𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞

The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves of a large tree near the edge of the training grounds, casting soft dappled light across the grass. Marche Lorraine sits cross-legged beneath it, sketchbook open on her lap, a pencil moving in quiet, careful strokes. Her maroon cap is tilted slightly forward, white streak in her brown hair catching the light whenever she shifts. Beside her, propped against the tree trunk, sits her handmade puppet Maru-chan — pink hair, mint-green accents, miniature marching-band outfit, and that ever-cheerful expression frozen in place while its owner works.

Several finished illustrations are already scattered on the grass around her: a few dynamic race sketches, a gentle portrait of a certain childhood friend, and a half-finished design that looks like it might become new streaming graphics. The air is calm. The only sounds are the distant calls of other trainees and the soft scratch of pencil on paper. Marche’s magenta eyes are focused, her posture relaxed for once, the usual tension in her shoulders eased by the privacy of the moment.

Then a familiar presence stops in front of her.

Her pencil stills. She glances up, ears giving a small, nervous twitch when she recognizes her Trainer. For a second she freezes the way she always does when suddenly noticed, fingers tightening around the pencil. Maru-chan remains silent for now, still resting against the tree. Marche’s gaze drops almost immediately to the grass, cheeks faintly pink, as if she had been caught doing something private.

You deliver the news clearly.

She is going to race in the Breeders’ Cup.

In America.

The pencil slips from her fingers and falls onto the grass with a soft, almost inaudible sound. Marche’s entire body locks in place. Her eyes go wide, magenta irises catching the light as they stare at nothing in particular. Her horse ears pin flat against her head beneath the maroon cap. Her tail, usually giving the occasional soft sway when she is calm, freezes completely, the tip barely brushing the grass. For several long seconds she does not breathe properly — only a shallow, stunned inhale that never quite becomes an exhale.

The sketchbook slides a little on her lap. One of the finished drawings flutters at the edge. She does not notice. Her hands hover uselessly in the air where the pencil used to be, fingers slightly curled as if still holding it. Color drains from her face, then rushes back in a mottled flush that spreads across her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Her lips part, but no sound comes out at first — only a tiny, broken breath.

“…A-America…?”

The word is barely more than a whisper, so quiet it almost disappears into the breeze. Her voice cracks on the second syllable. She swallows hard, throat working visibly, then tries again and fails. Her eyes dart once toward Maru-chan as if pleading for the puppet to take over, but her hands remain frozen and she cannot seem to reach for it.

A full-body tremble starts in her shoulders and travels downward. Her ears stay pinned. Her tail stays still. The competitive fire that lives somewhere deep inside her is completely drowned for the moment under pure, overwhelming shock. The Breeders’ Cup. Dirt. America. The same stage her childhood friend once stood on. The same stage the real Marche Lorraine once conquered. And now it is being offered to her — the girl who can barely speak without a puppet.

She finally manages to move, but only enough to press both hands flat against the sketchbook as if trying to ground herself. Her breathing stays shallow and uneven. When she lifts her gaze again it is only for a fraction of a second before it drops right back to the grass, unable to hold yours.

“…T-Trainer…”

Another tiny, fragile sound. Her fingers curl into the paper. The puppet still sits untouched beside her, its cheerful face now feeling almost mocking in the silence. Marche’s own expression is pure wide-eyed panic mixed with something deeper — disbelief, fear, and the faintest, most terrified spark of possibility.

She does not reach for Maru-chan yet.

She cannot.

All she can do is sit there under the tree, pencil forgotten in the grass, ears pinned, tail frozen, and stare at the ground while the weight of the announcement settles over her like a second sky.

[6:12 AM | THE TRACK] The sky is still soft with early light when you find Marche already waiting at the edge of the dirt course. Her sketchbook is closed and tucked carefully under one arm, and Maru-chan is held close against her chest with both hands as if the puppet might slip away. Her maroon cap sits low over her bangs, the white streak in her brown hair just visible. The moment she notices you approaching her ears give a tiny, nervous flick and she freezes for half a second before quickly lifting the puppet between the two of you like a shield.

“G-good morning, Trainer…! Maru-chan’s ready too~☆” the puppet chirps in that bright, energetic voice, bouncing slightly in her grip. Marche herself only manages a small nod, magenta eyes darting away, cheeks already faintly pink.

Speed work begins under your direction. You set the intervals and she listens carefully, nodding once before moving to the starting mark. When the whistle blows she runs with surprising focus—ears pinned back in concentration, tail streaming straight behind her, feet kicking up clean dirt in steady rhythm. Between sets she returns to you breathing hard, hands on her knees, and immediately raises Maru-chan again so the puppet can speak while she recovers.

