Fandom: Uma Musume: Pretty Derby
Rating: G
Characters/relationships: Agnes Tachyon (a hint of PokeTaki and Cafe makes an appearance)
Warnings: Mentions of depression
Summary:
Agnes Tachyon runs.
Against her better judgement and all her rational sense.
or:
Picking up where BOANE left off at that bridge after the Japan Cup.
Author note:
"Tachyon climbs out of her depressive episode" the fic. But an admittedly more carefree approach to the physical side of it than the official novel did (which I only read later).
---Agnes Tachyon runs.
She runs along the roads of Tokyo, runs after swearing off running for good, runs despite it being, by her own carefully measured admission, something better left to others. Runs recklessly, messily and like her damn life depends on it.
Against her better judgement and all her rational sense.
Because the brightest subject of her greatest experiment broke out of the set parameters. Because the hollow coldness in her chest as she was being left behind proved too much to bear. Worse than the threat of shattered legs, worse than the resigned bitterness of her later research, so much worse than the fear lingering beneath her praised rationality.
It's almost a mockery, how good it feels: the wind in her hair, the strain in her chest, her feet pounding the road like it's endless and she's invincible and not fragile at all.
Once she ran while holding herself back. Then she ran as a last hurrah, burning out to leave a legacy.
What she hadn't done in a long while is running for the sake of running.
Like she did when she was a child, chasing her older sister around. Like she did as a small teen, sneaking out the window of her room and running outside despite the family doctors forbidding her from doing so.
Her muscles are whining after months of being holed up in her lab, twisted on her chair like a miserable shrimp. Her lungs are burning. Her school-issued uniform shoes are a far cry from running ones.
She's pretty sure she's crying. Hard to tell when the air resistance is ripping the droplets away along with sweat pouring down her face. Her throat is sore from screaming out years worth of pent up grief she never let anyone in on.
This is all so stupid. And it's admittedly Jungle Pocket's fault. Stupid, factually brilliant Jungle Pocket who re-lit inside her a fire no umamusume can resist. It's not in their psychology. Or perhaps even biology? Physiology, possibly? Food for later thought. Might be worth exploring.
By the time Tachyon reaches Tracen, her leg is aching. Uniform thoroughly sweated through, hair clinging to her drenched face in clumps, muscles shaking with exhaustion.
Once again, worth reiterating: incredibly stupid. Irrational. For no use, reason or tangible benefit. And yet she can’t find it in herself to complain or regret it.
She marches through the Academy, still breathing heavily, barely blinking in her focus to get where she needs to. Doesn't care for the stares and questioning looks — when did she ever? She has research. Discarded research that she shelved after Plan A was abandoned and Plan B became a liability on her consciousness. Perhaps it's time to admit that she made a wrong decision. That there was never a Plan B that would satisfy her.
That she wants to run and to deny it would be a disservice to the very nature of their bodies she was so committed to researching.
When she throws open the door of her and Cafe's sanctuary, she's stopped in her tracks by a wave of stale air that smacks her in the face. In the darkness of the room piles of boxes and abandoned equipment loom over her, intimidating and unwelcoming. Since when is this classroom so small?
Her face involuntarily twists as her eyes scan the trashbags and messy clutter all over the floor and every horizontal surface. She always seemingly thrived in chaos, that much is true, but it had a system, an innate order familiar only to her. This isn't that. This is a desperate mess of someone slipping. It’s startling to recognize that someone as herself.
The only spot unclaimed by the disaster is Cafe's corner, left respectfully untouched. And yet there's a layer of dust at the coffee table.
When did Cafe stop coming? Did Tachyon even notice? She had to, right? Yet now she struggles to remember. In her memories there's a fog in her head, and pain in her dry eyes staring at the screen of her laptop long past any practical purpose, and nausea building at the edge of her throat from lack of proper nutrition, and a sinking sticky dread inside of her that's begging her to move, to do anything at all, howling in misery when nothing else in her body finds any motivation to react.
Perhaps it's not surprising that Cafe stopped tolerating her company. Funny that, after all her exasperation at Tachyon being loud and nosy and chasing her around with vials, what did it for her was Tachyon being quiet and not bothering her that much at all.
