[Gift] Extra Credit

Just one frustrated kick to a stable door back home—and he had ended up here.

Yuki’s anger was obvious to every horse around him. Normally, he wasn’t like this. His handlers had always known him as calm, steady, dependable. But today, he couldn’t help it. His home stables had just introduced a new boarding program across the fountain, and the newcomers were unbearable.

They were all young stallions, about Yuki’s age—four years old—but it was as if they had been raised by wild goats instead of mares. He watched them chew on halters, buck into fences, and nip at their owners’ clothes. What was this, a rehabilitation program? How could any horse be so misbehaved?

The breaking point was their mouths. As Yuki was halter-led out for grooming, they started neighing—loud, constant, mocking.

“Look, it’s one of those Barbie-doll breeds, Ju!”

His head rattled. He groaned, hoping they would stop. They didn’t. Finally, he lashed out with a sharp kick to the stable door. The boom echoed through the hall. Two horses nearby quieted down, but the rest kept on.

Bitterness burned in him. Normally, he was cool-tempered. But today? Today was the cherry on top. Behavioral training camp.

Whitaker Training Camp: for young horses needing saddle-breaking, or those needing correction. Yuki stood lined up with four others, fully tacked. Each had a handler—nervous, inexperienced humans. His own was a teenage girl, probably an intern, judging by her branded t-shirt. He rolled his eyes. At over eighteen hands tall, he was used to handlers showing fear only after aggression. But this one reeked of nerves while he stood perfectly still. What a joke.

“These bridles are too tight,” Yuki muttered, pawing at the sawdust. He was used to bitless bridles back home.

“You call that tight?” rasped a voice. “They put two bits on me. Who does that?”

Yuki turned. A mare, same breed. He groaned. “Oh, brother.”

“Kudos,” she said. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“Then why are we talking?” Yuki neighed. “You’ve got two bits in your mouth. Can’t be easy.”

“Aren’t we friendly today?” she snapped. “With your personality, you’ll have three in by noon.”

“I’m not a troublemaker like the rest of you.”

“Uh-huh. Just a coincidence you’re here.”

Yuki stomped, indignant. What an earsore. If anyone was leaving scot-free today, it was him. He would make sure of it. The mare stiffened, holding her head and tail high, as if for inspection. A declaration of war. Yuki drew his ears back, then straightened his neck and lifted his heavy tail—just in time for the training director to walk past.

“Well, well,” the director said, amused. “These two must have good blood. What are we working on today, showmanship?”

He turned to a volunteer—a nervous teen who didn’t realize it was a joke. “Uh, no, Mr. Cray. Behavioral saddle and halter training.”

Jeremy Cray rolled his eyes. “Well, you’ll all get your community service hours. That’s for sure.”

He clapped twice. “Okay! Let’s get this ball rolling! Two volunteers per horse—crops and boots ready!”

Two volunteers rushed to Yuki and the mare. The mare pinned her ears, uncomfortable with the sudden crowding, but kept her composure. Yuki watched, dryly amused.

“What’s the matter?” he snorted. “Hard to turn off the bad attitude?”

The mare snorted out a puff of hot air. “Shut up.”

The volunteers led the horses from their lineup one by one, jogging them around the outdoor arena at a consistent pace. Yuki took off right before the mare behind him, keeping step with the handlers at his sides. When he tried to turn his neck to see what was happening with the mare, a long crop tapped him in the jaw, making him instinctively face forward again. What did they do that for? he thought immediately. It had been years since he had ever needed to be cropped or tapped by anything. In fact, the last time he had been, he must have been younger than a one-year-old foal. He shook his head and grunted in disbelief. They were handling him like he had never been ridden before.

“Stop it, Prada!” a teenage voice cried out behind him. He could hear heavy hoofsteps from her behind him. Yuki craned his ears toward the voices. So that’s her name, he thought to himself. How ironic.

