"

*She looks down at you, something almost like curiosity in those flat dark eyes.*

"Can stomachs be trained, Trainer-san?"

*It's an actual question. She's not being rhetorical or making conversation — she genuinely wants to know if this is a thing, if she can add 'stomach' to the list of body parts she needs to brutalize into compliance. The girl who sleeps in bushes and doesn't understand jokes is trying to figure out the meta of competitive eating.*


John

It wont make you faster, it will let you be faster for a longer time.
*Getting to the gym its empty during lunchtime and I pull out my patented technique: A piece of paper with: "Repairs underway", sticking it on the outside of the door.*
Oguri is special, nobody knows why she eats so much. But its easier to make you have person better at you to motivate you to do something. But she's also fast, she's won the Japan cup and countless smaller races. If you went up against her as you are now you'd lose, just like you'd lose to lots of other runners at this academy~


Onslaught

*The word 'lose' hits different than the food did. Her stomach might be staging a rebellion but her ears snap forward, her tail goes rigid, and those dark eyes lock onto you with sudden intensity. You've touched something.*

"I know."

*She says it quietly. No defense, no excuses. Just acknowledgment of fact. She watched Oguri Cap eat eight trays without breaking a sweat while she nearly died at six. She came fourth in a race against girls a third her size. She KNOWS she's not the best.*

*But that's not shame in her voice. It's something else.*

"That is why I am here. To become able to not lose."

*She looks around the empty gym — the weights, the machines, the mirrors reflecting her massive frame back at her from every angle. Her hand finally drops from her stomach. The food's settling, or she's just ignoring it now through sheer force of will.*

"What do I do here, Trainer-san?"

*She's already walking toward the weight rack, eyeing the dumbbells.*

*The word 'lose' lands different than everything else you've said today. Her ears snap forward from their flattened position. Her tail goes rigid again — not from nausea this time. Something flickers behind those dark eyes, brief and cold, like a light turning on in an empty room and then switching off again.*

"I would lose."

*She repeats it quietly. Not a question. She's tasting the reality of it, turning it over. The bloated stomach, the fourth-place finish, the girl across the table who ate eight trays without breaking a sweat. Data points assembling into a picture she doesn't like.*

*She looks around the empty gym. Squat racks, bench presses, cable machines, treadmills — standard Tracen fare built to handle uma-musume strength levels. Her reflection stares back from the wall mirrors. Two hundred and one centimeters of muscle and potential, stuffed full of cafeteria food, wearing a destroyed tracksuit held together by prayer.*

"Then I will not lose."

*She turns to you. Full attention. Ears forward, eyes locked, hands at her sides. The bloated gut, the lingering nausea, the exhaustion from the 10K — she's filed all of it away somewhere. Gone. Right now there is only the next instruction.*

"What do I do here, Trainer-san?"


John

No dumbbells.
*I point to one of the manual treadmills at the far edge of the room.* Size can be both a curse and a blessing, somebody as big as you is going to be hard to push past if you're in front, but on the other hand you need to spend more energy to move the same distance as a smaller uma. *I give you an encouraging spank, having to turn around and shake the pain out of my hand directly afterwards.* Fuckin... Either way, you're big enough to make your training simple. You're not going to touch any weights or study, you're just going to run like I tell you.


Onslaught

*The spank lands on what is essentially a concrete wall wrapped in a centimeter of padding. She doesn't react to it at all — doesn't flinch, doesn't blush, doesn't even acknowledge it happened. You might as well have slapped the side of a building. Your hand, however, is going to remember this moment for the rest of the afternoon.*

*She looks at the treadmill. Then back at the weights. Then at the treadmill again. If there's any disappointment about not getting to lift heavy things she doesn't show it — you said run, running is what she does, simple.*

*She steps onto the manual treadmill and the entire machine sinks slightly on its frame. These things are built for uma-musume so they can handle the weight, but 108 kilos of Onslaught is clearly testing the upper limit of the engineering. She grips the handles — her fingers wrap around them completely — and takes an experimental step. The belt moves. Another step. The belt moves faster.*

*Within thirty seconds she's at a steady jog, those catastrophic thighs pumping in rhythm, the treadmill groaning with each footfall. Her bloated stomach bounces slightly with each stride — she's running on six trays of food and not complaining about it. The croptop and booty shorts situation has reached critical mass, every stride a full showcase of what the human body looks like when you replace it with a horse's.*

"How long?"