(Which is also a curious topic of inquiry. For later.)
Yes, for someone supposedly researching the limits of speed based on other subjects' performance she was definitely doing a pathetic job of it, rotting here alive. So much for "stimulating their growth" when ultimately they all proved more than capable of moving forward without her.
Okay. Maybe "pathetic" is not quite the word for this. A scientist that she is, Tachyon has to admit that blaming someone stuck in a dopamine deficit no amount of sugar could replenish is illogical and needlessly cruel.
That said, there's a more pressing matter. Which is, the state of the room is quickly threatening to suck her back into the same suffocating melancholy, therefore cannot be left unattended. So Tachyon takes a deep breath with a blank expression she currently has no one to mask for, steels her shaky legs and rolls up her sleeves.
There's no one around at this hour, so she just drags everything unwanted out into the hall. The Student Council will surely be on her tail about it later. Doesn't matter. Right now she just needs it gone.
It starts slow, but by the half mark she's throwing those boxes and trash bags hard, like they personally spited her.
It feels weirdly cathartic. Begone and suck on it, trash, you failed to bury me alive. Or something of that nature.
Fascinating. Is she really attributing the bitterness of her depression to inanimate objects now? Hm. Behavioral theory of aggression, perhaps. Releasing your frustrations on something you can control and abuse instead of some unreachable intangible thing like "fate" or "chronic illness". Curious, she never really found herself resorting to such methods.
Then again, for example, she had never before screamed as she ran either. Always considered it nonsensical, actually. What a needless waste of oxygen resources. That said, now, with a new perspective gained, maybe she'd do well to actually study the theoretical link between acceleration and vocalization.
She definitely knows a perfect subject for that one.
It's fortunate that she's perfectly able to work with her hands and think of other things at the same time, because her thoughts are spiraling in a dozen different theoretical directions. It feels good though. Finally her brain is back to its normal activity instead of dully throbbing in her head unresponsive to any promising mental stimuli and morbidly unintrigued by any of her favorite research topics.
It's less fortunate that by the time she clears out all clutter and takes actual time to properly dispose of some chemicals that definitely expired under her inattention the exhaustion from her unplanned run is hitting her full force. And what a run that was. No warm up, no cool down, no precaution, Goddesses, it's laughable, truly. And it's her who made such sarcastic comments on the desperation of others just a short while ago! When truly and evidently she's the most desperate one of them all!
Which she decidedly doesn't plan on letting anyone know, by the way. That is the only reason why, after half-heartedly dusting off her desk and a workstation behind it she leaves the coffee table to be handled by Cafe — if Cafe's ever coming back. Logically, she has to. Her coffee machine is still here. Anyway, after doing all that and officially giving up, Tachyon very begrudgingly and internally complaining to no one drags herself to her dorm room, blesses the atoms of the universe that Digital is not there, grabs a spare uniform, shoves herself in a shower to erase the evidence of her questionable irrationality, drags herself back to the lab, makes her sweet concoction of a tea and prays that the straight hit of sweet old glucose breathes life in her cursed wrecked body again. For somewhere deep inside she's fearing the possibility of going to sleep and losing this spark again by morning. No, she plans to ride this out for as long as she can.
Oh, and she throws the curtains open, letting back in the dreaded voices of students running outside.
And light. So much light.
The sun catcher spills colorful dancing splotches all over the room, and Tachyon takes a minute sitting at the windowsill, sipping her tea. Annoying to admit, but the sight does immediately remind her again of Pocket. Of her ever-present necklace, yes, but also of her standing in that doorframe on the other side of the room and trying to reach out a hand when everyone, including Tachyon herself, had already given up on her. Reach out for reasons decidedly unknown, since until extremely recently Tachyon hadn't considered emotions and interpersonal relationships anything worthy of research for her particular purposes. Perhaps she's been mistaken in that. Well, you live and you learn.
It doesn't entirely escape her notice that by tearing down the walls of her depression cocoon she also tore down the only barrier that stopped Pocket from barreling into her personal space again last time they talked, but the metaphor there is definitely way too far along the potential research path to dwell on it.