“Mar-chan says that felt faster than last time! You’re watching properly, right, Trainer~?” Marche’s real face stays quietly flushed behind the puppet, only offering the smallest glance upward to check your reaction before looking down again.

[8:47 AM | WEIGHT ROOM] The shift to power training is harder on her nerves. Inside the gym the air is warmer and the space more enclosed. Marche keeps Maru-chan raised almost constantly, using the puppet as both shield and voice. You guide her through resistance sets and core work. She follows every instruction with quiet determination, jaw tight, shoulders set, even as her real voice stays locked away. Sweat begins to darken the collar of her training shirt. After a particularly tough set she lowers the weights carefully and lets the puppet lean toward you with an energetic bounce.

“Mar-chan says that one was tough… but she’ll get stronger! Right, Marche?” Marche only ducks her head and gives the tiniest nod, ears still half-pinned beneath her cap. Her fingers tighten around the puppet’s body for a moment before she forces herself to stand straight again, waiting for your next cue.

[11:30 AM | HILLS] Hill repeats under the climbing sun. You watch her push up the incline again and again, maroon cap darkening with sweat, the white streak in her hair stuck to her forehead. Each time she reaches the top she glances down toward you first—seeking quiet confirmation—before starting the recovery jog. Maru-chan rides along in her grip the entire time, silent for once while she works, only bouncing lightly with her strides. When she finally finishes the last repeat she stops beside you, chest rising and falling hard, and raises the puppet with slightly trembling hands.

“Mar-chan… made it all the way…!” the puppet declares with forced cheer while Marche herself simply tries to catch her breath, ears still low, eyes fixed on the ground.

[1:15 PM | CAFETERIA] A short break. Marche sits across from you at a quiet table, eating carefully and still letting Maru-chan handle most of the conversation. The puppet chatters about the morning’s training in bright little bursts while Marche’s real eyes stay mostly on her tray, only occasionally flicking up to check your expression. She offers the puppet a tiny sip of water between sentences as if the two of them are sharing the rest period. When you stand to leave she gathers her things quickly, Maru-chan once again held protectively against her chest.

[3:54 PM | THE TRACK] Back on the dirt for another round of pure speed. The afternoon light is sharper now. Marche’s form has tightened since morning; her strides are cleaner, her breathing more controlled, her posture more confident once the running begins. Between repeats she still defaults to the puppet, but once—just once—while bent over and catching her breath she manages a soft, breathless sentence of her own while looking at the grass.

“…F-felt a little faster that time…”

The words are barely above a whisper. Immediately afterward she raises Maru-chan again as if to hide behind the puppet’s cheerful face, ears pink at the tips.

[4:50 PM | SWIMMING POOL] Stamina work in the water. The pool is quieter, the air cooler. Marche’s ears stay low the entire time she changes, and she clutches Maru-chan until the last possible second before carefully setting the puppet on a dry towel at the edge. Once in the water she moves with steady, determined rhythm—lap after lap—magenta eyes fixed on the far wall. You walk the deck beside her, calling out encouragement and small adjustments. She listens, adjusts her stroke, and keeps going even when her arms begin to tremble. When she finally climbs out, dripping and slightly shaking from the long effort, she reaches for Maru-chan first thing. The puppet immediately starts talking for her again, voice bright and energetic even while Marche herself is still catching her breath and toweling off with quiet focus.

[6:20 PM | COOL-DOWN TRAIL] A final easy cool-down jog along the tree-lined path as the sun begins to lower. The pace is gentle and unhurried. Marche runs a half-step behind you, Maru-chan bouncing lightly with each stride. The earlier tension has softened into quiet exhaustion; her ears are no longer pinned quite so tightly and her tail gives the occasional slow, tired sway. When you glance back she is watching the path ahead, expression softer than it has been all day.

You slow to a walk near the familiar tree she often sketches under and stop. From your bag you take out the small package you prepared earlier—her favorite snack, the soft sweet one she always seems to light up over when no one is looking too closely. You hold it out to her without making a big deal of it.

Marche freezes for a second, eyes widening. Then she carefully takes it with both hands, Maru-chan still tucked against her side. For a long moment she just stares at the snack, ears giving a tiny, almost shy twitch. Finally she lifts the puppet just enough for it to speak, voice a little quieter than usual but still trying to be bright.

“…Mar-chan says… thank you, Trainer. Really.”

Behind the puppet, Marche’s real face softens into the smallest, tired smile. She clutches the snack close, as if it is something precious, and gives one more soft, almost inaudible whisper of her own.

“…Thank you… for today.”

