"Alright! Today's the big day!"
The prep room was electric. The scent of turf grass and sunlight filtering through the narrow window mixed with the sharp buzz of energy coming off the three Umas standing by the mirror.
McQueen stood tall, her usually elegant composure replaced by bright, confident fire. Beside her, Special Week was bouncing on her heels, her hands gripping her own shirt — a bright pink one with the words "GO MACHAN!" splashed across the front.
And right between them stood Machan herself — Aston Machan — trying her best to stay calm as both her technical seniors showered her with pure, unfiltered hype.
"Machan! You've got this! You've trained so much for this!" Special Week said, voice cracking slightly with excitement as she grinned.
McQueen nodded gracefully. "Indeed. Your stride has improved, your posture is flawless, and your form on the final stretch—" she raised her chin, "—it's near perfect. Victory should be a foregone conclusion."
"V-victory, huh…?" Machan stammered, fiddling with her headband before smiling nervously. "I'll do my best!"
Her tail flicked like a metronome behind her, betraying her nerves.
Then, the door slid open — and in came Akuma.
He wasn't in his usual pristine suit today. The sharp lines and dark coat were gone. Instead, he wore jeans, sneakers, and — to the absolute surprise of everyone — the exact same Machan shirt as McQueen and Special Week.
They all turned to look at him. He just stared back, exhaling deeply as if his very soul had accepted its fate.
"How many times do I have to say this," Akuma muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "It's not about winning. Just have fun out there."
The three stared at him blankly.
"…Akuma," McQueen began, exasperation already creeping into her voice. "Winning is important. We need to repay your efforts."
"Yeah!" Special Week chimed in, puffing her chest. "You've been working so hard for us! If we don't win, then what's the point!?"
Machan, caught in the middle, nodded so vigorously her ponytail swayed like a flag.
Akuma sighed deeply, long and theatrical, before walking over to them. Without saying anything, he raised both hands and began gently patting each of their heads in rotation — McQueen, then Special Week, then Machan.
"Don't worry so much about me," he said softly, a rare smile pulling at his lips. "Just focus on your dreams. That's what I want to see."
All three instantly pouted.
"Ugh, you always say that!" Special Week whined.
"It's frustrating when you make it sound so simple," McQueen muttered, though her face softened slightly.
Machan just laughed nervously, pressing her palms to her cheeks to hide the pink tint there. "Still… thank you, Akumai."
Akuma chuckled. "Go make some memories out there, Machan."
Then, the speakers above crackled to life.
"All Uma Musume, please make your way to the paddock. The Aoba Sho will begin shortly."
Machan's ears twitched at the announcement. She nodded, bouncing slightly on her toes, and turned toward the door with renewed energy.
"Right! Time to go!"
"Give it everything you've got!" McQueen said.
"Go Machan go!" Special Week added.
Akuma raised a thumb, giving her a confident grin. "We'll be watching."
And just like that, Machan dashed off — her steps light, her laughter echoing down the corridor.
The stands of Tokyo Racecourse were alive with color. The sunlight gleamed off banners and flags, the air buzzing with anticipation as fans shouted names and waved merchandise.
And in one particular section of the bleachers…
It was Machan-mania.
Almost every single person from Akuma's circle — faculty and Uma alike — had gathered. And not just gathered, but uniformed.
Akuma took a seat between McQueen and Special Week, both of whom proudly wore their Machan shirts. On his right, Adalbert and Mischa were also matching — though Adalbert had somehow modified his into a vest while Mischa's shirt looked two sizes too small for his massive frame. Even Tachyon, Teio, Daiwa Scarlet, Vodka, Oguri Cap, Manhattan Café, and Gold Ship were all there, a rainbow of Machans and chaos.
And somewhere, sitting among the crowd, was a full-body Machan mascot suit — waving two foam fingers in the air.
Akuma didn't need to guess. He already knew who was inside it. But for once, he chose mercy and said nothing.
"...You all really went all out," Akuma muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Support is essential to morale!" Adalbert said proudly. "Besides, she looks adorable on this shirt, ja?" glancing at Rice Shower who was doing her best to cheer with her small voice.
McQueen nodded firmly. "Agreed. It was the least we could do."
"Also," Mischa added, grinning, "it good shirt. Stretchy."
Akuma just sighed, slumping in his seat as the stadium lights glared across the track.
Then something caught his attention — a flash of pink and purple mane on the turf.
"…Wait a minute."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as the field came into view.
Down below, among the line of Uma Musume warming up for the race, he spotted a familiar cheerful face — pink hair, bright eyes, waving at the crowd with pure joy.
"Haru Urara…?"
His brow furrowed slightly. "She doesn't seem like she was trained for this track."
Adalbert followed his gaze, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You mean the turf?"
"Mm. As far as I'm aware… Haru doesn't run well on it."
Mischa leaned in, nodding. "Da. Feet placement off. She slips."
Even from here, Akuma could see it — her form looked slightly awkward, like she was forcing comfort that wasn't quite there. Still smiling, still waving, but… it wasn't natural.
He frowned but said nothing further, sitting back as the crowd's cheers swelled.
The bell rang.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Tokyo Racecourse! The Aoba Sho will begin momentarily!"
The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers as the Uma lined up, the sun glinting across their brightly colored silks. The crowd leaned forward in collective anticipation, the energy reaching a fever pitch.
Down below, Machan stepped into her lane — her smile wide, her eyes steady.
She looked up toward the stands. For a moment, her gaze swept across the sea of people — until she spotted them.
Akuma, McQueen, Special Week, and all the others waving back at her, cheering.
Her tail flicked. Her chest swelled.
She nodded once, lips curving into that confident, radiant grin that was unmistakably her.
"Alright… let's make it count."
The announcer's voice rose higher.
"And they're off!"
The gates burst open with a clap of sound.
The Uma Musume launched forward, feet pounding against the turf in rhythmic unison — a symphony of speed.
Machan surged from the middle of the pack, her movements smooth and effortless. The sunlight caught her hair as it streamed behind her, glinting like gold and flame.
"Machan's taking an early position in the center!" the announcer shouted, excitement palpable. "She's running steady, maintaining pace, eyes locked forward! That's Aston Machan, folks — looking every bit the ace we've heard about!"
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Akuma's arms were crossed, but even he couldn't stop the faint smile forming on his face.
"She's keeping rhythm well," Adalbert observed, shading his eyes. "Beautiful stride work."
"Da," Mischa agreed. "Calm. Confident. Like she flying."
McQueen was already leaning over the rail, shouting encouragements. "Keep that pace, Machan! You've got this!"
"Go Machan go!!" Special Week yelled beside her, her voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
The first quarter passed — Machan still in the middle, conserving her energy. Her breathing was even, her focus unbroken.
The announcer's tone grew more animated as the field curved around the bend.
"And we're reaching the halfway mark! Machan holding her line perfectly — she's waiting for the opening, I can see it in her eyes!"
Down on the track, Machan's expression sharpened. Her ears tilted back slightly, muscles tightening as she gauged the distance, feeling the rhythm of the runners ahead.
Her heart pounded — not with fear, but with joy.
Because for the first time, the cheers weren't for someone else. They were for her.
Every shout, every chant of her name — it felt like warmth flooding through her veins.
"Akuma-sensei… everyone…" she thought, her smile widening. "You're watching me. So I'll make this race count."
The crowd's roar swelled again as the pack thundered toward the next stretch — the midpoint reached, the real race about to begin.
And in the stands, Akuma leaned forward, his calm eyes fixed solely on her.
"Show me what you've got, Machan," he murmured.