Archive of Our Own

“Though my racing years have long since passed, I still feel so lucky that I am able to remain involved in its development. Whenever I visit another racing school supported by the Halo Foundation, I am greeted by the smiles of young and boisterous Umamusume youth—children who have yearned all their lives to race, and who now have the incredible opportunity to finally chase that dream. They shake my hand and tell me about their new racing shoes, or the new turf and dirt track in their local community, and I can only smile.

My legacy, after all, only goes so far. It’s up to them to make the most of this new opportunity. And already, year after year, we are starting to see an almost explosive rise of newcoming racers in the national and international leagues. The Dream League International’s record-breaking number of challengers in 2019 speaks to this phenomenon. I am simply happy to contribute my part in this grand endeavor.

I…”

The keyboard stops clicking.

King Halo hums out loud, musing at the next section of the memoir.

Just writing that part alone was really hard, she thinks. Figuring out how to weave together their sprawling journeys through Central and Southeast Asia into a cohesive narrative—never in a million years did she think she would be asked to retell these stories in full! King, of course, had learned to lean on the writings of others. She had the absolutely first-rate idea of keeping a stack of memoirs from notable philanthropists and non-profit founders on her desk, just in case she ever hit another block and needed a way out.

But, this late into the night, the previously-helpful tower of books now looks like an imposing panopticon surveilling her every move. And judging, of course—judging every time she turns to it to ask for a page to use as reference, to copy a phrase or a paragraph or steal a spark of inspiration. She estimates at least twenty peeks into a book within the last hour.

This must be my twenty-first. Ugh!

Groaning, King closes the laptop with her whole body. She slumps over the desk, stretching, feeling every muscle in her body cry for rest. And then she sits up again, because the deadline for the revised manuscript is next week, and she needs to finish it now because she won’t have the time past this final weekend.

Why didn’t I choose a ghostwriter?!

A clink on the table. “Mi rey,” El Condor Pasa says, setting down a tray of glasses onto the table. “I brought you your favorite.”

“Oh!” King looks to her right and finds her favorite ceramic mug greeting her. “Thank you, darling.”

A soft kiss finds her cheek. King closes her eyes and leans into the embrace.

They stay like this for a moment—King’s body, outstretched over the office chair, with elbows pinning down the flexible backrest so that she can reach back just a little farther. And El is standing still, peppering her with many more kisses, and they laugh into each other’s faces and touch foreheads when they are done.

King opens her eyes. El is staring right at her.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says.

“Same goes to you,” El replies. She dons a silly grin and steps back, keeping one hand on the chair as a stabilizing force.

King stops leaning over the backrest. “Thanks for not letting me fall over.”

Something flashes in the corner of her eye—the screen is still singing in bright white, a vertical caret blinking past the last letter on her unfinished manuscript. Taunting her, keeping her captive.

“I really need to finish this thing,” she says, sighing. She can feel her body deflate from the anticipation, and she lets that little rush from her brief encounter dissipate as she returns to focus.

The caret remains.

She hovers her hand over the keyboard.

The caret stays unmoved.

“So… where are you at right now?”

King Halo stares at the caret, wishing for it to move on its own—to compose an array of letters ordered so as to replicate her own tone of voice. She thinks the little cursor is shy with the gaze of two falling down on it. She thinks about the ghostwriter, and about calling her publicist.

“Hm?”

She gives up. “Aagh!” King throws her head onto the table and flops her arms onto the desk.

“Mi amor?”

Muffled by the table, she says, “I can’t finish this tonight.” She groans into the table and then lightly flops her arms around to get the frustration out.

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“Thanks, darling.”

A pat on her back. “There, there.” The hand leaves but for a moment, and then King is draped in her big fluffy throw blanket.

The baby blue color of the fabric greets her as she opens her eyes.

“Do you want to get ready for bed with me?” El asks.

King glances at the clock across the room. Hanging from its mocking perch, the hour hand reads a little past eleven. “Okay,” she whispers. She’s about ready to chalk up this day as another loss.

Another pat on the back. El rises and leaves King’s office, leaving her squarely alone in this room.

King’s office is a modest little thing—a smaller room with sun-facing windows down at the first floor, just a jaunt away from the kitchen, the fridge, and the snack cabinets. A long time ago, King had thought that a smaller place to work in would mean an easier time keeping the place clean and organized. But as she swivels around in her chair, she sees the boxes and boxes of documents piled up, the stray pieces of paper pinned underneath shelves and hiding inside little crevices, and she sighs.

Part of her had planned to take time cleaning the room before she left for the big trip. She thinks that she might be able to sneak in a five-minute cleaning session before bed.

King stands up, and plants her foot on another fallen piece of paper.

She realizes it’s never going to happen.

The clock says 11:25.

She looks away. Perhaps I can clean it when we return.

With a subtle click of the latch, King resigns to her bedroom. Her legs are slow, laggard; her eyelids beg to close.

El is in their bathroom, leaning against the counter, brushing her teeth. When she sees King’s tired body, she offers a toothbrush with some toothpaste already on it.

“Mmm,” El mutters. “Mm, mm mm, mm mm mm.”

“Thanks.” King takes the toothbrush and gives a weak smile to El.

She gets another head pat in response.

The upcoming flight is in her mind as she gets under the covers. She thinks of their itinerary, of the hotel they will be staying at, of her plans for the entire week. She thinks about the local circuits she is planning to visit, imagines the groundbreaking ceremony she will have to attend, and sees the mess in her office she will return to when the two of them return from the business trip. Something about the whole ordeal is getting to her heart, and though King finds anxiety a rarity these days, she can’t help but think of the million things she has to get right on the trip.

El loops her arms over King’s body.

Then, she snores into her back.

King snickers at the feeling. She leans into the warmth behind her. Maybe I should just go to bed, she thinks.

She yawns. The room grows ever darker.

Before long, her eyelids are shut, and she is sound asleep. The thoughts of itineraries and official schedules vanish into thin air.

That night, King Halo dreams of turf.

“Ah. Home sweet home.”

“What?”

“América. Hogar dulce, hogar!”

“Darling. We’re in Canada.”

