Chapter Text
“Uuu…” The light-brown, fluffy-haired Umamusume whimpers as I press a rolled tissue into her right nostril. She flinches, which is predictable—nasal mucosa is basically a vascularized trap for trauma.
“Is she gonna be okay, doc?” her blue-haired friend asks, voice unnecessarily loud for someone standing one meter away.
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a nurse. And yes—calm down.” I angle my chair toward the cabinet, spin once—because braking a rolling chair precisely without the spin is considerably harder—then stand to pull down a box of furosemide. One blister, sterile scissors, snip two unit doses cleanly. “It’s just a simple epistaxis caused by blunt trauma,” I explain, keeping my voice steady. “She can take one tablet later, plus water and a juice for some electrolytes.”
“Electrolytes…?” the redhead repeats, as if I’ve spoken an incantation.
The orange-haired girl adjusts her big, round glasses with mechanical precision. “They regulate water balance, maintain acid—base stability, and ensure proper nerve and muscle conduction.”
“I don’t really get it,” the fluffy-haired one says. “But I kinda do—nope. Never mind. I don’t.”
I hand her the unit doses. “Anything with enough salt has electrolytes, so don’t worry.”
I physically feel my soul wrinkle at that gross oversimplification. Sodium, potassium, chloride, magnesium, calcium—lumping them all as “salt” is a war crime, but explaining the distinction will cost us both increasingly precious minutes of life.
I want Doc to come back already. Handling the clinic solo makes my brain overheat—I’d rather stay the obedient assistant who follows direct instructions. It’s easier when someone tells me exactly what to do. No guesswork, no dreadful branching decision trees of if I choose A, B might happen, but if B happens then C becomes an issue—
Ah. I almost forgot to make the paperwork.
“Before you leave…” I slide into my chair, pull open the bottom drawer, and take out the Medication Administration Form. Dark blue pen. Standard procedural rhythm. I fill in the date, medication, and timing—after lunch and again in the afternoon—then hand her the sheet.
“Write your name. If you’re already part of a team, include it. Then sign.”
“Okay! Thanks!” she says, smiling as she writes.
Her friends—except the redhead—have already migrated toward the door.
“We’ll save seats in the cafeteria! TURBO DAAAAAASH!” the blue-haired one shrieks before drop-kicking the door open and sprinting out.
The girl with glasses gives me a tiny bow of apology before hurrying after her.
“You girls are… energetic,” I mutter, exhaling as I look back to the form. “Maybe too energetic—”
Oh? She’s from Team Canopus… Never heard of them.
Then my eyes drift to her name.
Matikanetannhauser?
I choke on air—if that’s even possible. Who—in the vast cosmic soup of possibilities—looked at an infant and declared that the best name? Sounds like something I’d hear from one of the Wunderwaffens.
“Jesus Christ…” slips out before I can strangle it.
“Something wrong?” the redhead asks, leaning in with one eyebrow up—mild curiosity, not concern.
“Just talking to myself,” I avert my gaze.
“Just talking to myself.” I redirect my gaze to the safest object in the room: the floor.
“All done, Mister Nurse!” Matikanetannhauser beams and lifts the signed form toward me like a proud student showing off a worksheet.
…Ah. She’s cute.
Dangerously cute.
Suddenly I understand why two of my friends jumped headfirst into training Umamusumes.
While my phone vibrates awake on the desk, I take the form back. “Everything’s set. Take one tablet after lunch and another in the afternoon. You’re good to go.”
The two girls thank me with matching bows before finally leaving the clinic—and with them goes the noise, the cluttered energy, and the mild chaos they brought in.
Peace.
At last.
My reward awaits: old anime streams on Umatube. I grab my phone, thumb ready to dive into twenty-year-old animations with questionable frame rates.
But the notification bar blinks.
…Oh. That’s what turned the phone on earlier.
With a small grunt, I open the message app. It’s from Boss Doc…
Get the place ready, his message says.
That’s it? No context? No estimated arrival time? No elaboration on what “ready” means? Medical professionals really should not be this vague—it multiplies the number of possible branching outcomes exponentially.