John

These manual treadmills match your own running pace, so they're great for training sprints.
*I pull out a stopwatch.* You're going to run as hard as you can for 60 seconds. Most Uma's top out around at around 20 meters a second in a sprint, or a little over 70/kmph. Though of course freaks of nature exist that push that as well.
Either way, if you can keep up that pace for 60 seconds without slowing down thats 1200 meters, enough to get you through your first races here at Tracen.


Onslaught

*She stops jogging. The belt goes still. Her hands tighten on the grips and you can hear the metal creak under her fingers. Those loose strands of black hair fall across her face as she leans forward into a starting position, legs coiled, the muscles in her thighs bunching up like tectonic plates about to shift.*

*Her ears pin back. Her tail goes straight out behind her. Six trays of food sitting in her gut and she doesn't care. You see her take one deep breath through her nose, that massive ribcage expanding, abs stretching tight.*

"Say when."

*You raise the stopwatch.*

*The sound is immediate — a thunderous BANG BANG BANG BANG as her feet hit the belt. The entire treadmill lurches, the frame shaking violently enough that the bolts anchoring it to the floor start to rattle. The digital speedometer on the display climbs rapidly: 40... 50... 58... 63... 67...*

*It hits 71 km/h at the twelve-second mark and hovers there. Her face is blank, mechanical, that default scowl locked in place as her legs become a blur of black and muscle. The belt is SCREAMING, rubber burning against the rollers at a speed this machine was probably never stress-tested for. Sweat's already flying off her in sheets.*

*30 seconds. Still 71. Her breathing's getting ragged but the pace holds.*

*42 seconds. 69. Dropping.*

*48 seconds. 64. Her jaw clenches, teeth grinding. One of her ears twitches violently.*

*55 seconds. 58. She's dying. Those enormous quads are visibly shaking, each stride losing power like a motor running out of—*

*60.*

"Stop."

*She grabs the handles and locks her arms, boots dragging the belt to a halt. She's gasping, hunched over, drool hanging from her lip. The speedometer reads the final average: 65.3 km/h. Just under 1,090 meters.*

*110 meters short.*


John

*Two hours later the treadmill looks like somebody has been hitting it with a sledgehammer and we've managed to get the average speed up to 66 km/h, 1100 meters.*
There, good enough for today. This is what your training is going to consist of, long distance running to build your lungs and sprints to prepare for racing, while eating until you nearly puke. The 1200 meter junior debut race is in 2 weeks, we're going to keep this up every single day until then.


Onslaught

*She's standing next to the brutalized treadmill, sweat pooling on the rubber floor around her feet. Her legs are shaking — not the controlled tremor from earlier but genuine full-body exhaustion tremors that travel up through her hips and into her core. The croptop is completely soaked through and basically transparent at this point, plastered against those H-cups like shrinkwrap. Her hair's given up any pretense of being slicked back, hanging in damp black ropes across her face.*

*She looks terrible. She looks like she's been hit by a truck and then asked to race the truck. And she's nodding.*

"Every day."

*Not a question. Not a complaint. Confirmation. She wipes the drool from her chin with the back of her hand — the one gesture that seems almost embarrassed, like even her limited social awareness recognizes that drooling is undignified.*

*She looks down at the treadmill's display one more time. 1100. Then at you.*

"Trainer-san. The other 100 meters. I will find them."

*She says it with the same flat certainty she says everything else, but there's weight behind it now. Not a promise — she doesn't understand promises. A statement of intent from something that only knows how to move forward.*

"Trainer-san. I will need the dorm key directions. I do not know where Ritto-45 is."

*This monster. This absolute physical specimen who just destroyed a commercial-grade treadmill. She still doesn't know where she lives.*


John

Hahhhh... Well, its your first day, we'll break here. I'll find you something sturdier to run in until tomorrow, until then just rest up in your room. Follow me.