“Sí.” El turns to King with a wild look on her face, arms spread apart as if to greet the open air with her whole body. “I meant the continent.”

The joke makes King laugh. “Pfft. Haha!”

El gives her a friendly rib on the shoulder, and they both walk off towards the rest of the terminal, hand in hand and smiling.

King had never thought her career would take her to so many places. All it was at first was an idea: to introduce accessible, first-rate racing education and sports programmes to Umamusume all across Japan. She had spent the first couple of years jockeying with the NAR and currying favors with the URA so she could have their political clout behind her back. And it was all going so well, too. But, of course, good deeds rarely go unpunished. A sudden revival of Umamusume racing worldwide alongside a large influx of donor cash turned the URA’s coffers flush with resources. And before long, to capitalize on the racing phenomenon taking the world by storm, the URA set out to expand their sparse international offerings into a grand racing enterprise and entertainment behemoth.

Project L’Arc was a test run. They—the little conniving capitalists at the board of the URA—wanted something bigger.

So they handpicked the best retired racer power couple to do it.

A long, jet-black limousine greets the two at the airport. King feels El’s excitement through the many squeezes on her hand, and the fact that El’s feet are actively failing to stay still for even a single moment.

The driver greets the two with a pleasant smile. He opens the door for them, tosses their bags into the rear trunk, and in a flash, has them rolling away for their first destination.

The limo is astoundingly soundproof, King notes. In fact, the only thing they can hear is her voice, speaking into her phone.

“What do you mean, you want a ghostwriter?!”

That’s her publicist on the other end, losing her mind at the thought of another delay to the manuscript. “Yes, I know,” King Halo says, refusing to budge. “It may sound crazy, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Now?! With so little time left on the clock?”

“You can always retain all the content I’ve written. We’re missing, what… the last two chapters?”

“You still haven’t sent me the rest of the stuff!”

“Oh. My most sincere apologies,” King replies. “I’ll be sure to send you the document.”

A crackly sigh rings from the phone’s tinny speaker. “And where are you right now? Are you already abroad?”

King Halo nods. “Mmhm. We’ve got a week in the Americas, and then we’re off to see Europe for a whole month.”

“Okay. Is El there with you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her I said ‘Hi’. You’re impossible to work with.”

“My pleasure,” King responds. “Ah—and make sure the incoming ghostwriter gets a chance to speak to me! I want the work to be first-rate.” She looks towards El, who is busy trying out the candies, and tries to mime a motion that roughly translates to “She says hello”.

“Great. How could I forget? I’ll make sure you two are a perfect match.” Another harried sigh. “Talk to you soon.”

Beep! The phone line rings shut.

“She sounds angry,” El hisses. “Are you sure it’s going to be okay?”

King shrugs. “I don’t know. I just… needed something off my shoulders, and this was the best I could do.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Mm.” King nods.

With that, she looks out the window. Unfamiliar skylines pass by her—King finds herself tracing the lanes and lanes of highway she can see, entranced by the sheer amount of vehicles stuck in traffic on the other side of the median. She’s always known, conceptually, of the many roadways that cover the earth on this side of the… well, Earth, but to witness it first-hand still boggles her mind.

Beyond the roadways lies a grand and flat emptiness. Wherever they are is as featureless as a sheet of paper.

Her mind, inadvertently, goes back to the agenda for the day. She pulls out her phone and opens her calendar. She looks at all the events scheduled for the day.

One timeslot on the digital calendar is highlighted with a brilliant red.

“Hey, darling,” she says, still staring at the phone. “How do you feel about the exhibition race today?”

“Hm? Oh, I feel very bueno. Sí, sí.” El twiddles with her thumbs and plays with a can of sparkling water she found in the cooler. “I’m ready.”

“Okay.” King looks towards her wife with a smile on her lips and a fiery gaze in her eyes. “Let’s do it.”

El looks back.

El Condor Pasa is a silly, exuberant and perpetually well-spirited woman. Competitive and yet always at ease. To the outside world, she is a character prone to theatrics. She gives the best public statements—a press conference’s dream come true. And she is an inspiration to many—in her jovial yet unshakeable demeanor, in the way she tells others to reach for their dreams, and in the way she represents her own ideals in her globe-trotting racing career. To sum: El Condor Pasa is a family-friendly figure and a good-natured sports celebrity.

But when King looks at her with that challenge, El’s eyes flicker with recognition.

Her expression shifts ever so slightly.

Then, suddenly, King is beset by a sight that only other racers ever get to see. The phenom behind the mask.

El Condor Pasa. The monster of Japan.

Taking a sip from a peach-colored can, casually leaning back on the cushioned seats. Older, wiser, and with stray gray hairs here and there. But never any less menacing when she needs to be.

El Condor Pasa is here to represent.

El Condor Pasa is here to win.

The rest of the journey doesn’t take long. The two are ferried past downtown sights and wide open roads, and a turn over and they come into view of a massive building. King and El can instinctually recognize it as the front facade of a racetrack.

“Woodbine,” King mumbles. “I wonder what that means?”

The car slows to a halt. There is chatter outside—enough to breach through the thick walls of the vehicle, however muffled. King braces herself for a horde of paparazzi.

The door opens.

A familiar figure is standing outside. “El! King!”

“Mei!” El exclaims.

King gives a measured wave. “It’s good to see you again, Satake-san.

Mei Satake is standing outside the door. A short-statured and sprightly figure, one would be easily forgiven for thinking Satake-san was no older than an undergraduate college student. She herself likes to blame that on her genetics. “All Umamusume age gracefully,” Satake-san would say, “and I’m just getting the best of it.”

King, for the record, deeply enjoys her presence. Mei and El are extremely close friends—have been, ever since El’s own foray into the furious storm that was the Arc. That one singular journey had acquainted El with a whole host of legendary figures and racers. And all of them would normally intimidate King, grand and first-rate as she is, if not for one small thing.

El and Mei walk ahead of her and into the building. They are chatting. They are smiling. El has her arm around her compatriot’s shoulders.

And King smiles.

They are friends.