He’s been gone for a while, though. At first I assumed a meeting, or maybe he was delivering last week’s Medication Administration Forms to HR. But if he’s telling me to prep the clinic…
Something urgent is happening.
Not that I mind. I’m relieved he’s finally back. Handling the infirmary alone is like running a ship where every lever leads to a potential catastrophe. I’m good at tidying—precision, categorization, spatial consistency—but everything else is a minefield.
So, like the obedient little golden retriever my brain defaults to, I start organizing the room:
Sanitizing surfaces, straightening supply trays, aligning instrument drawers by type, sub-type, and intended use.
Order feels good.
Predictable.
Safe.
Whatever’s coming next… at least the clinic won’t be the thing out of place—
The door swings open hard enough to rattle the supply trays. And man in mid-thirties—Doc—steps in with gray hair slicked back like always (there’s three strands fall to his forehead this time instead of the usual two). And two students follow. One girl is practically folded against her friend, clinging to her arm. Even without my glasses, the pallor difference is obvious: face pale, limbs still flushed. Classic systemic mismatch.
“Renard, prep a bed.”
I spring up so fast my chair spins. The bed’s already tidy, but I retighten the sheets and straighten the pillow because it can always be neater. Patients deserve neat.
As soon as I step back, the supporting girl eases her ill friend onto the mattress.
I join Doc. He’s already setting his stethoscope on the desk with that particular heaviness that implies “problem.”
“So?” I ask. “What’s the student’s issue?”
He glances at me, then at the girl. Adjusts his rectangular glasses—a micro-gesture meaning he’s thinking fast. “Collapsing mid-training. Loss of coordination. My initial check suggests intermittent pelvic instability. She’s also showing unusual fasciculations in the gluteal and quadriceps regions even while resting.”
Pelvic instability. Muscle twitching at rest.
That’s… not a small list of possibilities.
“Yeah,” I murmur, arms folding, “we can’t help her here. Not properly. There’s too many potential etiologies. Without diagnostics we’re basically guessing.”
Tracen may be the top Umamusume training center in the country, but an infirmary is still an infirmary. No MRI, no CT, no EMG, no pelvic ultrasound. Fasciculations + pelvic instability could mean Pelvic Floor Dysfunction… or endometriosis… or pelvic inflammatory disease… or neuropathy… or fibromyalgia… and that’s barely scratching the probability tree.
To figure it out, I’d need labs, imaging, differential tests—actual doctor territory, not nurse territory. And even Doc, skilled as he is, would need data. He’s not a medical Sherlock Holmes; no one is. And the patient is an aspiring athlete, so guessing wrong is malpractice with glitter.
“So,” I sigh, “that means we’ll have to send her to an actual hospital—”
“No!” the ill girl blurts, trying to sit up. Her fingers clench the yellow blanket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. “Y—you can’t…”
Her friend presses a hand to her shoulder. “Hikari, don’t move. Let them help you—”
“But the next selection race is two days from now…” Hikari’s voice is thin, trembling. “If I go to a hospital, they’ll keep me for days. I won’t be able to come back in time.”
I blink. That’s… a surprisingly confident estimate for someone without medical training. A little too confident, actually. Athletes often overestimate recovery times or underestimate them, but she spoke like someone who’s been hospitalized before.
“Well,” I mutter under my breath, “this just got more complicated.”
Doc lets out a low sigh. “It sure did…”
Hikari turns to him, eyes wide with a desperation that’s almost painful to witness. “Can’t you just… figure out what’s wrong with me and fix it?”
He shakes his head—gently, but firm. “It’s not that simple, Miss Hikari.” He then reaches into the cabinet and produces a blister of pelleted iron supplements. “We can at least treat the obvious anemia, but…”
He hands it to her. Hikari stares, hesitates, then sighs.
“I… already tried those.”
Mm? And still pale? Not a good sign.
Either she’s been non-compliant—or the supplements aren’t being absorbed properly. Malabsorption? Gastrointestinal issue? Or something systemic?