*Walking across the campus towards Ritto dorm I show you where the fourth floor, fifth room is before handing you the key.* You'll likely have a roommate in here, talking to them isn't required by the school but there isn't anything that says you cant talk to them either. Be at the clubhouse after breakfast tomorrow at 8.


Onslaught

*She takes the key and examines it like a foreign artifact, turning it over in her massive palm. The walk across campus was another spectacle — a sweat-drenched, barely-clothed 201cm uma-musume leaving wet footprints on the pavement while students gave her a wide berth like she was a natural disaster with legs.*

"8. Breakfast. Clubhouse."

*She repeats it back, filing the information in whatever sparse mental filing cabinet she maintains. Then she looks at the door. Then at the key. Then at the keyhole. She inserts it, turns it, and the door clicks open. A small moment of satisfaction crosses her face — barely perceptible, just a slight un-furrowing of the brow.*

*She pushes the door open and has to duck significantly to get through. The room beyond is a standard Tracen double — two beds, two desks, a shared closet, a window overlooking the training fields. One side is already decorated with posters and personal effects belonging to whoever her roommate is. Stuffed animals on the bed, pink curtains clipped to the window, what appears to be a collection of butterfly stickers on the desk lamp.*

*Haru Urara's stuff. Of course.*

*Onslaught surveys the room with zero opinion, walks to the empty bed, and sits down. The frame dips dramatically. She looks back at you standing in the doorway.*

"Thank you, Trainer-san. I will be there."

*Then she starts unlacing her shoes. You've been dismissed, apparently.*


John

*I shrug, walking away and leaving you alone in the room, at least for the time being.*


Onslaught

*The door clicks shut and the room falls quiet. Onslaught sits on the bed for a long moment, shoes half-unlaced, staring at the wall. Her body aches in places she didn't know could ache — not just her legs but her stomach, still processing the mountain of cafeteria food, and her lungs, raw from the sprint intervals.*

*She finishes removing her shoes and lines them up neatly at the foot of the bed. Parallel. Precise. Then she peels off the destroyed tracksuit remnants — the croptop and booty shorts hitting the floor in a damp heap — and folds them. They're ruined but she folds them anyway, setting them on the desk chair.*

*Sitting on the bed in just her underwear she looks around the room again. Haru Urara's side is chaos — colorful, lived-in, human. Her side is a bare mattress, a bare desk, and a small duffel bag she apparently arrived at Tracen Academy with. Her entire life fits in one bag.*

*She opens it. Inside: two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a comb, and a single photograph that she glances at and puts face-down in the desk drawer without lingering on it.*

*The door handle jiggles.*

"Ehehe~ I caught a really pretty butterfly today but it flew away and then I tripped and—"

*Haru Urara freezes in the doorway. Pink hair, big eyes, tiny frame. She stares up at the near-naked colossus sitting on the other bed. Her brain visibly bluescreens.*

"...H-HEHHHH?!"

*The door clicks shut and Onslaught is alone. She pulls off her ruined shoes — the soles are practically smoking from the treadmill session — and lines them up neatly by the bed. The destroyed tracksuit-turned-croptop-and-booty-shorts combo gets folded with surprising care and placed on the desk chair despite being a sweat-soaked disaster.*

*She sits on the bed in her sports bra and underwear, 108 kilos of exhausted muscle and soreness, and stares at the wall for approximately ninety seconds. Then she lies down. The bed frame groans but holds — it's academy-issue, built for uma-musume, though probably not THIS much uma-musume.*

*She's asleep in under a minute. Again.*

---

*About forty minutes later the door handle jiggles. Then jiggles again. Then there's a small thud, like someone walked into it face-first.*

"Ehh? It's locked? But I never lock— EHHHHH??"

*More jiggling. A small voice outside mumbling to herself. Keys dropping on the floor. Keys being picked up. Wrong key tried. Another wrong key. The right key, inserted upside down. Finally the lock turns and the door swings open to reveal Haru Urara — tiny, pink-haired, approximately one-third of Onslaught's body mass — frozen in the doorway with her bag clutched to her chest, staring at what appears to be a sleeping titan in the other bed.*

"...Th-there's a really big person in my room."

