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Scarlet’s new training regime is going fine, until it isn’t.
She doesn’t know the time, and there’s sweat pouring from places of her body where she didn’t even know it could. Her twintails stick to the back of her neck. It’s uncomfortable, really uncomfortable, and anyone in their right mind would have probably stopped running by now and taken a break.
That’s what her trainer told her, anyway, when he forbade her from going on late-night sprints around the entire campus of Tracen long after curfew.
The overexertion could be dangerous. Trying to keep at her top speed around the entire perimeter causes more injury than improvement in her technique. If she gets caught, she could be reprimanded by her dorm leader or the student council, which isn’t exactly a good look for a well-meaning honor student like her.
Did she listen to him?
Or, to phrase things differently: would she really be the authentic Daiwa Scarlet if she did?
Well, obviously not.
And it’s strange, because rational decisions usually come easily to Scarlet. She likes to think her choices are majorly the correct ones, and that she’s a fantastic role model for those who want to follow in her footsteps (of which there are many). As much as her trainer has his… questionable moments, she doesn’t really hate him as much as she lets on. His advice is helpful. Sometimes.
It’s all Vodka’s fault. Unless proven otherwise, Vodka is always the problem no matter the scenario – she’s stupid, careless, and effortlessly perfect in a way that pushes every single one of Scarlet’s buttons.
Vodka steals the spot before her in the lunch line to eat the last of the takoyaki just as she was about to order some. Vodka sticks disgustingly ugly posters of motorcycles on every wall, ceiling, and miscellaneous surface she can reach in their shared dorm, and conveniently forgets that there’s supposed to be a split down the middle so that they spread to Scarlet’s side too. Vodka purposefully runs in every race that Scarlet wants to win so that she doesn’t, or at least, that’s what it feels like.
She’s sick of it. Recognition and praise is arguably more important to Scarlet than the air she breathes, and she’s done with playing second fiddle to someone who doesn’t even have to try.
So she’s started breaking curfew. She’s taken the necessary measures, done whatever it takes to finally surpass that cocky idiot; it’s not like she wants to take the alternative path back to their dorm, where her rival will be waiting with a knowing smirk to catch the victory again.
Things need to change. If Vodka won’t slow down, then she’ll speed up, no matter what it takes.
The moonlight shimmers faintly across her glistening skin, and at an hour this still, the thoughts racing through her mind are her only opposition.
I have to get better. I have to win. I have to prove that I really can be number one.
Wind whistles past her ears as she surges forward at her top speed, and it only gets louder as she pushes herself past that limit. The intervals at which she rests get shorter and shorter, not because her stamina’s getting any better, but because she just won’t let herself stop.
Her breathing is short and heavy. Boots clack against the stone pathway in an unsteady rhythm. She sees Vodka a length or two behind her, getting closer by the millisecond, already celebrating another win.
That’s when the new training regime stops going fine.
But was it ever really fine to begin with?
A slight lapse in her concentration is all it takes – Scarlet feels something go in a direction that it definitely shouldn’t, and there’s a searing pain in her leg, and all the momentum she’d gradually built up sends her crashing to the ground. There’s not much air left in her lungs but whatever remains is knocked out of them in an instant. Then the searing pain spreads up her calf, into her chest, and things start to go darker than they were before, and Scarlet is suddenly terrified, staring up at a starless sky.
It’s not because of the fact she’s very possibly sprained her ankle, or that it feels like every single muscle in her body has torn apart from the impact.
It’s because, before her eyes slam shut, she swears she sees Vodka run past her without turning back.
-
“Damn it, Scarlet, wake up, please…”
There’s a pair of hands on her shoulders. They’re slightly calloused, yet gentle as they shake her.
The cadence of the voice is familiar, but she can’t quite place who it is. Either way, it’s reassuring – they sound coarse and concerned, and like they’re biting back tears as they speak, but someone is there and that’s enough.
Scarlet’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a gentle glow emanating from behind them that makes it progressively harder to keep them that way, warm and inviting. The ground feels softer now, for some reason, and for a genuine moment she thinks she’s died and gone to Umamusume heaven. That would explain the lightheadedness. All her troubles have been absolved, or whatever.
It’s a good thing I passed away before Trainer-san could yell at me, Scarlet thinks, feeling a little sorry for him but relieved nonetheless.
She isn’t actually dead. When she gains the strength to squint through the brightness, her eyes settle upon a poster taped to the ceiling. Depicted in fading ink is a wolf on a rusty old motorcycle, clad in a sleeveless leather jacket, riding dramatically into the crimson-hued sunset.