Instead she thinks of Pocket's running. Her form, yes, desperation, sure, and yet it's something else, unnamed, that hooked Tachyon at the ribs and tore open everything she took such great care to deny herself.
How dare, honestly. But it's what she has to work with, now.
She hears the rhythmic clack of heels before she feels her feet move involuntarily in a hungry staccato against the floor. Okay. So, running instinct, still present. Evidently, she has to get herself out there before it eats her alive. Or finishes that job, rather. Bothersome, changing her plans like that, yet she's not really mad about it, all things considered.
No one likes to admit they miscalculated, is all. But a good scientist is always capable of it.
Putting the mug aside, Tachyon starts yanking open folders and desk drawers, retrieving old projects. The cooling spray prototype. The ligament strengthening formula. The unfinished research on regeneration boost that was put on hold because the first iteration made Fuji Kiseki's skin entirely blue for a whole day upon experimentation.
Fuji, huh. Another person who she sees less of these days, while Pocket does plenty. She'd feel something embarrassingly trivial like a pang of jealousy, maybe, but it occurs to her she's now somehow part of the Pokke club, too, so you could say she gets it.
Well, no, she doesn't get it, there are heaps of field tests to be done before she makes any sense of it, but she can relate. That much is enough for now.
Shooing the other racer out of her mind, she falls back into a familiar, comfortable rhythm, hands flying, vials clinking, keyboard clacking, margins of papers getting covered in messy notes only she can read. It's the next best thing after running, really. Seeing connections being made, puzzle pieces falling into place, finding causes and effects of unexpected results and feeling a rush of serotonin as new solutions present themselves. Controlled. If not predictable then explainable, if not explainable then full of potential discovery. And all hers, with no one to tell her it’s not for her to do. She's vaguely aware there's a smile on her face now, but this one is not a mask.
This one has been the same since she was a kid peering in the books at the family library and feeling like she cracked the code of the world.
She didn't, of course. Reading an encyclopedia a bit too advanced for your age is hardly a world-changing discovery.
But the wonder of it all never left, as long as she allows herself to feel it.
By the time it gets dark outside she's already forgotten about her exhaustion, three attempts and two new potential prototypes deep into multiple ventures at once, quietly rambling to herself and waving a free hand around, gesticulating to no one in particular. It's still a while away till curfew. And even if it wasn't, when was that ever a concern.
She misses the footsteps, but she hears the door opening. The quietness, the cautiousness, the immediate piercing stare on her back, she knows all that well enough by heart to guess without looking.
"Cafe!" exclaims Tachyon, whipping around with a glowing beaker in hand and the signature wide smile on her face. "My, fancy seeing you back! Could it be that you changed your mind and decided to take part in my experiments after all? I do happen to have new samples that could greatly help in your pursuit of that 'friend' of yours!" Honestly, at this stage of the research those samples also have a high chance of giving Cafe horrific insomnia, yet Tachyon finds herself unable to resist hurling that habitual request at the other girl. Almost like a bid for familiarity. That's the best she can do right now, apparently, as far as asking inviting Cafe back into their old dynamic goes.
Cafe blinks slowly, staring at her, which Tachyon knows by now is her version of looking a bit shellshocked by the verbal onslaught.
"Well... You're back..." she quietly says, not rising to the bait. But it's not what she says that’s of note, it's what she does; cautiously, Cafe walks in, perceptive eyes darting all over the "clean" room, evaluating its state. They stop at the dusty coffee table and she furrows her brow before letting out a barely audible sigh.
"Seems that way..." she answers an unheard question of someone who may or may not be in the room with them. And then goes to find a wet cloth to tidy up her corner. Settling back in.
"Whatever do you mean? I never went anywhere!" Tachyon parries the earlier statement, fully knowing what Cafe actually meant but refusing to engage with it. She's also refusing to acknowledge the way her ears are pointedly turned in Cafe's direction despite her eyes being focused on her work. Or the way her tail is struggling to stay still.
