Song couldn’t shake the feeling that Secretariat’s attitude was a little off, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. All she could do was obediently stay in this reliable senior’s embrace, soaking in that damnable sense of safety, then close her eyes and decide not to think about anything strange.
How long had she been in Secretariat’s arms?
Song didn’t know—only that while she was seeking comfort like this, Secretariat had received several calls. But the veteran had, in an almost willful fashion, hung up each one without even answering to hear what they were about.
During that ti, Song had tried once or twice to slip out of her arms. After all, her own troubles were small—things she had the strength to process alone. There was no need to take up Secretariat’s ti.
But the Old Monster #2 showed her strength without hesitation—just tightening her arm around Song’s shoulders and giving her a gaze that brooked no refusal.
"Right now, nothing is more important than you. You are, at this mont, the one in the whole world who needs the most. Isn’t that so?"
Hearing that—what could Song even say in rebuttal?
She didn’t speak. Or rather, she didn’t want to refuse. She simply closed her eyes and stopped thinking.
"You’re the one who made rember those things from before... so, mm... you’re responsible."
Well, if Secretariat was saying that, then it wasn’t her fault, was it? Or maybe it ant she had no reason—no right—to resist this kind of sentint.
After all, it was Secretariat’s own decision that made her think about those strange, unwanted mories.
And so—wasn’t it fine to accept it with an easy heart?
Gotham Song, you really do need a warm place to lean on right now.
With that self-comfort, her thoughts slowed, her awareness blurred, and at so point, she fell completely asleep.
Even after she was asleep, Secretariat didn’t let go—didn’t leave her alone to face the cold, empty air of the lounge.
This Song needed her. Even if she was sleeping, that wouldn’t change.
Unaware, Secretariat’s lips curled faintly. She lifted a strand of silver hair, gazing at the sleeping girl breathing softly against her chest. For a mont, a strange impulse flickered through her—
But her self-control was frighteningly strong. She pushed away the errant thought and simply enjoyed the quiet atmosphere of a world that, for now, held only the two of them.
Sohow... it felt unexpectedly good.
She let herself sink into it. And while Song slept soundly, she knew nothing of what ca after. The first thing she felt upon "reconnecting" with the world was a violent jolt.
Her body slamd back against a car seat—not a very soft one—and only then did she slowly wake. She opened her eyes—not to a strange ceiling, but to sothing completely filling her field of vision.
A chest.
Whose... wait, why am I here?!
Her brain froze for a mont, but then she recognized the owner from her clothing.
Thinking that her awakening had gone unnoticed, Song turned over, pressing her forehead against Secretariat’s stomach, and started giving the faintest, petty little head-butts in revenge.
When she’d been caught up in the mont earlier, it hadn’t struck her—but now, with a cool head... ugh, that had been so embarrassing!
What the hell? How could soone as strong as act so weak just now?!
She couldn’t figure it out—couldn’t forgive it. And worse, the whole thing had been witnessed by soone she knew.
And of all people—it had to be the Old Monster #2!
Unforgivable. I’ll headbutt you to death.
Song kept up her sulky assault, until a pair of warm hands rested gently against the back of her head.
"Dancing Brave, tell —if Song knew she’d been princess-carried by the two of us in turns, in front of everyone, to the car—what would her reaction be?"
"Ha—?!"
Song instinctively pushed up off Secretariat’s knees, even bumping her head against the softness above—but she kept pressing until she was fully upright, suddenly intruding into the line of sight between the two old monsters, staking her presence loud and clear.
"Her reaction? Her reaction would be exactly like this, wouldn’t it?"
Dancing Brave was driving in front, exchanging a look with Secretariat via the rearview mirror. Song couldn’t see the Old Monster #3’s eyes, but she could hear the deep undercurrent of teasing amusent in her tone.
You—#3—and Secretariat—what do you an "princess-carried in turns in front of everyone"?!
She couldn’t understand it—really couldn’t!
"Oh, so you’re willing to get up now, Song? Well then—good morning."
"Good morning—no, wait, answer the question first!"
Secretariat even had the leisure to greet her. In truth, she’d known the mont she felt movent against her stomach that the little one was awake—but she hadn’t wanted to interrupt such an almost-playful, almost-affectionate act of "revenge."
It wasn’t until a whim had prompted her to say those words to Brave that she’d gotten this reaction. Brave had understood instantly, and Song’s response hadn’t been outside either of their expectations.