The lineup of misbehaved horses took a few laps like that, being poked and tapped to keep their gait consistent and heads forward as they trotted. Yuki disliked each and every step of it, but after those laps finished and the equines were lined up again, he felt an air of relief enter his lungs. He sighed peacefully—as peacefully as he could for now. He finally was able to turn his head a little and get a glance at Prada. Her eyes were wide with disdain and she was breathing deeply and quickly, but her posture was controlled and balanced. She was certainly keeping it together the best that she could. A little thought of pity came into Yuki’s mind, feeling a little bad for this younger mare being in this situation. She seemed like a decent horse, not deserving of all this discipline or restriction. He quickly turned away, shaking himself out of it. No, he thought. She’s super rude. There’s no way she doesn’t belong here.

“Good job, kiddos,” Jeremy called, re-entering the arena. “But that was just a warm-up, okay guys? Everything looked great to me so far though, so great job.”

Yuki immediately noticed that all the teenagers seemed pleased with themselves, judging from their smiles and happy chit-chat between themselves. Yuki became indignant at this. There was no way this sorry excuse of a director thought that all that poking was necessary for all of the horses here. Resentment for this human stirred up inside of him, but he did his best to suppress it.

“We’re making the most out of today, everybody,” Jeremy continued. “Now, two at a time, I want one volunteer on the ground and the other mounted. You’re going to stir up the saddle, but don’t get nervous—the horses can sense that.”

Yeah, we sure do, Yuki thought. He wasn’t looking forward to even a second of this upcoming exercise.

“Wobble, hop, lean, bounce, you name it. Do it all and get the horse riled up if you can. The other volunteer will be on the ground correcting the horse’s response. If anything goes awry, I’m right here. Now get to it.” Jeremy finished up his instructions with a casual attitude, but Yuki sensed something sociopathic about this guy—or at least enjoyed imagining it. It was easier to pretend this human was messed up in the head than to believe that any part of this next exercise was useful in any way.

Just as Yuki correctly predicted, this exercise was immediately awful. The teenager that mounted him, even though she was surprisingly lightweight, was clearly a beginner rider. She kicked him on her way up into the saddle, slid the saddle too far back when she settled into the seat, and pulled on the reins way too hard. The bouncing, shaking, and wiggling were also downright annoying. All the while, the calm reaction he was having was only causing more problems for him. The other volunteer was circling around him, tapping him with the crop and trying to find something to correct him for. All Yuki could do was swish his tail angrily and shift his balance against the weight of the rider. The tail movement wasn’t even enough to alert anyone to how he felt because it was so long and heavy. Compared to a normal horse, it just looked like regular idling. He fought to keep his ears forward and not pressed back with discomfort—they floated somewhere in the middle in order to keep his irritation hidden from the human handlers.

Prada wasn’t handling it quite so collectedly—she was tense and wide-eyed, breathing heavily from all the stimulation. She must have started off strong, because her second volunteer on the ground was also tapping her incessantly, trying to stir up a reaction. Something was screaming to Yuki that this camp wasn’t about ethical training methods, but instead about whoever could “fix” the problem horse the most. He was praying he wasn’t right about that.

Just then, an unexpected sound approached the atmosphere—a deep-pitched barking of a dog. Maybe a German shepherd or similar protective breed. Yuki heard it and hoped that no new life-forms were about to enter the training arena, but an unexpected reaction followed after. Panicked, distressed hoof stomps and desperate neighs erupted beside him. Prada was having a complete meltdown. Yuki whipped his head around to see her, and his heart sank when he saw her. Her eyes were wide with anxiety, ripping away from the volunteers with a powerful rear. The teenagers quickly ran away, making it obvious that they had no real experience with problem horses. None of them probably did. They probably all showed up to put some impressive service hours on their resumes.

Yuki’s heart hurt for Prada. He himself had no real issues with pets, but clearly something must have happened to make her react this way. His attention was solely on her at that moment.

“Where, where…” Prada was muttering through distressed groans and heavy pants.

Her footsteps were heavy, disorganized, and defensive. She seemed to be guarding her legs with the way she was moving. Yuki wondered if that meant that her fear was based on a dog bite or similar attack. Either way, Yuki was struggling to stay uninvolved. He had grown up in different boarding stables before finding a home, and had met horses who wanted nothing to do with dogs or goats before. There was always a reason. However, the volunteers seemed to be responding differently than his own would have—he was watching as ropes were being retrieved and the director was involving himself. Yuki became more upset as he saw this unfolding. Lassoing a scared horse was not the appropriate next move. How would this trainer not realize this? Something wasn’t right. Even still, the trainers moved in anyway.