It’s still disgustingly ugly, although she is, admittedly, glad it’s there.
“Shit, you’re awake,” Vodka blurts out, stumbling over her words and quickly rubbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. “Uh… how are you feeling?”
Scarlet stares up at the wolf, then out of the window to her left, completely silent. It’s still night.
And it’s then that magnitude of the situation truly hits her for the first time since she fell. That motherfucker on the ceiling can only mean one thing, because on the holy Three Goddesses, it would never be allowed anywhere near her side of the room.
There is irrefutable evidence that she is currently tucked into Vodka’s bed.
She wakes up almost immediately, trying to kick the covers away from herself and get as far away as she can from the idiot that caused all of this, but her body is useless from the waist down. Her muscles practically scream in protest.
“Hey, wait, don’t move so suddenly—!”
Scarlet snaps around to face Vodka, completely red in the face with anger. “What the hell is wrong with you? You seriously couldn’t have put me in my own bed?”
“Mine’s comfier than yours,” Vodka replies insistently. “And I should be asking what the hell is wrong with you , Scarlet!”
“No, idiot. Mine is comfier.”
Although it might seem like it, Scarlet doesn’t intentionally dodge her rival’s question. It’s just ingrained in her nature by now to disagree with everything she says.
Vodka doesn’t seem too convinced, though, and groans before standing up and pacing around their room. Her hand drums nervously against her thigh. Every so often, she glances back to Scarlet, motionless on the bed. The expression on her face is unreadable. One that Scarlet’s never seen from her before.
“Why didn’t you come back at curfew?”
Scarlet pauses (not that she was able to do anything in the first place, because her chest, shoulders, and legs are still crying out for help). “I was just training.”
“ Just training ,” Vodka repeats. “You call this just training ?”
She doesn’t have a response.
“Y’know, to say you’re such a stickler for rules, you never fuckin’ follow them. I found you face down in the grass by the gym. I had to go looking for you.”
Scarlet scoffs. “What, did Kiseki ask you to?”
“Nah,” Vodka says. She stops pacing so that she’s facing the wall on Scarlet’s side of the room, facing away from the girl on the bed. Her voice wavers slightly. “I got worried , Scarlet, like anyone in their right mind would when their roommate doesn’t come home at night. Is that wrong?”
Scarlet hates that phrase – anyone in their right mind. It makes her feel like she’s not.
“We’re barely roommates,” she argues. “Roommates are supposed to be able to stand the thought of each other, you know. Enjoy each other’s company.”
“Well, I’m sorry for saving your irresponsible ass, then. I shoulda just left you out there for the director to find.”
She tries to push herself up, to rest her still-aching back against Vodka’s headboard, but her muscles start to burn again the second they make contact with the wood. That effectively shuts up any rebuttal she would have had about being capable of taking care of herself. A frustrated sigh slips from her lips instead.
It takes a moment until Vodka finds the strength to return to her, kneeling down in the space between both beds so that they’re on the same level. She’s close, so close that Scarlet can clearly see the exhaustion sunk deep into her eyes.
She doesn’t mention it. She’s exhausted too.
“Okay, look, I don’t wanna make this any worse than it has to be,” Vodka admits, reaching out to shift some stray hairs out of the way of Scarlet’s face. “How bad’s the pain?”
She seems a little less ticked off than before, which is great, because Scarlet isn’t sure she has it in her to fight. But no matter how much venom Scarlet tries to spit at her, Vodka’s always there with a counterattack – she can’t help but be wary that this is all a ploy to get her to drop from their next G1.
So she’s careful with her answer to that question. “Are you going to tell my trainer?”
Vodka gives her a once-over. “Not if you really don’t want me to, but you’ve gotta go to the infirmary as soon as it opens again, Scarlet. I had to carry you here.”
“If I go there, he’ll find out anyway.”
“Look at yourself. Maybe that’s for the best.”
“And maybe you should mind your own business,” she instinctively snaps back, but her voice has no real bite in it. “It doesn’t matter, okay? You don’t get it. I’ll be fine in the morning, I do this all the time.”
“You–?” Vodka starts, but it’s a question that she knows better than to finish. “Scarlet, don’t get me wrong, you drive me insane, but I really didn’t think you were this dumb.”
“It’s just training,” Scarlet repeats, emphasising every word.
“It’s torture! You fuckin’ passed out , and now you’re trying to tell me that’s normal?”