Her friend steps forward with both hands clasped tightly. “That’s what I’ve been worried about, Doctor. She’s been pale like this for three days… and it’s been getting worse. Slowly. Subtly. But definitely worse.”
Which means the anemia is either progressing or secondary to something bigger.
Doc nods. “Which means she should be in a hospital.”
Her friend nods too.
I keep silent, but I agree. Loudly. In my head where it’s safe. Out loud, I’d probably sound like a malfunctioning toaster.
“B—but…!” Hikari’s voice cracks.
Her friend pats her head gently. “You can just take the next selection race. It’s not like they only have one.”
Hikari tries to swallow a sob, knuckles whitening around the blanket—
—and then she starts chewing on it.
Chewing.
On.
The blanket.
Oh no. This is just painful to watch.
I glance at Doc. “Seriously, we can’t do anything? I don’t even know her but— watching a girl trying not to cry is… difficult.”
My voice drops into a whisper. My throat feels tight.
It’s not medical; it’s human.
Doc chuckles softly. “That’s how it is, Renard. We may hurt their feelings, but it’s for the best. You know that better than anyone.”
Yeah… I do.
A face flashes in my mind—sharp, burning, crimson hair and a stare like he’s perpetually calculating. One who used to act like empathy was optional downloadable content. Cold, pragmatic, almost mechanical. Sometimes he even feels like a monster. Though he’s warmer now. Even to strangers somehow. Still deadpan, but not a walking juggernaut anymore.
If he were here… what would he do? Something clever and stupid at the same time, probably.
Doc walks off toward the landline—likely to call for an ambulance. And I’m left standing there, watching Hikari nibble on that poor blanket like it owes her minerals. I know she’s frustrated—athletes hate losing agency—but please, girl, spare the linen! It’s not edible. It will never be edible. Stop making me mentally list textile fiber compositions—
…
Hold on.
Wait. Let me cook.
I stride over and sit beside her, plopping down with more confidence than I actually have. Both girls flinch slightly.
“Light anemia…” I murmur, leaning in just enough to examine her face. There’s still color—some—but noticeably less than her limbs. Abnormal pattern. “Before you collapsed, did you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”
“B—before…?” She still chews, muffled. “Kind of. My eyesight went… weird. I can’t explain it.”
Visual disturbance. No. I’m assuming too quickly. Maybe—
“Renard.” Doc’s voice sharpens. “What are you doing?”
I look at him, then back at Hikari. “Helping a student.” Then I reach for her arm, then pause. “May I?”
She nods, hesitant but willing. Good enough.
I take her forearm gently and apply a light squeeze.
Doc approaches—apparently abandoning the phone. “What possessed you?”
No anger. No irritation. More like he’s watching a predictable anomaly. It’s a strange tone, but familiar.
“A friend,” I answer simply, and focuses back to Hikari. “Be honest. Any pain?”
She shakes her head weakly. “No… The only part that hurts is my pelvis and that’s when I’m running. It doesn’t even actually hurts just… irritating…”
Her expression stays still. No micro-wince. No tightening around the eyes. No reflexive withdrawal. Mhm. Okay…
I shift my eyes to her friend. “What do you think is wrong with her?”
She frowns at me—reasonably. A nurse asking a student for a differential diagnosis is not only incompetent but straight up stupid. Still, she clears her throat.
“Maybe she’s just too stressed.” A small pause. Her gaze flicks to Hikari—still chewing on the blanket like an anxious hamster. “She’s gone unscouted for several selection races… missing another one is a big blow.”
Psychosomatic? Possible. But that doesn’t explain iron‑unresponsive anemia. Or the muscle fascics. Or the pelvic instability. You don’t get medical bingo from stress alone.
“What have you been eating the past few weeks?” I blurt before I can stop myself. “Any dietary changes? You’re eating a lot of rice to bulk up and some protein powder, aren’t you?”
Hikari recoils, blinking. “I—I do. I dropped most veggies. I’ve been sticking to protein-based meals. But—why?”
Good question.