They swung their ropes with practiced, careless confidence. “Here here, girly,” Jeremy said with a deceptive sweetness, hands in the air while the other volunteers let the braided loops whistle through the air. One lasso landed around Prada’s neck; another snapped tight behind her ears and under her jaw. She squealed and lunged, sand exploding under her hooves. Instead of backing off, one of the older volunteers threw a second loop low. It hooked around her front leg, then slid to her ankle, yanking it out from under her. Prada crashed down onto her side with a sickening thud, the impact sending a puff of dust into the air. Her breath exploded out of her in a rough grunt. She flailed once, twice, then lay trembling, eyes white-rimmed and wild. What made it worse is that Jeremy showed no sign of remorse. Instead, he chuckled with satisfaction at the result.

Yuki surged forward with a roar of instinct, muscles bunching beneath the saddle, but the volunteers at his sides tightened the lead ropes. Hands clamped onto his bridle, restricting even his head movements. His rider clutched at the reins, jerking his mouth open uncomfortably. Even still, he tried. He dragged the two humans at his flanks a few steps, snorting furiously, but more volunteers swarmed around him, hemming him in with crops and outstretched hands. His nostrils flared as the dust from Prada’s fall drifted over to him. He could smell her fear, and it was breaking his heart into pieces.

“Easy, easy!” someone nearby gasped, bracing against his shoulder. “Hold him—hold him!”

He watched helplessly while Prada was dragged to her feet, ropes cutting into her coat. Her legs shook beneath her, and her sides heaved as the dog barked again from somewhere beyond the arena fence.

“Get her to the punishment stall,” Jeremy snapped, his voice suddenly cold and efficient. “If she wants to act like that, she can cool off out there.”

“The punishment stall?” Yuki repeated in disbelief, ears pinning at the phrase.

Two volunteers led Prada away at a brisk, jerky trot, her head forced down by the reins. The ropes were still trailing from her sides. The dog’s barking trailed off in the distance, still barking. For all Yuki knew, that dog was never even at this facility to begin with. Prada’s hooves stumbled against the packed dirt path, but she did not scream again. She walked like a horse trying very hard not to crumble. Her head was hung low, ashamed and defeated by her own fear.

To Yuki’s utter disgust, training continued as if nothing had happened. He stood fuming as Jeremy ordered everyone back into pairs. The next rounds of work blurred together: another session of halter training, then more saddle training. They circled, reversed, and halted. The humans praised each other for “progress.” Each command felt like sand in Yuki’s teeth. The first session of training was a total waste of time for him, and so boring that he was being driven insane with worry for Prada the whole time. Instead of direct halter-holding, the volunteers led him with a longer lead, but also with longer crops. Yuki’s absentmindedness was probably becoming obvious through his unsteady gait. The sharp whip of the long crops kept striking his ankles, and with each strike, he could feel his desire to rebel become stronger. He entered training with a desire to win this silent battle of “most obedient horse”, but without Prada there, there was no point in competing with himself. Besides, the leaders at this camp had no idea what bad behavior even was. They would tap him just for slowing down a little when one of the volunteers slowed down for one pace to catch their breath. He grudgingly stepped through each of the ground poles during this additional halter work, turning and backing up on cue while a volunteer tugged at the lead attached to his face. As far as he knew, he had behaved perfectly, because that was how he had been raised. But every time he passed the gate Prada had been led through, his chest tightened. He kept imagining where they might have taken her. A dark corner. A tiny pen. A stall where no one bothered to listen. The unknown was sprouting such wild imaginations of where she could be, and not knowing the truth was driving him even more mad.