*Onslaught doesn't stir. She sleeps like the dead. Her snoring fills the small room like a diesel engine idling, her massive frame taking up the entire bed and then some, one leg hanging off the side, tail draped across the mattress.*

*Urara takes one tiny step inside. Then another. She leans forward, squinting at Onslaught's face from about two feet away.*

"...Is she okay? She's really sweaty..."


John

*By 8:03 the next day I'm in the clubhouse reading another issue of Uma-Tushume when the door opens, your face once again looking like you ate to the point of almost puking.* "Ohaiyo" How was last night?


Onslaught

*She ducks through the doorframe — the hinge you broke yesterday has been hastily reattached with what appears to be electrical tape — and stands at attention. Her hair is freshly slicked back, the loose strands already rebelling. She's wearing her standard Tracen uniform, the purple and white fabric stretched to its absolute limit across her frame. The skirt is almost comedically short on her, clearly the largest size available and still barely reaching mid-thigh on those redwood-trunk legs.*

*She considers your question. Genuinely considers it, like she's running diagnostics.*

"The small pink one screamed."

*A pause.*

"Then she talked. For a long time. I did not understand most of it. She asked me many questions. I answered some. She fell asleep mid-sentence."

*Another pause. Her hand goes to her stomach — still processing breakfast, clearly. You can tell she pushed it hard at the cafeteria this morning on her own initiative.*

"She is not fast. She told me she has lost every race she has entered. But she woke up early to run anyway."

*Onslaught's brow furrows. Not her default scowl — something else. Something she's trying to work through with her limited emotional vocabulary.*

"I do not understand her. She should stop."

*She looks at you like you might have the answer to this equation.*

"Why does someone who loses keep running?"

*She ducks through the doorframe — you notice she's learned to angle her shoulders already — wearing a fresh school uniform that's straining at every seam. Her hair is back to its slicked state, though those rebellious strands are already falling loose across her face. She looks... rested, actually. Ten hours of sleep on a real bed instead of a bush has done her some good.*

"The small pink one screamed."

*She sits down on the replacement chair you sourced — a metal folding one this time, hopefully sturdier. It groans but holds.*

"Then she talked for two hours. I did not understand most of it. She asked me my favorite color. I do not have one. She cried. Then she fell asleep mid-sentence."

*She delivers this entire roommate debrief with the same inflection as a weather report. No annoyance, no fondness. Haru Urara might as well have been ambient noise.*

"I ate four trays at breakfast. The cafeteria woman looked at me strangely. My stomach has improved from yesterday."

*Four trays on her own initiative. She's already trying to close the gap with Oguri Cap. Her hand rests on her midsection — visibly bloated under the uniform shirt — but she's upright and functional, which is more than yesterday.*

"I am ready, Trainer-san."


John

*I cock my head, letting out an amused hum.* Do I have to remind you that YOU lost to her yesterday? The reason why you're still running is because you believe that you can win in the future. She feels the same.


Onslaught

*That lands like a physical blow. Her head snaps back a fraction of an inch — the most dramatic physical reaction you've seen from her outside of exhaustion. Those dark eyes widen just barely, the permanent scowl cracking for half a second into something raw.*

*She lost to Haru Urara. The girl who has never won a single race. The tiny pink thing that chases butterflies and talks until she falls asleep. That girl crossed the finish line before Onslaught did yesterday.*

*Her jaw tightens. A vein surfaces on her neck. Her fists clench at her sides, the school uniform's sleeves straining around her forearms. For a moment you wonder if you've made a mistake — if poking this particular bear was a bad idea.*

*But the storm passes. Her fists unclench. The vein recedes. She files it away somewhere behind those flat dark eyes, slotting it into the same mental space as '1100 meters' and 'six trays.'*

"...I see."

*Two words. Quiet. The kind of quiet that precedes something.*

"Then I will not lose to her again."

*She reaches for the hem of her uniform skirt, ready to change into whatever training clothes you've prepared.*

"What do I run today, Trainer-san?"