In Mei, and in El’s racing mates, she sees a group of more than just legendary racers. She sees a gathering of good people.

And all of them have been such great influences on El. They all cherish each other so deeply. They all care so much for each other.

King, therefore, is happy to see them all, because King is happy to see El.

Simple as.

Mei, to her credit, is doing an excellent job ferrying the two high-profile guests past the crowds.

King joins the two friends as they come up front. “There’s a lot of people here today.”

Mei laughs. “What did you expect? It’s the biggest event to grace Umamusume racing on this side of the planet.”

“Isn’t the Kentucky Derby bigger?” El asks, waving at the crowds with a well-acted smile.

“You might have been right two decades ago. Heck, maybe three.” Mei stops in front of a large set of double-doors—the entrance for racers and staff. “But you’re forgetting something.”

“Which is?”

“Everyone wants to see their beloved national heroes win.”

Mei takes a look at the crowd around them. King, too, glances around. Already she can see three different flags flying in the background—the Canadian maple, the stars and stripes, and the Mexican tricolors.

Mei brings her card up to the scanner. “The Dream League International. Too big for its own good. It’s out of our hands, now.”

The trio escape the cacophony outside as they enter the small hallway. The double doors slam shut, and the voices muffle.

King lets go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Phew.”

“Right?” Mei laughs, and wipes the sweat off her brows. “It’s a big deal. C’mon, follow me.”

King and El nod. The three head deeper.

Mei was right: The entrance hall was absolutely teeming with people touting large cameras, microphones, and press passes. The exhibition race today truly is a media highlight.

But more impressive than that was the other peculiar thing about that crowd—the sheer amount of Umamusume standing around. Indeed, there was a particularly interesting note that marked the announcement of the exhibition race. It was the fact that the URA and the local North American racing organizations had gathered together to host a global celebration of Umamusume racing at the professional level. As part of the plan, they had invited a good number of Umamusume racing academies, schools, and institutions—Tracen’s many globe-spanning equivalents, some private and small in size and others eclipsing Tracen by an order of magnitude—to join them in the event as spectators.

When King brings it up to Mei later, standing by the paddock, Mei only has this to say: “We’re inspiring kids, King. Racers young and old. Lots and lots of them.”

The crowds cheer under the blaring summer sun. Everything is just as loud as she remembers it—but even more intense, now that she can no longer hide behind the shroud of memory. “Bigger than the Twinkle Series,” King notes.

Mei nods. “Bigger for sure.” She points to the racers streaming into the parade ring. Every one of them is waving to the stands, and the stands reply in earnest. The sounds threaten to envelop them both. “Look. El is coming out.”

King tries to stand on her toes. She squints her eyes. Nothing, at first. And then—there! A small flutter of red in the distance. El is wearing her old, tried-and-true racewear. “I see her!”

Mei and King both lean over the parade ring’s fence, hoping for a closer look.

“She looks… good.”

“Yeah. Hey, King. Your wife is representing the country on the big stage. How are you feeling?”

“Hm?”

“Are you nervous at all? Or…”

King chuckles. “Certainly not. I would never doubt the skills of my beloved wife. And, besides, this is what she was made to do. Look—you see that?”

Mei and King stare at El’s diminutive figure again.

“She’s waving. She’s playing her part. That’s what she’s the best at.”

King is right. El’s little silhouette is jumping in place, doing all sorts of showboaty moves. She’s acting it up for the few fans of hers that have made it all the way here. Mei nods, and says, “I guess she was built for this world, after all.”

King hums in agreement.

Between the two of them, there is a tacit understanding.

Mei Satake—a secret Umamusume, the one who had tried and failed to conquer the Arc. Still, to this day, she desires another chance to run at the international track. To avenge her failure. It is no secret to King that Mei’s work in building the Dream League is a vicarious exercise in seeing other racers succeed.

And King Halo. She, who in her own right had managed to leave a mark as a great racer of her generation. King has never been one to shy away from her successes. But standing beside El Condor Pasa is like being a firefly in front of a lantern, and King knows: great is nothing compared to historic.

Legend-changing.

Two old souls, looking at a piece of history being made in front of their very eyes.

They hold so much love in their hearts. That much is true. But in the distance they see a girl with a coat of red, and they know it in their minds and feel it in their bones—someone else is living their dream.

This is the inescapable curse of being an Umamusume.

But…

That has never stopped King from loving.

King stops leaning on the fence. She stands up, and straightens her back with a little motion. Her hands around her mouth, forming her own little megaphone, she aims for the crowd of racers.

She takes a deep breath.

She closes her eyes.

She yells.

“EL CONDOR PASA! WIN THIS RACE! WIN THIS RACE FOR ALL OF US!”

She takes another breath.

“EL CONDOR PASA! I LOVE YOU!”

Another breath.

“I LOVE YOU!”

“GO GET THEM!”

Mei joins in on the cheering. Together, they shout:

“RUN!”

With the press conference well underway inside the big room, King and Mei are saddled with the responsibility of entertaining some of the more… complicated questions.

Officially, both King and Mei are representatives of the URA. Every word they say represents Japan. It’s a grand responsibility—something only a few could ever honor—but the two of them are used to it. Or, at least, King is.

King, after all, is a grand performer. El might spin up a jolly good show, but nobody beats herself when it comes to charm in front of the press.

The questions come pouring forth.

King is first in the press’s sights—a question about the meaning of this event to the nation of Japan. “Oh, why, we find it extremely important, of course! This is a truly first-rate event—a joining of countries across oceans and over great distances. We are, dare I say it, extremely proud to be able to send racers this far away to represent our people on the track!”

She says all of this in Japanese, and her interpreter does the work of cleaning it up for the public.

Mumbling from the crowd. Decent response.

Another question.

Someone—a belligerent reporter—is challenging the notion of spending public funds on something as frivolous as Umamusume racing. Or “horse-girl” racing, as this side of the world calls it in English.

A lot of money had been invested from public coffers all around to promote the expansion of the Dream League International, after all. It’s a political project as much as it is a sporting one.