I don’t know what demon in my brain pulled that out, but it tracks: more muscle, better physique, better scouting odds.
But weeks of that?
I glance at Doc. He sighs—the sigh of a man bracing for whatever nonsense I’m about to conjure. “Do your thing.”
I face Hikari again. “You ditched the veggies. So you ditched the fiber. Which means you starved your cecum. Congrats—your gut staged a coup.”
Her friend’s expression morphs into a difficult‑to‑label emotion—somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and the rising horror of realizing the body actually requires fibers.
“Are you saying… it’s because of her diet?”
Before I can answer, Doc taps a fist lightly against my head. Not hard, not angry—just the medical equivalent of swatting a cat before it knocks a glass off the counter.
“I know you like your mental gymnastics, Renard, but implying cecal dysfunction is a stretch.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Zebras, Renard. You’re chasing zebras.”
He already knows. I don’t have to spell it out; he connected the dots the moment I asked about her diet.
Unlike humans, Umamusume do have a functioning cecal pouch for fermenting fiber into volatile fatty acids. And Hikari has been on a high‑protein, near‑zero‑roughage diet for weeks. Which means:
- Her gut biome destabilized.
- Her cecum acidified—cecal acidosis.
- Calcium and magnesium got leached into the GI tract instead of her bloodstream → Electrolyte imbalance.
They regulate water balance, maintain acid—base stability, and ensure proper nerve and muscle conduction.
That’s what the orange-haired four-eyes said earlier. Proper nerve and muscles conduction. With electrolyte imbalance, it triggered neuromuscular instability, mimicking musculoskeletal issues. Which perfectly explains the “intermittent pelvic instability” and “gluteal/quadriceps fasciculations at rest” Doc observed earlier.
Doc’s old saying echoes in my head:
When you hear hoofbeats, assume it’s an Umamusume, not a zebra.
But right now?
I think I’m staring directly at a zebra.
“So… I just have to eat more fiber again?” Hikari asks, voice tentative but hopeful.
I point at the ceiling, ignoring the dull throb from Doc’s bonk. “If my inference is correct—and you’ve been honest—then yes.”
She leans forward, finally releasing the blanket from her teeth. “I didn’t lie!”
Her friend chuckles. “Wait… so it’s just because you started chugging protein powder like it’s water?”
Hikari glares playfully. “I—It can’t be helped! I want to be scouted already!”
Doc smacks my back, pulling me away from their bickering. I rub my back and glare up at him. “Hey! What was that for?!”
He hums. “Cecal acidosis causing hindgut dysfunction, huh? Deducted that from simple inference… impressive, but… how does it explain her anemia not responding to iron?”
I step away from the bed, grab a page from my notebook, and scribble a recommended plan: probiotic hay pellets and a dandelion‑green smoothie.
“You already know, Doc,” I mutter.
With her cecal acidosis, Hikari’s hindgut—the site responsible for synthesizing vitamin B12 in Umamusumes—has essentially stalled. Vitamin B12 (and folate) is critical for DNA synthesis, which is required for the proper formation and maturation of red blood cells in the bone marrow.
Without enough B12, nucleic acid production falters, slowing cell division—DNA synthesis are impaired which results for red blood cells to grow large and malformed; nuclei mature slower than cytoplasm. These abnormal blood cells are fragile, die prematurely in the marrow or circulation, and can’t transport nutrients effectively.
Which explains her unresponsive anemia despite iron supplements: her body simply cannot produce normal (and actually competent) red blood cells capable of absorbing iron effectively.
With proper nutrient intake, cecal function should normalize within forty-eight hours. Hikari could run on time—though she’ll likely be weaker post‑recovery. Not ideal for maximum performance, but she can run.
Doc chuckles. “Sometimes you worry me.” He takes a glance at my paper then prepares a cannula for intravenous administration.
I hadn’t even considered that route. I’m not really built for formal medicine procedures.
While he sets it up, I hand Hikari’s friend the plan. “Make sure she follows this. For now, she’ll stay here for IV treatment, alright?”