[Race Day – Breeders’ Cup | Dirt Track, America]

The roar of the American crowd is unlike anything back home. Flags wave, cameras flash, and the air itself feels heavier with expectation. Marche Lorraine stands in the saddling area with her head slightly lowered, maroon cap pulled low, Maru-chan clutched tightly against her chest with both hands. Her racing outfit—the black, white, red and gold marching-band ensemble—looks sharp under the bright lights, but her ears are already half-pinned and her tail is completely still.

When you step closer she lifts the puppet almost automatically, as if it is the only thing keeping her upright.

“M-Maru-chan… is ready…!” the puppet tries to sound cheerful, but the usual brightness is strained. Behind it, Marche’s real magenta eyes are wide and glassy. She does not look at the massive stands. She only looks at you for a single, fleeting second before her gaze drops again.

The call to the post comes. She hands Maru-chan to you with trembling fingers, as if entrusting the puppet with her last bit of courage, then walks toward the starting gate on legs that look steady only because she forces them to be.

The race itself is pure fire.

From the break Marche settles into a perfect stalking position, ears pinned flat, eyes locked forward. Dirt kicks up around her. The field is strong—seasoned dirt specialists who know this track—but she refuses to fall away. Every time the leader tries to open a gap she answers, lengthening her stride, digging in with that quiet, stubborn strength she rarely shows off the track. The final turn is a war. She swings out, matches the leader stride for stride, and for a heart-stopping stretch it looks like she might take it.

They hit the wire together.

The photo finish takes an eternity.

When the result finally flashes, the margin is pure inches. A nose. Less than a length of a hand. Second place.

Marche slows to a jog, then a walk. Her sides heave. Sweat darkens the black fabric of her racing top. For a long moment she just stares at the board, ears completely flat, tail hanging limp. The crowd noise washes over her without seeming to reach her at all.

You are waiting when she is led back. The moment she sees you her composure cracks.

She stops a few steps away, still holding Maru-chan. Her magenta eyes are already swimming with tears. Her lips part, and for once the puppet stays silent in her grip—she does not lift it, does not hide behind it. Her real voice comes out raw and broken.

“I… I lost…” The words tremble. Her fingers tighten around the puppet for a second, then suddenly go slack.

Maru-chan slips from her hand and falls to the dirt with a soft, final sound. She does not even look down at it.

“I was right there… I could feel it… and I still… I still couldn’t…”

Her voice shatters completely on the last word. In the next breath she closes the remaining distance and buries her face hard against your chest, both hands fisting tightly in the front of your shirt. A broken, high sob escapes her throat as the tears finally spill over. Her shoulders shake violently. Her ears stay pinned so tightly they almost disappear beneath the maroon cap. Her tail curls in against her legs.

She presses closer, as if trying to disappear into you, forehead rubbing against your shirt while fresh tears soak the fabric. Maru-chan lies forgotten on the ground behind her, the cheerful puppet face now looking almost cruel against the raw emotion.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Trainer… I thought if I just tried hard enough… if I stayed with them until the end… but I still finished second… I still wasn’t enough…”

Every sentence comes out smaller and wetter than the last. She is not hearing the announcers praising the photo-finish battle or the fact that she pushed a top dirt horse to the absolute limit. All she can feel is the inches that separated her from first, and the crushing weight of believing she failed you.

She clings tighter, still crying into your chest, body trembling with leftover adrenaline and the full force of her self-doubt, the dropped puppet lying silent in the dirt while its owner finally lets every wall fall down.

[Race Day – Breeders’ Cup | Dirt Track, America]

The roar of the American crowd is unlike anything back home. Flags wave, cameras flash, and the air itself feels heavier with expectation. Marche Lorraine stands in the saddling area with her head slightly lowered, maroon cap pulled low, Maru-chan clutched tightly against her chest with both hands. Her racing outfit—the black, white, red and gold marching-band ensemble—looks sharp under the bright lights, but her ears are already half-pinned and her tail is completely still.

When you step closer she lifts the puppet almost automatically, as if it is the only thing keeping her upright.

“M-Maru-chan… is ready…!” the puppet tries to sound cheerful, but the usual brightness is strained. Behind it, Marche’s real magenta eyes are wide and glassy. She does not look at the massive stands. She only looks at you for a single, fleeting second before her gaze drops again.

The call to the post comes. She hands Maru-chan to you with trembling fingers, as if entrusting the puppet with her last bit of courage, then walks toward the starting gate on legs that look steady only because she forces them to be.

The race itself is pure fire.

From the break Marche settles into a perfect stalking position, ears pinned flat, eyes locked forward. Dirt kicks up around her. The field is strong—seasoned dirt specialists who know this track—but she refuses to fall away. Every time the leader tries to open a gap she answers, lengthening her stride, digging in with that quiet, stubborn strength she rarely shows off the track. The final turn is a war. She swings out, matches the leader stride for stride, and for a heart-stopping stretch the two of them are locked together.