“Frivolous? What?” Mei throws the questioner a glare that looks like it could cut steel. “Horse-girl racing is making a lot of money. The sport itself is contending against overtaking football, of all things. Football! The world’s most beloved sport! And I love football—I’m European!”

The strongly-worded answer brings a chattering to the room. King, nodding along, offers a more measured response. “The URA is proud to promote Umamusume sporting activities globally,” she continues. “We hope that the industry can continue to grow with new first-rate talent supporting the local ecosystem. And, hopefully, Umamusume racing can find a place in every home in this continent—across Canada, yes, and hopefully the rest of North America, too.”

Once again, her interpreter bridges the gap. The reactions seem good.

Spoken like a true public relations expert!

And, as a side note—everything she said was entirely true. The whole room knows it too, of course. A shocking viewership statistic a number of years ago had pegged the Dream League International as having more viewers than the World Cup happening that same year. Some people even had the gall to say that Montjeu’s name was on track to eclipse Maradona in this great decade of the 2020s.

You’d be dumb not to capitalize on the boom.

The mood in the room lightens up as members of the press turn to the racers in the room. Questions about their hopes and dreams, their careers, where they are in life and what they’re hoping to see from the International. A number of famous racers sit beside El, who managed to secure herself a mighty fourth position in the lineup. Treve, the two-time Prix de l’Arc winner, flanks El on the right, befitting her achievement of third place in the scrimmage.

And El is not the only one that the URA has sent to represent the country. Stealing first place is the legend from Japan—one of the finest and greatest to ever grace the track, at home and abroad.

Almond Eye sits at the center of the room, the spotlight of the night bearing on her. She’s been fielded one too many questions about her racing dynasty, career, and training methods as an elite racer of her own, though. Her smile has long since dissipated into a blank face of exhaustion.

The event moderators point to a young blonde reporter. “Er, this next question is for… Miss Almond Eye. But I think we’d welcome answers from all the panelists.”

Almond Eye’s ears perk up. “Hm?”

She turns to look at the reporter who asked that question, but the person is gone.

In their place stands a young Umamusume child, certainly no more than 16 years of age. She is so short that it looks like she could be crushed by the crowd of tall adults wielding pens and notepads.

King stares at the girl. Where the hell did she come from?

“Um. Hello,” the girl starts. “I’m here on behalf of my local racing school. My name is Mansetti, and I’m a local Maple Series racer. I’m about to run in the King’s Plate soon.”

The crowd grumbles with annoyance—this girl is taking up important press time. Should she even be here?

A clamoring starts to rise from the reporters as they try to drown out the young racer’s voice, but El takes to her mic and shushes the whole crowd down. “Please. I’d like to hear her question.” The frown on her face dissipates into a kind gaze as she nods at the girl to continue.

Every face in the room turns to look at her. “Um. Thank you,” she mutters. “I just want to ask.”

The whole crowd waits. In silence.

“I’d like to race in the Dream League someday. How… How did you make your dreams come true?”

Wow.

King looks at Mei, who bears an incredulous expression on her face.

She is a brave little racer, King thinks.

Almond Eye takes to the microphone. “Training. Lots and lots of training. It will be hard—are you ready for that?”

Treve cuts in with her own take. “Child, you will need lots of friends and supporters. It’s a cruel and hard world.”

Wonder Gadot, the Canadian Uma who secured fifth place, speaks up next. “You said you’re trying to get the King’s Plate, kiddo? You should aim for the Triple Crown. Win the Prince of Wales and the Breeders’ Stakes. I know you can do it.”

The room, by now, is filling up with noise again. The reporters are hungering for the perspectives of the individual racers. Nothing shows your personality more than what you think about the art of racing, and the room is just about realizing what an opportunity this question presents.

El, who has spent the past couple of seconds musing with her hand on her chin, takes her microphone. It rings. “Mansetti. Do… do I get your name okay?” She’s speaking in half-understandable English.

Mansetti nods.

“Listen to me, young girl. It will be hard. Like Almond-san says. And like Treve-san, and Wonder Gadot also says. But you listen to me.”

The whole crowd is looking at her.

“It will be scary, but you… cannot stop running. Do you understand? You must never stop… chasing after your dream.”

Mansetti, awe-struck, nods profusely.

“It’s okay… to be scared. But if you are ever… scared,” El continues, “just… put on this mask.”

King plants her hands on the table. What?

El is taking off her outfit’s most iconic piece. The whole crowd utters a collective gasp. Though it’s been a long time since El had ended her mask-wearing policy, everyone still knows it as her most characteristic piece of racewear. To give away her mask to someone else is almost unthinkable. But she is doing exactly that, right this moment, and she reaches out towards the young Umamusume with the mask in hand.

Mansetti struggles to reach it. A reporter takes it and gives it to her. She slips the legendary luchadore mask on.

It’s comically oversized.

El taps her microphone again. “It looks… good. How you feel?”

“I feel… strong. Like you,” Mansetti says.

El nods. “Good. Remember. Whenever you have the mask… you are strong. No matter what. Nothing can stop you.”

She looks towards the rest of the room. Everyone is enraptured by this scene—a number of people in the crowd are visibly tearing up.

“This is what it means to chase a dream. Thank you.”

The room explodes in follow-up questions.

Leaning back in her folding chair, King realizes that her jaw has been hanging open for the entire duration of that incredible hand-off ritual. Her thoughts are all jumbled up, of course, but one thing is certain—El has just one-upped her in showmanship, again.

And she could not be more proud.

By the time the Japanese detachment of four leave the building, the sun is nowhere to be seen. Sparse streetlights dot the racetrack’s parking lot, and Mei and Almond Eye walk away to fetch the limousine and have a private one-on-one discussion about the day’s race.

The rest of the crowd scatters silently.

El and King find themselves alone.

“Darling,” King starts.

“Yes?”

“That… I…”

“Hm?

“That. Was. The best press conference I have ever seen you deliver. Oh, dear Goddesses above!” King throws herself onto El with a big bear hug, and says, “I’m so proud of you! That was amazing!”

“Mi rey! What’s gotten into you?”

King nuzzles deeper into El’s racing outfit, sweaty and disheveled as she is, and grips her wife in an even tighter hug. “I love you,” she says into the suit. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much. You’re… you’re so first-rate, I’m not sure how I ever found you.”