She takes the paper with a small smile. “Thanks…”
The afternoon sun slants through the Health Office windows, gilding the pale yellow walls like someone cranked the saturation slider too far.
We left Hikari in the infirmary for IV treatment, and I’ve been parked here the whole noon and afternoon. Not because I’m slacking—this room is right next to hers, so Doc can holler if anything happens. Still… I wouldn’t mind clocking out before my spine fossilizes.
Boredom eventually gnaws through my professional dignity. I surrender, open my notebook, and start scribbling. What? Like any man does. Sketching an OC! Nothing pacifies the restless human soul quite like drawing your ideal person.
First, the head—balanced, neither sharp nor round. Then a bare neck, shoulders, bust. After that, the hair: pale, flowing to her upper back, parted neatly to the left, as if combed with something far more expensive than my entire salary. Two long sidelocks drape over her shoulders.
And finally… the main attraction. The eyes. Large, yet sharp. Teetering on that divine line between cute and sexy. (Yes, those are absolutely two different things.)
Ah. How many times have I drawn this girl?
I flip back through the notebook. Twenty identical faces stare up at me in various poses and angles.
Well. Twenty-one now—
The door creaks.
“Hyiii—!” I slam the notebook shut and whirl around.
It’s just Doc.
“I thought my deepest darkest secrets were about to get leaked…” I exhale.
He frowns. “What?”
“Nothing, Doc.” I rise from my seat, stretching until my spine pops. “How’s that girl?”
Doc removes his glasses and rubs his eyes before sinking into the sofa like a salaryman whose spirit quota has expired. “She can walk on her own now, at least. Her friend was merciless during lunch—you should’ve seen it.”
I shrug. “Considering an Umamusume’s metabolic rate? Yeah, I bet she force-fed her enough produce to restart an entire ecosystem.”
He props a foot on the table and slings an arm over the sofa’s backrest—our unofficial sign that professionalism has temporarily left the building. Fair. I also feel like a deflated balloon animal.
“You were right, though,” he says. “Cecal dysfunction… I didn’t think of it until you started interrogating Miss Hikari.” A pause. He stares up at the ceiling, thinking. “What even gave you the idea it was that?”
I hesitate. I don’t like this question, because the honest answer is: I don’t know. More like a chain of instinctive mental algebra I didn’t consciously sign off on. But every time I remember him, I—
“When I saw her chewing the blanket,” I say slowly, “I thought it might be her body trying to jumpstart cecal activity. Instinctive. Futile. Like striking a broken match.”
Chewing activates the cephalic phase of digestion—priming saliva, stomach acid, neural circuits. For Umamusumes, it also cues hindgut fermentation; fiber intake signals the cecum to begin breaking cellulose down into volatile fatty acids. But hers wasn’t responding at all so it didn’t matter. A silent organ in a system built for motion.
What matters is it being cecal dysfunction lines up with her symptoms. Disturbingly neatly at that. I’m grateful I didn’t embarrass myself.
Doc snorts. “Good find. Out of all your mental gymnastics, this one’s the weirdest.”
“I feel like that’s an insult.”
He laughs—rough, warm, annoyingly paternal. Then he looks at me, and I instinctively avert my eyes. “You should really get a medical license. Become a doctor here. Don’t you want to level up from nurse?”
I groan and ruffle my hair. “My family might be a healthcare dynasty, but I’m not built for any of that, Boss.” I plop onto the opposite sofa. “I could take the exam. I pass model tests without studying, but… I don’t know. I don’t even like the job itself. I just don’t want my family to look at me like I’m a defective appliance.”
“This troupe is getting old,” he mutters.
“Hey, that’s rude. I’m pouring my gut out here.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. The kind of laugh that means he’s heard this exact speech a dozen times but still bothers to listen again. “Sounds like every adult ever.” His tone softens. “You really think most successful people got there because they wanted what they were doing?”
It’s why I’m here, in Tracen of all places—a high-end, painfully competitive training facility for Umamusumes. Their infrastructure alone is a medical playground. A place where I might finally find something like purpose. I’ve been here three months. Still nothing conclusive. The graph is flat.