She’d fluffed up like a cat overwheld by embarrassnt.
So that legendary figure I’d never t is actually such an adorable child. ...Not bad.
"You really want to know what happened, Miss Song?"
"Isn’t that obvious?! That’s we’re talking about—I—I—ugh, just tell what happened already!"
Song was visibly on the verge of losing it.
Secretariat decided she’d teased her enough—if she kept going, she might get scratched.
...Why did it feel like getting scratched by such a cute Miss Song wouldn’t be so bad?
"Cough, cough. Secretariat?"
"All right, all right—I’ll tell you. So, after you fell asleep, the event ended. I carried you to the parking area..."
She spoke slowly, deliberately. Song didn’t interrupt—just listened, her face gradually flushing.
"...When we got to the car, there was a bit of trouble. I couldn’t exactly throw you straight into the backseat, so I handed you to Dancing Brave for a princess carry, took my seat here, and then took you back from inside. And the rest—you know already, right?"
"Strictly speaking, everyone saw her carrying you the whole way. I just gave a little help at the end. But..."
Brave’s voice joined in, laced with obvious laughter.
"But a carry’s a carry. Duration doesn’t matter, does it?"
"Anyway—everyone saw it."
Now Secretariat looked a little helpless, shrugging like it was nothing.
Just like that.
Song was silent. Then she slid away from Secretariat, curling up in the far corner of the seat, hands clamped over her flushed face.
This—this kind of thing—how can I face people again?!
This was far stranger than just going on stage to read a script.
The collapse of composure can happen in an instant. Under the two "kindly" gazes on her, the once-"combative" Song fell completely silent.
But the trembling was fleeting. With startling speed, she recovered her composure—sitting up straight, posture immaculate, eyes forward, every bit the picture of elegance.
The change was so extre that, if Secretariat couldn’t still see the faint pink along her neck, she’d have wondered if she was hallucinating.
Tentatively, she called out.
"...Miss Song?"
"Yes, I’m here, Miss Secretariat. Is there anything you need my help with?"
Her manners were flawless, her poise impeccable—so unlike the Gotham Song they knew that Secretariat could only fall into a stunned silence.
In the driver’s seat, Brave burst into laughter—slamming on the brakes, swerving into a side road, and finding a place to park.
Why?
Because she had to laugh.
And she kept laughing, even doubled over on the steering wheel, not stopping.
Secretariat couldn’t help a small smile herself. She hadn’t expected it to end like this.
How to describe it?
If this Miss Song were a proper young lady from so grand family, she’d be praised for her impeccable upbringing—except, with the na "Gotham Song," it all just... fell apart.
Would this Miss Song really sit so calmly, so serenely, even with Brave on the verge of laughing herself unconscious at what had just happened?
The answer—of course not.
Maybe, possibly, the Gotham Song they knew had just died a little.
Ah, dead again. Would she revive from the Afterlife this ti?
No one knew how long it took for them all to cool off, but in the end they decided to leave the car there, call a driver to take it back, and walk the rest of the way to jiro Manor.
Three horse girls—three among the top ranks of history’s legends. The short walk was nothing for them. Apart from not moving at their fastest, they still made it back before the sun had fully set.
And the most exhausted of the three—the one who collapsed onto the sofa the mont they got in—was the youngest and supposedly strongest: Gotham Song.
Why? Because Secretariat and Brave, as dignified adults, hadn’t worn especially formal attire, but their natural presence and renown were enough. And both were tall—imposingly so.
By contrast, Song—short, dressed in the frilly Lolita dress Secretariat had bought her, and on top of that wearing platform shoes.
By the ti they neared ho, she could no longer keep up her "elegant" act. Fatigue and sore feet restored her to her true self, and the last stretch was done with an arm around her waist, half-carrying her inside.
And so, Song reached one firm conclusion—
If her height was sothing she couldn’t change, then fine—so be it. But she would never again torture herself with platform shoes just for a little extra height.
At this height, she was still Gotham Song. Nothing wrong with that.
After resting on the sofa, still feeling the sting in her feet, Song was helped into the bath by jiro Ardan. That night, lying in bed, she let out a long sigh at how much had happened in one day.
Such a turbulent day... Maybe going to Central to see Teio had been the big mistake?
She couldn’t say. Closing her eyes, she shifted closer to Ardan at her side—hugging her sister’s arm, warm and affectionate.
Hehe... Ardan-nee really is the best of the best.
You two old monsters—
I hate you both the most!
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