El breaks into a big laugh. “Mi rey. Mi amor. I love you, too.”

They stay hugging for what feels like an eternity. Even as the limousine rolls over and Mei rolls down a passenger window, El and King remain in their embrace.

This far across the world, and they can both still find a love to have and hold.

In King’s mind lies a simple thought.

There’s nothing that could beat this feeling.

“Agh. It’s… so cold out here!”

King feels the windchill bite into her bones. This far north, the frigid winter knows no such thing as season—the warmth of the sun stands in stark contrast to the air mass of Arctic temperatures bearing down on them, framing clear sky with cold snap and making each breath feel like a knife in her throat.

Mei is bumbling forward like a rocking statue, taking one step at a time with legs fully outstretched. “Can you imagine this?! Young Umamusume from across the country are racing in conditions this frigid. The intense weather helps them train their stamina and power, and not to mention their sheer mental fortitude.”

King’s boot sinks a little too deep into the snow in front of her, and she can feel a little dampness on her ankle. She is woefully underdressed, and she knows it. Everything about this is… the opposite of first-rate! Agh!

“To live like this? These kids have guts!”

Almond Eye laughs at that. “You know, we should all go to Hokkaido someday. Train in the cold! That’ll do us wonders!”

El and King’s reply, in unison: “Absolutely not!”

The trainer’s office in their destination is a little one-storey building a ways away from the main campus. King finds it strikingly plain, but when she steps inside, the warmth hits her, and all her criticisms and complaints about this place go away. She’s simply more than happy to huddle in here and dry up and feel the blood come back to her fingers and toes.

Mei throws her jacket onto the coat rack by the door, but reconsiders, and then picks it up, only to toss it in King Halo’s direction. “You’re way too underdressed, King,” she says. “Take my jacket when you go outside.”

“I’m well aware, thank you!” King replies. She takes her feet out of her boots and finds her socks utterly soaked. “This… place is simply terrible! Who in their right mind would ever choose to live here?”

Mei stares at her, and sighs. “Take my boots too. We’re the same shoe size. I have dry socks in my pack.”

King is rolling her eyes at the patronizing attention, but beneath it all she’s swearing a big “Thank you” in her heart for Mei’s care. She’s deeply enjoying the banter between the two of them.

It’s a pleasant dynamic.

Where they are right now is a little summer training camp deep in the northern reaches of the continent, so kindly named “Circle Camp”. The entrance to the camp is a closed gate with a nearby parking lot, and the group was forced to walk the distance along the snow-covered dirt road to find the central structures of the camp. The name itself isn’t exactly a reference to the Arctic Circle—the camp sits far away from that coldest area of the planet—but rather to its three racetracks. Built deep into the boreal forest, Circle Camp is host to two dirt tracks and a single turf track, all of them roughly circular or oval-shaped, with straights that barely reach 300 metres in length.

Circle Camp was once an underfunded institution for Umamusume youth looking to access sporting opportunities. But the rise of a number of great Canadian racers hailing from the camp, each with a harrowing or inspiring—sometimes both—tale of struggle and fortune, brought eyes to the struggling retreat and its humble owners.

The URA, of course, was no stranger to local racing, but this was still a far cry from even the smallest NAR schools. And the last thing the Dream League wanted to be was to be a competition only accessible by the rich and privileged.

They didn’t want to be like other sports. After all, they already had a “rich racing family” problem, what with their Mejiros and their Symbolis and the Gold Family.

Simply put, the Japanese circuit didn’t need any more of that scrutiny.

Of course, neither El nor King could truly understand the merit behind the idea, being moderately well-off thanks to their individual careers. But Jungle Pocket, having been an illegal street circuit racer before her entry into the Twinkle Series, pushed the URA for more programs aimed at supporting under-resourced racing communities in Japan and beyond. She was a big supporter of the Halo Foundation’s efforts to help modernize local racing leagues with more community amenities and funding.

And so ends the long tale behind King Halo’s presence in Northern Canada, and the reason for her thoroughly soaked socks and her freezing hair.

This story is definitely going in the final memoir, she thinks.

The door to the trainer’s hut slides open again. Two unfamiliar figures walk in and brush snow off their shoulders.

Mei and El walk up to the pair. “Hi, you two,” Mei says, helping the two Umamusume hang up their coats. “Friends, I’d like you to meet Moira and Wonder Gadot.”

Ah. The Canadian racers! King gives the two a big wave, while Mei and El share friendly hugs.

Moira is first to speak. “It’s good to meet you all,” she says, taking her gray knit beanie off. Her dark brown hair flows down in waves that end right below her shoulder, and she is wearing a lovely cyan dress above a winter turtleneck and tights. Her coat, hanging off the rack, envelops the rest with just how big it is. “I thought I’d wear something that matched my G1 color scheme. For the benefits of the kids today,” she says.

Wonder Gadot nods. Her light brown hair is tied up in a ponytail that comes out of her pink cap, and she is wearing a pink-and-white varsity jacket with racing stripes along the arms. As she turns around to hang her coat, King notices how the jacket itself says “GADOT” on the back.

Mei gives a quick clap to gather everyone around. “I’m glad we’re all here. Remember—today, we’re here for the students of the school. Tell them about our program, encourage them to think about continuing their careers in the Dream League, and then we’re out of town by tonight.”

King raises her hand with a question. “How often do ex-Maple Series racers graduate into a local Veteran racer league?” she asks. Mei translates for her.

Wonder Gadot shakes her head. “Not often,” she says. “The concept of graduates racing after their main careers simply hasn’t taken off here.”

“Here, or anywhere on this continent,” Moira adds. “Legendary racers can go win the Triple Crown down in the States or up here in Canada, and then they simply… disappear.”

“Or go to Japan to retire, and maybe raise a family,” Mei says. “You do that a lot.” She translates the rest back to King.

“Yes,” Moira says, chuckling. “That too. I mean… even Frankel, the legend of Europe, has retired to a cushy position with the BHA. Frankly, the whole world could use something like the Dream League right now.”