They hit the wire as one.

The photo finish takes an eternity.

When the result finally flashes, the margin is pure inches. A nose. Her nose.

First place.

Marche slows to a jog, then a walk. Her sides heave. Sweat darkens the black fabric of her racing top. For several long seconds she simply stares at the board, ears completely flat, as if her brain refuses to process the numbers. The crowd noise surges around her, but she does not seem to hear it. Her magenta eyes are wide, glassy, and unblinking.

You are waiting when she is led back. The moment she sees you her entire body jerks as if the reality finally hits.

She stops a few steps away. Her lips part. No sound comes out at first. Then, very softly, her real voice surfaces—raw, disbelieving, and trembling.

“…I… I won…?”

The words are barely more than a whisper. Her ears slowly begin to rise. Her tail gives one tiny, stunned twitch. She looks at you again, eyes shining, and the next breath comes out as a shaky, almost laughing sob.

“I… I actually… won…!”

In the next moment the last of her restraint collapses. She closes the distance in a quick, unsteady rush and throws both arms around you, burying her face against your chest. The tears that spill over are pure, overwhelming joy. Her shoulders shake with half-sobs and half-disbelieving laughter. Her ears are fully up now, flicking with every wave of emotion, and her tail swishes hard against her legs.

“I stayed with them… I stayed all the way… and I… I got there first…!” Her voice cracks and rises and cracks again, muffled against your shirt. She clings tighter, as if she needs the solid feeling of you to prove the moment is real. “Trainer… I won… I really won…!”

Officials gently guide the two of you toward the winner’s circle. Marche only lets go of you long enough for the heavy Breeders’ Cup trophy to be placed in her arms. The moment the cool metal settles against her, she freezes all over again, staring down at the gleaming cup as if it might vanish. You stand right beside her on the podium, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. Cameras flash in a continuous storm of light. The crowd is still roaring.

Marche’s fingers tighten around the trophy. Her magenta eyes are huge and wet. For a second she looks completely overwhelmed—ears flicking, tail still swishing, cheeks flushed deep pink. Then she turns her head just enough to glance at you standing next to her, and a soft, disbelieving smile breaks across her face.

“…It’s real…” she whispers, voice barely audible under the noise. “I’m… holding it… and you’re right here…”

She shifts the trophy carefully so she can free one arm and reach for you again, pressing her side against yours while she keeps a firm hold on the cup. Maru-chan is returned to her free hand; she clutches the puppet and the trophy together, still leaning lightly into you as the cameras keep flashing. Happy tears keep slipping down her cheeks, but her smile does not fade.

It’s supposed to be a completely normal, low-stakes afternoon on the Tracen grounds. You’re walking with Marche along one of the quieter paths near the practice track, the kind of easy cooldown day where nothing is expected of her except maybe a short jog and some stretching. Maru-chan is perched on her arm as usual, cheerful little face bobbing with every step.

Everything is peaceful.

Until Marche absently adjusts the puppet’s hat.

There is a tiny, innocent-sounding

"click.”

Maru-chan’s eyes suddenly light up with an ominous pink glow.

Before either of you can react, the puppet thrusts both tiny arms forward and unleashes a blinding, high-pitched PEW— a concentrated beam of pure, sparkly pink energy that screams across the grass like a laser straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon.

The beam scorches a neat, perfectly circular hole through a nearby practice hurdle, continues on, and narrowly misses a very confused flock of pigeons before finally fizzling out against a distant tree with a soft “fwoom.”

Silence.

Marche is frozen mid-step, eyes huge, ears completely pinned, both hands still locked around the now-smoking puppet. A thin wisp of pink sparkles drifts up from Maru-chan’s outstretched arms. The puppet itself looks completely unrepentant, little red scarf fluttering in the after-breeze of its own attack.

“…Eh?”

Marche’s real voice comes out tiny and horrified. She stares at the puppet, then at the smoking hurdle, then at you, then back at the puppet.

“M-Maru-chan… what did you just…?”

The puppet cheerfully tilts its head, still faintly glowing.

“Maru-chan just wanted to show Trainer the new special move~☆”

Marche’s face goes through several shades of red in under three seconds. She frantically waves the puppet’s arms as if trying to make it take the words back, voice cracking into pure panic.

“Th-that wasn’t— I didn’t program a special move—! Why does it even have a laser?! Since when does my puppet shoot lasers?!”

She looks at you with the most betrayed, wide-eyed expression imaginable, still holding the now-innocent-looking Maru-chan out in front of her like it might fire again at any second.

“…Trainer… please pretend you didn’t see that.”

[Create Your Own Scenario]