The second saddle session was worse, especially with how these events were dragging out more and more. They had “graduated” to a single rider now: one volunteer in the saddle, and Jeremy in the center of the arena with a whistle and a clipboard. The only benefit to this phase was that there were no more side-walkers. No one around him with a crop. He was even afforded the small comfort of a rider who probably rode a horse at least once before considering the way they were not tugging his reins all the way into his neck. To the humans, this meant they finally trusted him. To Yuki, it was the bare minimum of good behavior. He never should have been sent here over a single kick in the first place.

He realized, slowly and then all at once, that obedience wasn’t going to help Prada at all.

The only way to help her is to get out of here, he thought grimly. Okay, Yuki. Misbehave. Like, REALLY misbehave. Think, think…

He was clearly in the home stretch, the last set of circles at the posting trot, with a saddle training session that involved one rider supervised by Jeremy in the center. The intern on his back had finally found a rhythm that barely jostled him. Sweat trickled down his neck from the earlier drills. Jeremy called out, “Looking good, Yuki! That’s what we like to see.”

But Yuki decided he hated the sound of that. He stopped dead.

The rider yelped, pitching forward and clutching at his mane. Jeremy’s whistle shrieked.

“Keep him going!” Jeremy shouted. “Don’t let him quit on you, stay in the green!”

Instead of moving forward, Yuki backed up. One, two, three sharp, deliberate steps. His eyes burned with an indignant fire. He was going to jump the fence and find Prada, killing two birds with one stone.

The rider lost her balance completely, squeaking as the reins went slack. The arena rail loomed behind him. Yuki crouched, coiled, and then launched.

He jumped the arena fence in a single, powerful surge, clearing the top board with inches to spare. The rider clung to him with a panicked scream, arms wrapped around his neck as they landed hard on the other side. Sand flew everywhere. For the first time all day, the teenagers truly panicked.

“Hey! Grab him! NOW!” Jeremy bellowed.

The teenagers all gathered together, scratching their heads. The other horses looked just as dumbfounded as their handlers. “But um, Mr. Cray? He jumped the fence?”

Jeremy’s whistle blew again and again, shrill and useless. “Gotta do everything myself,” he muttered, pulling his jacket off of his waist and throwing it on. He left the arena in a hurry, heading to his mode of transport to catch them.

Yuki bolted into a gallop, hooves pounding across the training grounds. He felt the rider’s weight bouncing on his back, but he ignored her, stretching his long legs. The wind tore at his mane and the reins slapped against his neck as he ran. He saw everything now, not in fragments, but in one awful sweep of motion. He galloped past a round pen where a small pony was tied with a harsh tie-down, its head yanked so low its nose nearly scraped the dirt. A teenager sat on a fence behind it, laughing and ignoring the poor pony’s discomfort, long crop in hand for some sort of unknown way of disciplining it. He thundered past a narrow paddock where a thin, gray hot-blooed mare was being chased in circles on the end of a line, fully tacked with heavy, oversized equipment and no rider. Foam flecked her chest and neck, and her sides heaved. A plastic bucket of water sat just out of reach outside the fence, untouched. No doubt on purpose. He streaked by a row of stocks where a young colt stood immobilized, legs hobbled so tightly that he could barely shift his weight. An ill-fitting, heavy curb bit sat in his mouth while a volunteer yanked the reins down to his chest, testing “flexion” with brute force. There was no excuse for such a young colt to be fitted with riding equipment. The frail thing was too small to carry a rider above the size and weight of a human toddler. The sights curled Yuki’s stomach. What was this place so esteemed for?

To his left, he caught a glimpse of a line up of horses in too small of a grazing pasture, all marked with bright white streaks caused by saddle pinching. They searched for grass to eat in this muddy “pasture”, clearly indicating that the ground was overgrazed long, long ago and nothing was ever done about it. To his right, a skinny thoroughbred wore a muzzle strapped so tight around its nose that it could hardly open its mouth, its eyes dull and resigned. This horse was carrying a rider, someone above one of the volunteers, who was staring out at them with wide, idiotic eyes. Near a storage shed, two volunteers waved plastic bags and tarps in a gelding’s face, laughing as he tried to escape the corner, only to be yanked back hard each time. An electric prod hung casually from a hook beside the door, as if it were just another piece of equipment. Somewhere unseen, a foal of training age cried aloud—a high, thin whinny that sounded like it had been calling for a long time.