“Do a Secretariat and make movies,” Wonder Gadot mumbles. “We simply don’t know the concept of Veteran Umamusume.”

“Look,” Mei starts, a conflicted look on her face. “The Dream League is a new thing, I know. We all could’ve used it a long time ago. I mean, when was the last time anyone’s even seen Sunday Silence?” She shrugs, and adds, “It’s a good thing we’re doing this.”

Mei takes the time to pause the conversation and relay what’s happened. King nods. “Okay. Thank you,” she replies, mustering up what little English she knows.

Satisfied, the group settles into the warmth of the Trainer’s office. An empty table has been set aside for them by the rear cubicles, and they whip out their papers to go over the plan for today and find a clear path to success.

What was written down on the papers beforehand: a three-step agenda. First is the school announcement. A gathering of the 400-something students quickly fills up the massive auditorium. Moira and Wonder Gadot, being locals to the racing league of this country, lead the initial speech together to a decent reception. The Japanese delegation, for their part, manages to squeak out a couple of words in English.

Mei Satake follows up with a full presentation on the Dream League, also in English. And then she does it in French. And then King Halo remembers that Mei Satake is not just European, she’s French.

King Halo makes the final connection: The Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe loss at Longchamp wasn’t just an ordinary loss. It was a loss on home turf.

Both El and Mei share that history, but for Mei, it must have been an even more bitter experience.

The third thing on the agenda comes next—a plan for a mock race between the Japanese delegation and the Canadian team, on the turf track, featuring El and Mei. An actual mock race this time, because El had just ran a massive race that was originally billed as a “mock race” but had soon devolved into an international exhibition spectacle.

As Mei finishes talking about the plan to the—predictably disinterested—audience, a hand shoots up from within the crowd.

“Yes?” Mei says, pointing to the young Umamusume.

“Why can’t I race against you?”

Another bombshell question from another young racer. “Well, I…”

“I want to race against you,” she says again. “It’s no fun watching other people race. Isn’t that what we’re here for?”

This single challenge riles up the whole crowd. “W-Well, I suppose we could,” Mei stammers out, but before she continues, she looks towards the rest of the team for help.

El is shrugging her shoulders. The two Canadians, likewise, are tilting their head at the idea.

“Okay,” Mei says, turning back to the crowd. “Let’s do it that way, then. All of you should pick out three of your top racers to challenge… any one of us. That sound good to you all?”

The horde of students cheer. They’re about to witness a bloodbath or an underdog clinching a victory, and they seem eager to watch the show unfold.

“Great. Who wants to race?”

A whole host of hands rise up.

“Okay… let’s figure this out!”

The figuring-this-out process, as it turns out, consumes much more time than expected. All the students take turns gathering around and canvassing between themselves for opinions on who should race. Before long, a standing line of nine young Umamusume come up onto the stage, and then that line gets filtered down into six, then three.

The student who raised the initial challenge is among the final three. Her name is Penny Royal, as the adults come to know.

Mei stands in front of the three. “Well? Who would you like to race? Penny, would you like to choose first?”

Penny is staring at Mei, wordless. It’s obvious a thousand thoughts are running in her head right now. Or maybe just one—one of pure hunger and drive?

Penny throws her gaze towards the panelist’s tables.

She tilts her head.

She raises her hand and points. “You.”

King points at herself. “Me?”

“You.”

“Why me? Look at the other racers in the room, you could—”

“I want to race you,” Penny Royal says, undaunted. “I want to race you, King Halo.”

The selection sends a wave of surprise throughout the room. El looks towards King with a worried look, and King replies back with a face of sheer confusion. All her brain cells are struggling to find an answer as to why she of all people would be asked to enter the mock race, but nothing comes to mind.

“You haven’t raced in years,” Penny Royal explains. “You are an easy target.”

Mei is translating with an offended look on her face. Oh. Oh!

“I’m bored, and I want to race against you.”

That’s adorable—a challenge from this young racer. To think that she would so openly challenge King in that way, insinuating that she would be an easy target. When has King ever been an easy target? The challenge fires something up inside her, and even though she hasn’t professionally raced in a while, King knows that she could sweep the floor clean in a flash if she wanted to.

“So, are you gonna say—”

“I accept, Penny Royal.” King stands up from her chair. “The great King Halo would never back down from a challenge delivered her way. It would not be first-rate, after all. So I accept.”

Mei relays the message, making sure to translate the first-rate part. The noise in the auditorium shoots up.

El grabs King by the wrist and turns her around. “Mi rey, will you be okay?”

King nods. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a kid!”

El’s face betrays her look of worry, but she says, “Okay. Again, I trust you. Always.”

King gives El a big hug, and then looks back towards the three racers. Each of them have a unique expression on their face. Excitement, fear, and… disgust. Or apathy?

She can sense that she’s been paired up with the top dog of the school. That just makes her heart flare even more.

King Halo, first-rate above all, never backs down from a challenge.

Before long, everyone finds themselves on the track.

A distant observer looking at this sight would find it comical. A whole horde of students sits in the stands, out in the bitter cold, with some mixture of jackets and winter hats and gloves. Winter gear—or lack thereof. And then there is the Japanese delegation, right by the fence gate separating them from the racetrack, and all of them are bundled up in what looks like layers and layers of blankets.

Against all odds, the three racers had selected Mei, El, and King. No one wanted to challenge Almond Eye, or the two Triple Crown challengers. For Mei, it was an easy pick—none of the students had ever seen her run before.

As for El… well, one of the students had hedged a bet that El would be exhausted from her previous race.

“Me? No, of course not!”

“Oh, okay. I see.” Then, that student asked another question, on the auditorium stage, in front of everybody else: “And, El Condor Pasa?”

“Yes?”

“Why does your Spanish accent have a Japanese accent?”

Bang. That one question settled it. El’s face was a striking painting of “being too stunned to speak”, but the blank face turned into a wicked grin, and everybody knew.

El Condor Pasa was going to see this competition through. And El Condor Pasa always sees it through.

The clock strikes noon. King walks out onto the field.

Her race with Penny Royal is coming in first.