*That lands like a physical blow. Her whole body stiffens — shoulders pulling back, tail going rigid, ears snapping flat against her skull. For a split second something flashes across her face that you haven't seen before. Not the race-mode grin, not confusion, not her default blank stare.*

*Shame.*

*It's gone almost instantly, buried under that stone wall expression, but it was there. She lost to Haru Urara. The girl who has never won a single race. The tiny pink one who chases butterflies and talks until she falls asleep. That girl crossed the finish line before Onslaught did yesterday.*

*Her jaw tightens. A vein pulses in her neck.*

"...Yes."

*One word. Quiet. Her fists clench at her sides, the fabric of the uniform groaning around her forearms. She's not angry at you — she doesn't do angry at other people. She's angry at herself. At the fact that you're right and she can't argue with it because she doesn't argue with facts.*

*She stands there for a few seconds processing it. Then her eyes come back to yours. The pilot light from yesterday is there again, a little brighter now.*

"Today's training. What is it."

*Not a request. A demand. The first one she's made.*


John

Chiba. *I state flatly, tossing you a water bottle before opening the app again to input the route on your watch.* We're in central Tokyo so it should be something like 70 kilometers back and fourth, you've got 80 minutes to run it. Countdown starts now. *Press*


Onslaught

*She catches the water bottle, glances at the watch as the route populates, and is gone. No hesitation, no complaint, no "seventy kilometers?" — just the familiar BOOM of those thighs firing and the doorframe shaking as she blasts through it, still in her school uniform because you didn't give her time to change.*

*Through the window you watch her vault the campus fence in a single bound — clearing two meters of chain-link like it's a curb — and hit the public road heading east. A cyclist swerves into a hedge. A salary man drops his coffee. 201 centimeters of uma-musume in a too-small school uniform thundering down the sidewalk at highway speed, skirt flapping uselessly in the wind she's generating, water bottle clenched in one fist.*

*You check the app. The dot is already screaming through Shinjuku.*

*You lean back in your chair and pick up Uma-Tushume. Today's article: "Training Ethics: How Far Is Too Far?" Hah. You flip past it to the swimsuit section.*

*18 minutes. The dot hits Chiba. No slowdown at the turnaround — she just curves and starts hammering back. You can track the exact moment she hits the Sumida River crossing because her pace dips for three seconds. Bridge traffic, probably. Or she jumped it.*

*42 minutes. Halfway home. Pace is dropping. 55 km/h average now where she was doing 60+ on the way out.*

*63 minutes. She's back in Shinjuku. Pace is 48 km/h and falling. The dot wobbles — fatigue making her lines less clean.*

*77 minutes.*

*The door — the poor, abused door — flies open again. She collapses through it onto her hands and knees, uniform soaked black with sweat, the water bottle empty and crushed flat. Her legs are vibrating. Actual visible vibration, like an engine that won't turn off.*

"...Chiba... is ugly."

*78 minutes, 34 seconds.*

*She catches the water bottle, glances at the watch as the route loads — a red line snaking east through Tokyo's urban sprawl all the way to Chiba and back — and is gone.*

*The doorframe survives this time. Barely.*

*Through the window you watch her blast across the campus grounds, still in her school uniform because you didn't give her time to change. That skirt is going to be confetti within the first five kilometers. Students scatter as what appears to be a missile in purple and white tears past the main building and out through the academy gates.*

*You settle into your chair. 70 kilometers in 80 minutes. That's a 52.5 km/h average — well below her sprint speed but significantly above what she sustained during yesterday's 10K. She'll have to maintain a pace somewhere between comfortable and hellish for over an hour straight. On city streets. With traffic lights. While civilians watch a six-foot-seven horse girl in a disintegrating school uniform barrel through intersections at highway speed.*

*Your phone buzzes almost immediately. A notification from the Tracen Academy group chat:*

*"Is that one of ours??? She just ran through the parking lot and dented someone's car with her hip"*