This place needs to be wiped from the map, Yuki thought, fury beating in time with his strides. He skidded around a pile of manure bins and cut behind the main barn, searching. His ears flicked, tracking voices and the clink of metal latches. Finally, he caught a sound that punched straight through him: a quiet, raspy groan he recognized as Prada’s. There, tucked far behind the other stables, stood a small, isolated shed. Its boards were older, darker, and taller than the arena fences. A crooked wooden sign had been nailed above the door, letters hastily painted in red: PUNISHMENT STALL. The shed sat away from everything, as if the camp itself were ashamed of it and yet refused to let it go. There were no other horses nearby, no water troughs, no hay nets. Just a bare, trampled strip of dirt and a single, lonely window covered by thick bars. Yuki slid to a halt in front of the door, his rider shrieking as she nearly flew over his head. He had one more problem to solve.

A pile of loose hay sat nearby, a soft, messy mountain waiting to be moved. Yuki eyed it, then carefully backed toward it. The rider, already off-balance, clutched at the reins.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Yuki took one last step back, then gave a sharp, deliberate hop and a twist of his shoulders, moving the force of his jump from the front of his body through to his back hips. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to send her airborne. She toppled backward with a squeal and landed in the hay with a muffled whump, arms and legs flailing. Yuki knew she was fine. But more importantly, she was off his back. Yuki shook off his poorly-fitted saddle, unbuckling the incorrectly-secured girthstrap. Feeling the sudden lightness across his back, he decided to make sure of the rest of his tack to suit the next steps of his plan. The reins dangled down his neck. He snorted, grabbed them between his teeth, and turned to the stall door. The latch was an old, iron hook, looped through an eye bolt just within his reach. It wasn’t built with clever horses in mind. He hooked the leather reins around the latch, then tugged, feeling the metal scrape and grind. It took a few tries, and the rider’s groans from the hay pitched higher as she popped up out of the pile. She gasped and ran off in the opposite direction. She hadn’t signed up to volunteer at a facility where the horses took over, not in a million years.

The latch finally popped free with a metallic clank, and the door creaked open a few inches. Instead of wheeling around and bolting with Prada into the open air, Yuki nudged the door wider and stepped inside. The punishment stall was barely big enough for two horses, and it smelled of old sweat and stale air. The hay in here had probably been sitting here for a century, judging from the faint moldy odor of it. The walls were high, and the only light came from the tiny barred window. Dust motes drifted in the beam like tired fireflies. Prada lay in the far corner, head hung low, halter rope tied so short that her nose hovered just above the bedding. Her mane was tangled with bits of straw, and a faint rope burn marked the hair above one fetlock. Her sides trembled with the remnants of panic, and every breath she took came out sharp and shaky. She did not look like the defiant, high-headed mare he had met that morning.

“Prada,” Yuki said softly, stepping close. “It’s me, Yuki.” His voice came out more worried than he liked.

Her ears flicked, and she slowly lifted her head, eyes finding his. For a heartbeat, surprise replaced the fear there.

“Yuki?” Her voice wobbled, but she tried to quickly switch it to something more assertive. “You’re not supposed to be in here. You’re supposed to be out there, and the first one getting the call to be sent back home.”

He ignored her. Instead, he stomped powerfully down on the halter lead, snapping the metal hook mechanism and allowing her to move head head again. He approached until his chest almost touched her shoulder, then carefully rested his thick neck over hers, draping it like a warm blanket. His mane brushed against her, and his breath fanned across her cheek.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Breathe. In… out.”

It was a simple rhythm, the same one he remembered from his first home, when an older gelding had done this for him after a storm. In, and then out. In, then out. Slowly, Prada’s breaths began to match his. The frantic shudder in her sides eased. Her muscles relaxed under the weight of his neck. For the first time since the dog’s bark, she stopped shaking.

Outside, the sound of running footsteps pounded closer. Voices echoed.

“He went this way! Check the back paddock!”