Penny, to her credit, shows up to the track with nothing more than a long-sleeved tracksuit, similar to what the Tracen students would wear during winter. King Halo thinks she would be happy to don a similar outfit, but they couldn’t find any in her size that were readily available, so she ended up sticking with her innermost layers.

The two of them line up behind the starting line. There are no gates here.

King is first to speak. She jogs her mind for these next few words. “Are… you ready?”

“Hm.”

Wow. English is tough. “Okay. Good luck.”

Silence, at first. Then, Penny opens her mouth, and whispers a “Thank you.”

“Huh?”

“This camp is too boring. I’m glad I get to race you.” The young Umamusume bends down to her starting position. “I will beat you.”

King chuckles. “No.” She ducks down to her starting position as well. “I will win.”

She paces her breathing.

The wind comes into the field.

Snow tickles her nose.

She paces her breathing.

BANG!

The starter gun fires into the air, and Penny rushes ahead of her.

One.

King Halo smiles. She can hear the surprise in the stands as the audience realizes what has happened.

Two.

The murmuring gets louder. “King, what are you doing?!” That’s Mei’s voice. She’ll see. “You—”

Three.

King blasts off into the distance, giving Penny Royal a head start of three seconds in this race.

Three seconds is a lot of time. Every racer knows that. But King is experienced in the sport, and knows all the developmental stages of an Umamusume at heart, as well as all the signs of a late and early bloomer. Penny Royal is very clearly blooming early. But King Halo knows that a life spent as an unchallenged youth prodigy will only lead to disaster. She’s seen it one too many times.

She also knows that the best way to give someone a rush is to be behind them at the final spurt.

So she’s calculated that a final gap between the two would be roughly four seconds, accounting for their sheer difference in training, and she decided to take one second off to compensate for the fact that she is running in unfamiliar territory.

Trailing behind Penny, now, but ever gaining, King thinks that she made the right choice.

The wind is blasting.

Frigid snow pecks on her cheek, lands on her ear, drips and melts above her eye.

There is distant cheering emanating from the bleachers.

She needs to blink.

The two of them are halfway through the oval. In a moment, they’ll arrive at the true final stretch—the short straight that leads to the finish line.

Distance, 1200 metres. Snowy. Soft.

King is going to win this.

“GO, KING! GO!”

She resists looking to the distance, towards the source of that yell. She doesn’t need to look to know what she’ll see.

“MI REY! GO, GO, GO! RUN!”

She smiles. She’s running, alright.

Penny Royal is in front of her, but getting closer, and closer still. If the kid doesn’t pick up her pace, this race will be an easy win.

So King kicks off her spurt early, right out the exit of the corner. As soon as she can get a straight line angle on the finish line.

She stomps on the snowy turf. She’s playing up the sound of her cleats.

She’s gaining.

The girl in front of her looks back.

King can sense her fear.

A second of racing passes. And then, suddenly, the girl runs even faster ahead.

There it is. There you are!

King feels the rush. The adrenaline. Her body taps into a well of energy, long forgotten but still there. She goes even faster than she thought possible.

One length.

Penny is running, running, running. But not fast enough.

Come on. Just a little closer.

King closes to a neck.

Come on! Run!

A head. A nose.

Show me what you—

They blast past the ribbon together.

“And they’ve done it!”

King swerves off to the side and decelerates before she hits the fence. She leans on the wood and feels her body collapse onto it. Thankfully, the fence is sturdy enough to support her bearing down on it.

The crowd rushes onto the track and towards the two racers.

“King! King! Mi rey!” El’s voice cuts through the clamor.

King stands up and looks towards her approaching entourage. “Hi, darling.”

“Mi rey, that was an amazing race. Oh, my!”

Mei, catching up to El, nods. “While giving her a three second head start, too.”

King nods, then laughs. She lifts her head up and feels the sweat trickle down from her forehead. Part of her wonders if it’s going to freeze, but then another thought enters her mind. “Who won?”

Mei shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure the kid did.”

“Oh. Haaah.” King takes a deep breath. She’s still shaken up from the race. She turns towards the crowd of students on the track, who are surrounding the little challenge run’s winner. “Wait here.”

“Huh?” El asks, but before she can say anything more, King’s already halfway across the turf.

The crowd of students are busy lauding Penny with praise, but when they notice King approaching, they part like a group of worshippers meeting a deity.

The two of them stand side by side.

“Penny,” King says, offering a hand.

The young girl takes it. “I…”

“Good race.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

King takes a second to compose the message in full and proper English in her head. “How… do you feel?”

The question makes Penny’s ears stand up. She looks towards King with a strange, perplexed expression on her face. A combination of exhaustion and confusion.

King tries again. “How do you feel?”

Mei catches up to the group and places her hand on King’s back. El goes on the other side, and drapes a coat over King.

Penny looks up at the trio. “Um. Good. I think.”

Good. That’s… “That’s good.” Still with a little broken accent.

Penny looks out towards the turf. She lifts a finger to her lips, clearly thinking of her next words. “Racing has been really boring. I almost wanted to quit.”

Mei passes the message back, and King listens.

“It wasn’t my idea, anyway. My parents wanted me to race. They… were athletes, too. I didn’t want to join racing, but they made me.”

The words sink into King’s heart. An old, old flash of pain floats back to the surface.

“But that was… different.”

Oh?

“I felt good.”

Mei relays that one with a tearful smile.

“If racing can always be like that, then… I want to keep racing.”

King nods.

She understands everything. It all sounds familiar, if only a little inverted, but the end result is a complicated relationship with the sport. And she’s well aware of how complicated that relationship can become.

So King taps Mei to give her a heads up, and then she takes El’s hand, and then she says, “Penny.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for telling me. I’m glad you’re finding a reason to race.”

Mei relays, and Penny nods.

King continues. “I want you to know that, at the end of the day, racing is about you.” She takes a deep breath. Feels the cold cleanse her lungs. “You’re the one on the track. Not anybody else. So, whatever you do, you need to race for yourself first. And whether or not you continue racing is a decision that only you can make.”

The crowd of students lean in closer as Mei translates King’s words. They chatter amongst themselves, trading whispers and thoughts.