“It’s normal when you’re actually having to put effort into improving. And I’m sorry that I’m not flawless like you, but if that’s what you’re looking for, maybe you should find a better rival!”
Vodka falls silent, taken aback by Scarlet’s sudden exclamation.
Scarlet regrets the words the second they escape her throat.
It’s a strangled sort of shout, one that belongs only in her mind with things she’d rather leave unsaid. It’s raw, and emotional, and so much more real than any of their usual bickering. It’s a reminder that this is who she is away from post-race interviews and prying eyes: argumentative, stubborn, and stupid.
Just like Vodka had said. Vodka lays it all bare without any apprehension, and that’s the single thing Scarlet can trust her to do. She knows everything, or at least she likes to act like she does, and it irritates Scarlet to no end.
The whole honor student act. Pretending that she’s responsible enough to be trusted with training, when really, she runs herself into the ground with no real plan and naïvely hopes it’ll make a change. Her desperate attempts to claw the authenticity out from within herself are clear as day to the one person she wishes they weren’t.
So why is she so silent? Scarlet peers over the edge of Vodka’s bed, still seething, and Vodka is leaning back against the side of hers. She was hurt by that.
In any other scenario, any small victories she could take over Vodka would be blessings, and considering that Vodka was the person who put her in this situation in the first place, they probably still should be. But Scarlet can’t help but feel guilty as she stares down at her.
When Vodka notices she’s looking, the sleeve of her jacket snaps back up to cover her face.
“I didn’t mean that,” Scarlet says cautiously. “Vodka, I seriously didn’t mean that, I’m sorry—”
“You’re right,” Vodka whispers, sniffling a little.
Scarlet blinks; that’s the last thing she was expecting to hear. “What?”
“I said that you’re right. You’re trying your best, and I shouldn’t be shaming you for it. But you gotta understand that I’m not flawless, okay?”
“It’s hard to understand anything else,” Scarlet says softly under her breath. It’s not meant for Vodka to hear, but her sleeve drops a little, and there’s a faint smile on her face.
It’s then that she shuffles closer again. “Well, you should. I feel… it’s the same way you feel about me, I think. You make me so fuckin’ angry sometimes,” Vodka laughs, shaking her head. But just as Scarlet’s about to yell at her, she keeps talking: “That’s what motivates me, though. I train hard every day because I know I’ve got a kick-ass rival threatening everything I’ve worked for.”
“I want to be enough for you. I can’t let you get ahead.”
“Exactly,” Vodka nods. “You can’t keep forcing yourself to your limit like this, though. I— it’s not cool. Your trainer’s gonna kill you.”
Scarlet is certain she’s going to say something else before she cuts herself off, but instead Vodka stands up and shakily walks to the end of the bed. She grabs the duvet and brings it back to her roommate, and once it’s in her hands, she begins to head in the direction of their en-suite.
“We’ll head to the infirmary when curfew ends,” Vodka calls back to her, walking away quickly, suspiciously brushing at her face again. “Just… try to get some sleep. I need a shit.”
“Charming,” Scarlet grumbles.
“Go to bed. And… uh… don’t come into the bathroom.”
The door slams shut before Scarlet has the chance to question things further.
So do her eyes, because she’s asleep within minutes – the last things she hears are the ruffling of bedsheets to her right and three whispered words that she can’t quite make out.
Sleeping deals with the agony for a bit, at least. Only two hours pass until it’s time for her to be up again, and there are no dreams to keep her occupied throughout the night. The silence is preferable to the nightmares that have been plaguing her before this, though, so she figures passing out and overworking all of her muscles must have some benefits.
The sun rises, and the first thing Scarlet tries to do after the light forces her eyes open is stand. It doesn’t go very well. Her entire leg is tight, and bending it sends a shockwave of pain jolting throughout her body.
But Vodka is still knocked out in Scarlet’s bed, so she tries to keep the quiet curses and heavy breathing to a minimum.
Walking is torture, somehow worse than running at full speed for hours around the campus was. Everything hurts, and she barely manages to stumble across the carpet. Yes, Scarlet fears the divine retribution of her trainer, but she hates to admit that Vodka’s words last night (what she can remember of them) were… sensible. Going to the infirmary is a good idea.
Naturally, she has to get ready. Goddesses forbid she shows up to her hospital bed with exhausted limbs and eyebags the size of Jupiter. Not to mention the bad hair day; it’s practically solidified with sweat and dirt from collapsing into the grass.
Scarlet makes it to the bathroom by clinging onto the shower curtain like it owes her money. She looks into the sink before she runs the water.
It’s covered in blood.