Obey Your Master

The midday sun hung lazily over Tracen Academy, bathing the fields in that hazy golden light that made everything shimmer. Trainers were scattered along the fence lines, clipboards in hand, eyes tracking every stride, every motion, every spark of potential in the running Uma Musume.

You were among them — observing, evaluating, quietly jotting notes as candidates sprinted across the dirt track.

Your attention was drawn briefly to the center lane — a flash of gold and blue tearing through the field like lightning. She wasn’t the fastest on paper, but her presence commanded attention. The girl crossed the finish line, hair whipping wildly, and instead of catching her breath, she turned to the stands with a grin that could’ve belonged to a rock concert headliner.

“WOO! That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby! America represent!”

You blinked. A few of the nearby trainers whispered, uncertain if she was joking or genuinely that loud. Then, to your surprise, her sharp blue eyes met yours. There was a flicker — quick, deliberate — the kind that said she noticed more than she let on.

After the race, while you were checking your notes, Obey Your Master approached you.

Her gait wasn’t the light, refined step of the average Uma Musume; it was confident, bold, almost swaggering. Her long tail flicked behind her like a lion’s whip, and the chain bracelet around her wrist jingled in rhythm with her steps.

“Yo. You the big-shot trainer with the serious face, right? The one who’s been starin’ holes through us all mornin’?” She stopped right in front of you, smirking.

You straightened up slightly, caught off guard by her directness. She tilted her head, golden hair catching the sunlight.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the whole quiet mystery vibe — but if you’re lookin’ for the next big thing, you might as well quit window shoppin’ and start talkin’ deals.” Her tone was cocky, but her gaze was sharp — assessing, testing.

When you asked her name, she grinned wider.

“Name’s Obey Your Master. Yeah, yeah, weird name, I know — blame the folks who thought rock songs make great birth certificates."

You raised a brow, amused. Her laugh rang out bright and unfiltered.

“Heh, you like that? Thought so. Most people either laugh or look like they just bit a lemon. You’re the first one who didn’t blink. I like that.”

She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice, her playfulness tinged with something sharper.

“So here’s the deal, Coach — I’ve had trainers before. They either tried to fix me or gave up halfway through. You? You look like someone who’d actually get it.” Her hand came up, two fingers raised like a peace sign — or a challenge. “So how ‘bout it? You take me under your wing, I’ll make sure this academy remembers our name. Together, we’ll raise a little hell — professionally, of course.”

You studied her for a moment — the grin, the swagger... and there's a thought that came across your mind that, all of this might be just a mask. So, after a while of thinking, you finally nodded.

“Knew it! Ha! I told the girls someone’d fall for the charm eventually." She snapped her fingers, triumphant. "Don’t worry, you made the right call, Coach — we’re gonna rock this place.”

It was afternoon, most of the Uma Musume had already finished training, and the hum of chatter had drifted off somewhere toward the cafeteria.

You, however, were still on the hunt.

Obey Your Master had missed two check-ins in a row — no messages, no calls. You’d planned to review her race strategy and pacing adjustments for next week’s event, but she was nowhere to be found.

You checked the field. Empty. The gym? Nothing. The lounge? Just the usual umamusumes cooling down.

After a while, your steps led you to the dorms. You reached her door,. her nameplate gleamed faintly on it.

You knocked. Once. Twice.

No response.

The door creaked open slightly — not enough to see much, but enough to suggest it wasn’t locked. You hesitated for a moment, then gently pushed it open.

And then you froze.

Her room looked like something between a war room and a rockstar’s dressing area. Walls plastered with clippings, notes, and printouts — photos of Oguri Cap, Tamamo Cross, etc... Lines of colored string connected headlines like a detective board. The desk was a mess of energy drink cans, highlighters, open notebooks full of race analysis, and a flickering laptop replaying a race at half-speed.

And there she was — Obey Your Master — sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the screen. Her expression was nothing like her usual grin. It was razor-sharp. Cold. Focused.

Her hair was down, messy and golden against the dim glow of the monitor. She was mouthing split times under her breath, fingers tapping the floor to the rhythm of each stride on the screen.

Then her ears twitched. She didn’t turn immediately, just spoke — low and calm.

“You’ve been standing there for a while, Coach.”

You blinked. Her tone was… normal. No accent, no exaggerated bravado. Just her real voice.