“No one should be able to tell another Umamusume to stop racing. Likewise, no one should be able to force another to run. I hope you understand that.”

Mei delivers the last few words with a slow gracefulness. Her exuberant energy is tempered by the authenticity of the message she’s delivering, and King can see a small bundle of tears pool at the corners of her eyes.

Penny Royal, young racer aspirant, looks at the group with an unmoving yet deep stare. Then her gaze travels upwards, up to the treeline, up to the clouds, up to the half-overcast sky and the winter birds that dot the distance.

King follows along. She looks upwards.

El loops her arm around King’s waist, and pulls her in. They are standing side by side.

In King’s mind, she thinks they’re all trying to find their own reason to race.

It’s a beautiful chase to have.

Days pass.

The separation from Mei is a painful one—at the airport, King and El both shed a large amount of tears. El contributes most of it, though, but when they hug together, the distinction stops mattering, and all three shed soft tears of joy and gratitude over their short trip.

Mei promises to see the couple during their next voyage to Europe. They’ll still be on the URA’s payroll, so it’s going to be another group trip promoting the League.

El promises to bring gifts from Japan, since Mei seldom goes home these days. It’s a solid sentiment.

The return flight is unremarkable.

The drive, too, is quick.

Before they know it, they’re back home.

There’s not much time between the North American tour and the upcoming Europe one, and King knows that. She’s busy taking care of the mess of documents in her room with what little time she has when she feels it—a little ache in her calves and a dull pain radiating from her ankles and toes.

Strange pains are not always a cause for concern. But this one is different, and King knows it.

She pulls up her phone and dials El. The line connects.

“Mi rey? Is everything okay?”

King nods. “Darling. Can you come home?”

“What’s the matter?”

“I… think I have an injury.”

The doctor’s appointment, as it turns out, doesn’t go for very long.

The injury is confirmed—likely sustained by King Halo’s reckless little stunt racing up at Circle Camp during her business trip. She knows she did it without warmup, and she’s well aware that such a risk of injury exists for older Umamusume who have not kept up with their training. Still, she thought she would be able to dodge it. By sheer chance and good fortune, of course.

Acute achilles tendinitis, found primarily in Umamusume. The doctor’s prescription is simple—painkillers and rest. She’s managed to dodge a rupture, which is… preferable.

King spends the next few days recuperating at home. El is by her side, constantly helping her whenever she needs assistance, but the injury is light enough that she can remain mobile most of the time.

The planned Europe trip to promote the Dream League International is postponed. King finds it a shame, but El tries to hold the silver lining firmly in her mind. “If we delay it for long enough, we might even catch the l’Arc for this year!” Or so she had said.

The summer season wanes. The breeze gets lighter, the light a little nicer, the heatwaves all but gone.

The weather has been nice enough to hang a hammock in their townhouse’s small enclosed backyard, so King does so. Underneath the shade of the tree she shares with her neighbour, she spends the days reading books and calling friends. She brings her laptop to make some progress on her memoir, too, but she knows she’s in no rush.

Her ghostwriter can wait. The URA can wait. Everything can wait, honestly.

One afternoon, with her body firmly nestled in the hammock, King finds herself greeted by a tray of her favorite tea.

“My love,” she says. “Thank you.”

El nods. She sets the tray down by the table in their back patio and drags a chair over by the hammock.

They sit and enjoy the sun.

El flips open the sports magazine in her hand and starts reading. “How’s the injury?” she asks, offering conversation.

“Good.” King trails her fingers over her leg. The pain is mostly gone. “We should be good to go in… a week, maybe. Or two.”

El hums in agreement. “Let’s make it three.”

“What? Why? We’re on a schedule.”

“Why not? I want to spend time with you.”

King sighs. “I guess that’s as good a reason as any,” she says. She leans back on the hammock and lets her gaze travel to the leaves above her.

Minutes pass. A bird travels over their heads and lands on the branches of the tree above them.

A pain pulses through King’s right leg. “We’re getting old.”

“Mmhm.” El closes her book. “We are.” She reaches up from her chair and struggles to maneuver her hand into the hammock, ostensibly looking to play with King’s hair.

King grabs El’s hand and brings it to her chest.

“Ah, mi rey. You’re as sweet as ever.” El rises from her seat, goes to King in her hammock, and plants a quick kiss. Then she leans back.

What? Oh, c’mon. King grabs El by her hair and leans in. “More.”

Their lips meet, and they keep kissing each other for a long time.

Finally, when she feels like she needs to take a breath, King lets go of the hold and collapses back down into the hammock.

She looks at her wife.

El’s face is as bright as a red light. “Ahh!”

King laughs. “You look cute, darling.”

The pouty face from El is worth it. King leans back and relaxes her body, satisfied, and closes her eyes.

All their many years together pass in her mind. “I think I like growing old with you,” King says.

“Sí.” King hears the chair move, and knows El is sitting beside her. “I like it too.”

A gentle wind blows into the backyard.

Distant cars pass by, and more birds come to the tree, flocking together.

Gathering as one.

King thinks to herself, and says:

“It’s all I could ever ask for.”

“Through it all, I come back to the same conclusion.

“Behind the First-Rate Umamusume is a cadre of her most ardent supporters. Her friends. Her rivals. Her family.

“I owe countless thanks to those who have stayed with me throughout this journey.

“But most of all, I give my most heartfelt love to my wife.

“I could not have achieved what I did without her support. And, likewise, I’d like to think that I’ve helped her reach ever greater heights in her dream of being the greatest Umamusume to ever come out of Japan.

“In our sunset years, now, as I reflect upon my career, I think about it and often ask myself—would I wish for anything to have been different?

“It would be so easy to say yes—to claim a change in the fates, to want to see another world where the best things come true. To know that, somewhere out there, I am a Derby Umamusume—one of many to join that coveted list of legends. But I think of the course that my life has gone, and of the little things that have shaped the trajectory of my life, and the answer is clear.

“I am happy with my legacy. I am thankful for everything that has happened. I am loved, I am cherished, and I am content.

“It is as simple as that.”