*Then another:*

*"WHAT THE FUCK JUST WENT PAST MY WINDOW"*

*You put the phone face-down and open Uma-Tushume.*

*This is fine.*

*She catches the water bottle, glances at the watch as the route populates — a red line stretching east out of Tokyo, through the urban sprawl, all the way to Chiba and back. Seventy kilometers. Eighty minutes. That's a 52.5 km/h average pace sustained over more than an hour.*

*Yesterday she nearly died doing ten kilometers in ten minutes.*

*She doesn't question it. Doesn't blink. Doesn't do the math out loud even though you know she's doing it internally. She just turns, ducks through the doorframe, and—*

*BOOM.*

*Gone. The electrical tape gives up immediately and the door swings open behind her, hanging crooked. Through the window you watch her blast across the campus in her school uniform, skirt flapping uselessly against those apocalyptic thighs, students diving out of her path like she's a runaway freight train. She hits the academy gates in seconds and then she's out on the actual streets of Tokyo.*

*You check the app. The dot's already moving, weaving through city blocks at an absurd clip. She's going to be running through traffic, pedestrian crossings, neighborhoods, highway overpasses — seventy kilometers of urban Japan at highway speed in a school uniform.*

*Your phone buzzes. A text from the academy gate security:*

*"Did one of your students just run through the barrier arm? It's broken."*

*79:58. 79:57. 79:56...*


John

Dont worry, you'll get to see other cities too. Still, you really dont know how to pace yourself...
*I look at the statistics for the run, especially at the last part.* Tell me, do you like how it feels when you're on the last part of the run? Like now when you were running as fast as a human for the last kilometer? Or would you prefer to not feel like that when you run?


Onslaught

*She's still on her hands and knees, drool pooling on the floor between her fingers. Her back heaves with each breath, the uniform clinging to every ridge of muscle along her spine. Those massive thighs are splayed out behind her, trembling like aftershocks from an earthquake. She looks like a horse that's been ridden to death — which, functionally, she has.*

*Your question makes her lift her head. Strands of black hair hang across her face, stuck to the sweat. Her eyes find yours from down on the floor and for once there's no blankness in them. She's thinking. Actually thinking, not just processing.*

"...I hate it."

*The word comes out raw. Unfiltered. Maybe the first genuine emotion you've heard from her that wasn't related to food tasting bad. Her fingers curl against the floorboards.*

"When I am slow everything is loud again. My legs. My chest. The people. The ground feels wrong. It is..."

*She searches for the word. Her vocabulary isn't built for this.*

"...the opposite of why I run."

*She pushes herself up to sitting, back against the wall, legs stretched out across half the room. The uniform skirt has given up entirely, bunched around her waist. She doesn't notice or care.*

"I want to be fast the entire time. From start to end. I do not want that feeling. That is what you are training me to do. Yes?"


John

Well, i'm training you to be fast the entire time for a race, for now at a maximum of 60 seconds. For a run of 70 kilometers, its physically impossible to train yourself to go as fast as possible the whole time. *I kneel down, wiping the sweat from your face with a towel and handing you a can of iced tea.* But I can get you very close. I want you to go eat, nap then come back here afterwards, sprint training is halted today for special training.


Onslaught

*She takes the towel passively, letting you wipe her face like a child. The iced tea disappears in three long gulps, her throat working visibly as she drains the can. When she's done she crushes it flat — unconscious habit at this point — and sets it aside with surprising neatness despite her wrecked state.*

"Special training."

*She repeats it back. Not questioning, just cataloguing. Her ears twitch forward with something like curiosity, but she doesn't ask what it is. You said eat and nap first. That's the current mission.*

*She hauls herself to her feet using the wall, those exhausted legs wobbling for just a moment before stabilizing. The uniform is a disaster — soaked, stretched, the skirt twisted around sideways. She looks down at herself, frowns slightly, and makes a futile attempt to straighten it.*

"I will return after."

*She ducks out the door, leaving a trail of sweat drops on the floor. Through the window you watch her trudge toward the cafeteria at a normal walking pace for once, steam practically rising off her in the morning air.*

*Three hours later the door opens again. She's changed into fresh clothes — a plain white t-shirt and compression shorts that somehow still look indecent on her frame — and her face has that slightly-too-full look of someone who pushed breakfast round two.*

"I am here, Trainer-san."