“What a nice way to think,” I say, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I wanted to ask the same thing to two of my friends.” Memories resurface—back at the Institute, where my parents and his tossed us into a pressure cooker designed to produce excellent socially-capable citizens or stress fractures. “But… I don’t really have the right to ask them that.”
Doc raises a brow. “What, are they lost in life too?”
I laugh. “Of course they are.”
Not lost, exactly. More like drifting. Three compasses thrown into a tomorrow none of us consented to. And out of all of us, the short-fused naïve kid worries me the most…
I rise, dust imaginary lint from my scrubs, and head for the door. “I’ll clock out now.”
“Alright. Good work—oh, right!” He sits up abruptly. “Drop the Medication Administration Forms at HR before you go home, will you?”
I wave a hand without looking back. “Yeah, yeah, it’s on my way.”
The office door closes behind me, and I make a beeline to the infirmary. I sift through the folders until I find the stack—one month’s worth of Medication Administration Forms. Normally twenty-five pages. This month? Twice that.
I don’t care. I’m operating entirely on “I want to go home” mode now. Besides, the group has a game night lined up. If I don’t log in, they’ll spam-call me like debt collectors.
I lock up, step into the corridor, and start power-walking through the sunset-glazed hallways. Warm light paints everything gold. Pretty. Still want to go home.
Target acquired: HR.
I drift around the corner like a racecar, momentum tilting me just enough to feel cool doing it. If I go faster, I can almost imagine myself as an Umamusume sprinting down the track—or better yet, a fighter plane breaking formation. It’s already late afternoon and most students are in their dorms, so no one will witness my regression into childish—
My foot miscalculates friction. My body rotates approximately one-hundred-sixty degrees. Gravity demonstrates dominance—I crash back-first onto the floor. The Medication Administration Forms burst from my grip and scatter across the hallway like debris from a mid-air explosion.
“Mayday, mayday… No, wait. That’s what they say during the crash, not after…”
A head peeks around the corner of my vision. A student. “Um… are you okay?” she asks gently.
Lavender hair down to her upper back, parted left with perfect symmetry. Two long sidelocks rest on her shoulders. Her ears—pink with dark brown tips—twitch slightly, adorned with a teal bow on the right. Her eyes are large yet sharp, purple with a white pupil—rare phenotype. Striking. Familiar?
“Hey, McQueen, what are you lookin’ at— Oh! That guy totally slipped!”
That high-pitched voice… Tokai Teio? The universe has decided that humiliation alone isn’t enough; it needs witnesses with strong social networks.
I sit up. Teio is already jogging over, McQueen in tow. Oh no. If this goes around the grapevine, I’m going to be known campus-wide as The Form Slip Guy. That’ll haunt me more than a medical lawsuit—
Oh… They’re gathering the forms.
“You must be a nurse, mister,” Teio says cheerfully, scooping up papers at an alarming speed.
McQueen joins her with the efficiency of someone raised on etiquette. “Obviously. You don’t need to ask him.”
By the time I’m on my feet, they’ve collected everything into two neat stacks, each holding one.
Teio grins victoriously. “Heh! I got twenty-six. I win.”
“Huh?” McQueen gives her a look. Not quite a glare—more like a dignified scolding passed down through noble bloodlines. “You really make everything a competition…”
I bow slightly, my gaze still stuck to the floor. “Thanks, you two.”
“No problem! Let’s go, McQueen! Last one to the dorms loses!”
“W—wait! Must you challenge everything?!”
And just like that, they sprint off.
Weird. My chest feels… lighter. I touch my lips.
I’m smiling?
Why?
Maybe because McQueen felt familiar. Maybe because I didn’t get publicly roasted. Maybe because I survived terminal embarrassment. Or maybe she’s popular and I know her but just forgot.
Unsure.
I glance back down the corridor—and freeze.
My notebook lies open on the floor where I dropped it. The page turned to the sketch I drew earlier. The girl with lavender hair, long sidelocks, sharp eyes…
…
?!
Hey, she looks just like—
My… zebra?