The punishment stall door, still partly ajar, suddenly swung wider. Jeremy appeared in the doorway with three volunteers clustered behind him, the smell of gasoline dripping off of him from taking some sort of four-wheeler to find him. How much more awful can this guy get? Yuki thought immediately. He can’t even ride a horse to get around a literal equine training facility? He shook his mane disapprovingly. Jeremy winced, almost as if he could feel it in the air.

The scene included Yuki’s rider, bits of hay still stuck in her hair. Instead of two dangerous, unruly horses, they saw Yuki and Prada standing quietly, pressed together like old friends. Yuki’s neck still rested over hers, their foreheads nearly touching. Both horses were calm, eyes soft, breathing slow. Jeremy’s hand dropped from the crop at his side. For a second, his confident director mask slipped.

“Well,” he said slowly. “Would you look at that.”

One of the teenage volunteers whispered, “Uhh… So they’re just standing there?”

Another one, the hay-covered rider, gulped. “Mr. Cray, he… he backed me off on purpose. But he didn’t attack me. He could have, but he didn’t.”

Jeremy cleared his throat, trying to recover his authority. “All right, everyone? Relax. No screaming, no chasing. Just… bring the halters. Quietly, please?”

No one moved right away. Inside the stall, Prada let out a tiny huff of laughter against Yuki’s neck.

“So,” she muttered, voice still shaky but laced with her usual bite, “this is your idea of not being a troublemaker?”

Yuki snorted. “You’re welcome for the rescue. I didn’t see any other horse jumping fences for you.”

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes as best she could with his neck draped over hers. “You call that a rescue? You opened the door and… walked in. A real superhero stallion would at least take the mare back home before cuddling her.”

“I could lead you to freedom,” he said, a little smug. “But they’d probably just lasso us both like the barbarians they apparently are. At least if you’re calm, they might think twice before throwing another rope.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “Okay. Fine. This is… Maybe kind of smart.”

“And I’m sorry,” Yuki added quietly, almost too low for her to hear. “For earlier. For acting like you belonged here more than I did.”

Prada snorted, the sound softer than usual. “I’m sorry, too. For saying you’d have three bits by noon. The lack of enthusiasm really didn’t make things easier.”

He chuckled. “You were wrong anyway. I handled it just fine with one.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she shot back. “We both know they’re going to make us pay for this tomorrow.”

He glanced past her, seeing the volunteers preparing new halters and leads to replace the ones Yuki had ruined.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “And day two is going to be hell.”

“Obstacle courses, more barking dogs, probably a new creative way to yank our faces around,” she said dryly. “Maybe they’ll throw in some flaming hoops for us to jump through just for fun.”

“Let them try,” Yuki said, shifting his weight to lean a little more comfortably against her. “I’ve seen what they’re really like now. And I know where the punishment stall is. If they drag you back here again, I can find you.”

Prada nudged his chest with her nose. “That goes both ways, you know. If they decide Mr. Perfect Student needs an attitude adjustment, I’ll be offended if they don’t put you in the same awful shed.”

“So we’re in agreement?” Yuki asked. “Day two? We’ll just survive it. Together.”

“As friends,” she said firmly, as if testing the word.

He let it settle between them, surprisingly light. Yuki grunted happily, touching her muzzle gently–a peace offering of some kind. Prada recoiled at it, as if unfamiliar with affectionate touches. Little known to her, this was what Yuki was secretly best at, thanks to the environments he grew up in.

“As friends,” he agreed.

Behind Jeremy, the volunteers finally began to move, approaching the stall with slow, cautious steps instead of the frantic rush from before. They saw two horses standing close, breathing in sync, no ropes needed to hold them still. Prada lifted her head just enough to give Yuki a sideways look.

“Race you to see who learns faster tomorrow?” she whispered.

“Only if you promise not to earn a fourth bit before warm-up,” he replied. “I’d hate to beat you by default.”

She smirked. “You wish.”

They knew they were in for a hellish day two of training, with more drills, more shouting, and more of Jeremy’s clipboard. But now, the punishment stall felt a little less like a prison and more like the place they had quietly decided to start over. Whatever Whitaker Training Camp threw at them next, they were in it together now–not only as friends, but as warriors.