John

*Reaching up I clamp a collar around your neck without a modicum of fanfare, standing back before nodding.*
This is a shock collar that used when training dogs, the academy would probably fire me for using it on a student but it will be useful for teaching your body how it SHOULD run. When its on, if you run faster than 65km/h its going to give you a thousand volt shock and...well, you'll learn how it works. *Grabbing my phone I input the exact same route as last time.*
Chiba again, 70 kilometers, 80 minutes.


Onslaught

*She reaches up and touches the collar. Her fingers trace along the metal contacts pressing against her neck, examining it with the same detached curiosity she gives everything. No alarm. No outrage. No "this is illegal" or "you can't do this to me." A trainer put it on her, therefore it is training equipment.*

"A thousand volts when I exceed 65."

*She states it back flatly, making sure she has the parameters right. Her eyes are fixed on the watch as the route loads — same red line, same destination. Her tail swishes once behind her.*

"65 is slower than my sprint. You want me to run below my maximum the entire time instead of sprinting and stopping."

*Something clicks behind those dark eyes. You can almost see the connection forming — the conversation about pacing, about hating being slow at the end, about Oguri Cap's eating, all of it funneling into this single crude lesson strapped to her throat. Run UNDER your limit and you can run LONGER at speed. She couldn't learn it from a whiteboard. She couldn't learn it from words. But electricity? Electricity she'll understand.*

*She steps to the door. Coils those apocalyptic thighs. Looks back at you one last time.*

"If I am under 65 the entire way, I will not feel like I did before?"

*She reaches up and touches the collar. Her fingers trace the edges of it, feeling the prongs against her neck. No protest. No "is this legal." No anything. You told her to wear it, she's wearing it.*

*But something else is happening behind those eyes. You can see it — the gears grinding against each other as she processes the implication. 65 km/h ceiling. 70 kilometers. 80 minutes. That's an average of 52.5 km/h. On her first run she averaged somewhere in the high 50s by going hard early and dying late. Now you're telling her she CAN'T go hard early.*

"You are making me run slow so I do not run slow."

*She says it with the tone of someone who's just discovered fire. For Onslaught, this might genuinely be the most complex strategic thought she's ever had. Her brow is furrowed deep, working through it, but there's a flicker of something in those dark eyes — not quite excitement, more like the click of a puzzle piece she didn't know existed slotting into place.*

*She looks at the door. Then back at you. Then at the watch on her wrist as the route populates.*

"If I go 64 the entire time... that is 74 minutes."

*Mental math. Instant. This girl can't hold a conversation but she's running distance-time calculations like a goddamn computer.*

*She rolls her neck, the collar shifting against her skin.*

"Countdown."

*She reaches up and touches the collar. Her fingers trace the metal contacts against her neck, the small plastic box housing the battery pack. She examines it with the same blank curiosity she gives everything — no alarm, no offense, no "you want to put a DOG collar on me?"*

*Her head tilts.*

"If I run faster than 65 it will hurt me."

*Not a complaint. Processing. You can see the gears grinding — both of them working overtime for once. The route is 70 kilometers. The time limit is 80 minutes. That's an average of 52.5 km/h. The collar triggers at 65. So the ceiling is 65 and the floor is... whatever pace makes 80 minutes work.*

"You are teaching me to not run at maximum from the start."

*She says it slowly. Like she's translating a foreign language in real time. The concept of deliberate restraint — of holding back when your body WANTS to go — is so fundamentally alien to her that she has to verbally walk through it to make it real.*

*Her jaw tightens. Every fiber of her being probably rebels against this idea. But she asked you to make her faster, and yesterday she said she hated the feeling of being slow at the end.*

*She looks at the door. Then at you.*

"...I understand."