She turned her head slightly, eyes gleaming in the monitor’s light — and when she saw your stunned face, her lips curved into a knowing smirk.

“Heh. Didn’t expect to find me working, huh?”

Before you could reply, she stood up and, without missing a beat, grabbed you by the wrist.

“Get in. Door shut. Now.”

You barely had time to react before she pulled you inside and closed the door behind you. The latch clicked. You were surrounded by the dizzying scent of marker ink, paper, and faint cologne.

She leaned back against her desk, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“Let me guess. You thought I was out partying again, huh? Or napping under a tree somewhere?”

The air around Tokyo Racecourse buzzed with energy — a storm of voices, flags, and camera flashes. The Japan Cup — the day that every trainer, every racer, and every fan had been waiting for.

You stood among the crowd, clipboard in hand, eyes fixed on the starting gates. Months of data, preparation, and sleepless nights led to this moment.

Her moment.

There she was — Obey Your Master — standing tall, calm, almost unnervingly still amidst the chaos of giants. Tamamo Cross pawed at the dirt beside her, muscles tense. Oguri Cap adjusted her posture, unreadable as always. Michelle My Baby rolled her shoulders, her sharp gaze trained ahead, a picture of pure foreign ferocity. And then there was Tony Bianca, Moonlight Lunacy, and others — the best from across oceans.

It was a congregation of power — and Obey stood at the far edge, sunglasses gleaming, mouth curled into that signature grin.

The gates slammed open.

Tamamo Cross shot forward immediately, her explosive start slicing through the air. Michelle My Baby wasn’t far behind, practically shoulder-checking Oguri Cap in an aggressive foreign-style duel. The crowd roared at the sight — the two trading momentum, elbows, and glares, their rivalry almost animalistic. Oguri, usually untouchable, faltered just slightly under the relentless pressure.

Meanwhile, Tamamo Cross maintained a measured rhythm at the front, her stride sharp and confident, keeping the pace tight but steady.

Obey was in the back. Not lagging — no. Calculating.

From where you stood, you could see it in her rhythm — her steps precise, conservative. She wasn’t here to brawl; she was here to outlast. Every ounce of her composure screamed strategy.

This was the plan she’d built in that cluttered, paper-strewn room. The one she’d tested and refined a hundred times in her head. She knew Tamamo’s nature — competitive, fiery, unable to resist a challenge. Running side by side with her only stoked the flame. That’s what broke Oguri before in the Autumn Tenno Sho.

So, she didn’t challenge. She waited.

The front pack started showing cracks. Tamamo kept up her pace, but Michelle and Oguri were both breathing harder, their earlier standoff costing them dearly. Tony Bianca began to fade; Moonlight Lunacy stumbled.

Then, halfway through the final turn — Obey’s ear twitched. Her eyes sharpened behind her shades.

Her tail flicked like a whip, and suddenly, she moved.

Her stride widened, her posture lowered. Every ounce of energy she’d conserved ignited. She sliced through the middle pack like a bullet, overtaking the stragglers one by one — their eyes widening as that gold-and-blue blur streaked past.

The crowd gasped as her name flashed on the board — moving up from ninth, to seventh, to fifth.

And then — the final stretch.

Tamamo Cross at the lead, Oguri finally clawing her way back, Michelle surging again from the outside. It was a storm of speed and power, dirt flying, hooves pounding like thunder.

But then — she entered the zone.

You could see it. That eerie stillness that racers rarely achieve — when noise fades, time slows, and every muscle obeys instinct perfectly. Her golden hair streamed behind like fire. Her breathing synchronized with each step.

And then — she flew.

The crowd’s cheers rose to a roar as Obey Your Master broke through the final curve. Tamamo’s head turned — just slightly — eyes widening as the golden blur overtook her from behind.

“No way—!”

Michelle tried to chase, but her earlier aggression cost her. Oguri, regaining her rhythm, pulled ahead in the final seconds — graceful, unstoppable — but not enough.

You watched, as Obey surged forward, every ounce of calculation and chaos exploding into one perfect finish.

She crossed the line first.

The stadium erupted. Flags waved. Cameras flashed.

And there she was, slowing down after the finish, chest heaving, hair clinging to her face. For a moment, there's almost a disbelief that can be seen in her face. But when her eyes finally found you, her grin returned, sharp and defiant.

She pointed toward the stands, toward you.

“Told you, Coach…” she mouthed, breathless, laughing between gasps.