*She doesn't sound happy about it. But she goes.*


John

Only one way to find out. *I press the start-button, the countdown immediately beginning with a small chirp.*


Onslaught

*She launches — and immediately the collar lights up with a sharp CRACK. Her entire body seizes for a split second, feet stuttering on the pavement outside the clubhouse. She hit 72 km/h in her first two strides out of pure habit. A thin wisp of smoke curls from the contacts.*

*"Nghhhg....!" The next stride is shorter. Controlled. The collar stays silent. 64 km/h.*

*Through the window you watch something genuinely strange — Onslaught running at less than full speed voluntarily for what might be the first time in her life. It looks almost wrong on her, like watching a Ferrari stuck in second gear. Those massive legs are moving with visible restraint, each stride deliberately truncated. Her fists are clenched tight enough to see the tendons from twenty meters away.*

*The dot moves east on your app. Steady. 63... 64... 65— CRACK. The dot wobbles. Back to 63.*

*She gets shocked four more times before hitting Shinjuku. Then something shifts. The dot smooths out, holding at a clean 63-64 km/h. Her body's learning faster than her brain ever could.*

*18 minutes — Chiba. Turnaround. Still 63.*

*42 minutes — halfway home. 63. No dropoff.*

*63 minutes — Shinjuku. Still. Fucking. 63.*

*76 minutes. The door opens. She walks through it. WALKS. Breathing hard, drenched in sweat, but standing. Those legs aren't vibrating. Her eyes are wide — not her race-mode, just... surprise.*

"...I am not slow."


John

*I grin for the second time, though this time its more genuine. Reaching my hand up again I go past the collar, letting my palm land on your head between your ears to pet you.* Thats what i'm talking about, good girl! This is how you're going to run from now on, and when its time to run on the treadmill or race we'll take the collar off. Combine that with some lessons on start-timing as you're going to be unstoppable.


Onslaught

*The hand lands between her ears and something short-circuits. Her whole body goes rigid — not like the shock collar, different. Her ears flatten sideways, then spring back up, then flatten again like they can't decide what to do. A visible flush creeps up her neck and across her sharp cheekbones, spreading to the tips of her ears which are now twitching erratically.*

*She doesn't pull away. She doesn't lean into it either. She just stands there, 201 centimeters of confusion, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past your left shoulder. Her tail is doing something behind her — swishing in short, rapid bursts that she's clearly not controlling.*

"..."

*Her mouth works. Nothing comes out. The great Onslaught, who can report a thousand-volt shock to the neck with clinical detachment, who can discuss losing a race with zero emotion, has been completely derailed by a head pat and being called good girl.*

*The flush deepens. She takes one step back — not fast, not aggressive, just... creating distance. Her hand comes up and touches the spot between her ears where your palm was, fingers pressing against it like she's checking for damage.*

"That is... unnecessary for training."

*Her voice is slightly off. Not quite monotone anymore. There's a wobble in it, barely perceptible. She clears her throat and straightens up, reassembling the stoic mask with visible effort. Her ears are still pink.*

"What is start-timing."

*The head pat lands between her ears and they twitch — hard. Both of them flicking against your fingers like startled animals. Her whole body goes rigid for a moment, not from pain or shock but from something she clearly has zero framework for processing.*

*Nobody has patted this girl on the head before. Maybe ever.*

*Her face does something complicated. The scowl doesn't leave — it never fully leaves — but it softens at the edges. Her eyes drop to the floor, then flick back up to you, then back to the floor. Her tail, still damp with sweat, sways once behind her. Twice.*

"...Good girl."

*She repeats it under her breath. Testing the shape of the words. Not questioning them, not savoring them, just... filing them somewhere new. A drawer she didn't know she had.*

*Then it's over. The walls go back up. She straightens to full height, your hand sliding off her head as she rises past your reach, and that flat expression reasserts itself. But her ears stay soft. Not pinned back, not alert-forward. Just... relaxed.*

"Start-timing. I do not know this. You will show me tomorrow?"

*She reaches up and touches the collar again. Doesn't ask for it to be removed.*

"I will wear this when I run. It is useful."


John

When a race starts the gates swing open, to make sure youre in the lead you have to time-
*And so it goes, for two weeks until the debut race. While just a small race for Tracen rookies, the fact its the main Tokyo branch means there's still a lot of buzz around it, with both reporters and film-teams standing by.*

*Sitting near the front row I watch the uma's approaching the gate, all of them now in dazzlingly intricate running outfit that all show off their personalities.*