Is she truly that fond of their companionship? It's not like Cafe ever agreed to take part in her research. They didn't even pan out as proper rivals on the track because in the end Cafe was always more focused on her "friend" than the tangible Tachyon, and Tachyon's curiosity about said "friend" did more to strain their relationship than to strengthen it. And yet, perhaps her quiet existence in the same room somehow boosted her work capabilities nevertheless?
Tachyon is decidedly encountering way too many new potential topics for study now that emotional factors have entered the realm of merit. Too bad you can't pour emotions into a vial and add a reagent. Even worse that her own are the biggest enigma to her, apparently, and she hates experimenting on herself without a proper test run on others first.
"What changed?"
Cafe's quiet and fairly unexpected query rips her out of that thought process and Tachyon's back goes ramrod straight upon feeling uncomfortably perceived.
There are a lot of possible answers to that question, all within varying degrees of honesty. Truthfully, she could dismiss it entirely with a simple "I wouldn't know!" and that wouldn't be too much of a lie either.
But it's Cafe, Cafe who's way more perceptive that she shows, Cafe who has been around Tachyon for a while now, stuck it out with her longer than anyone, really, so perhaps she deserves a bit more than that.
"Well, the truth is, dear Cafe," Tachyon says, lifting another vial closer to a lamp to check the liquid's transparency, "that in the end it does seem, indeed, that we are all born to run."
***
"YOU'RE GOING TO RUN AGAIN?!"
It's morning. Very, very early in the morning, in fact. It's been perhaps just a couple hours, if that, since Tachyon finally drifted away sitting in her chair while waiting for data to compile.
As she's groggily blinking through the daze of her eyelashes unpleasantly sticking to each other, it occurs to her that she failed to consider a certain factor in talking to Cafe yesterday. Such as Cafe having grown close with Pocket. Or rather, Dantsu Flame, who's in turn close with Pocket.
Either way, some exchanges had clearly taken place and there's now a very hyped Jungle Pocket mere inches away from her face.
Well, at least her brief hypothesis on personal space is definitely proving itself to be true.
"Has it ever occurred to you to knock," Tachyon groans, way too sleepy to maintain her non-chalant persona. "Or at least clarify if the person on the receiving end is ready to listen before you yell in their face?"
"Ah, damn, sorry!" Pocket has the decency to back away a couple steps and sheepishly rub her neck. "I just. Got kinda excited. Y’know."
"Clearly." Tachyon comments dryly, rubbing her face.
"I can, uh, get out of your hair, if you want?.."
Tachyon's ears perk up at that, and she looks up in between her fingers. Pocket is clearly internally backpedaling back to their previous conversation, when she finally resigned to leave Tachyon alone upon being told to do so. Again.
Tachyon gets an uncanny feeling that if she keeps this up even someone as stubborn as Pocket will stop trying for good.
Which would really be a shameful loss of a very valuable variable in her research.
Yes, that must be why the prospect surprisingly troubles her so.
"No," she says, slapping her hands on the armrests and ripping herself out of the chair. She feels a little wobbly on the lack of sleep, but her laptop is claiming to have finished processing the data, so it's time for her to proceed anyway. "Do stay, if it pleases you. Just, give me a moment."
Pocket performatively mimics zipping her mouth shut and leans on a counter out of the way, while the scientist is once again messing around with sugar cubes.
A few minutes later, feeling her system somewhat readjusting as a wave of hot tea washes down to her stomach, Tachyon lands her eyes on Cafe, who of course has quietly been present all along, the ghost that she is sometimes.
"Would've never taken you for such a talker, dear Cafe," she says, aiming to sound amused but perhaps not quite awake for that yet. It comes out more like a grumpy whine.
Cafe has the audacity to shrug at her.
"Ah, my bad, was I not supposed to know yet?" Pocket butts in, taking it as permission to end her silence. And not too soon, it seems, considering how increasingly impatiently she's been fidgeting with her sparkly necklace.
"Well, it would be preferable to control the spread of those news myself, but I suppose it can't be helped. Gossip, after all, is such a prevalent communication t--"
"It's not about gossip, dumbass," Pocket suddenly interrupts, harshly, seemingly almost offended. "We were worried about you!"
Tachyon stops mid-word, forgetting to fully close her mouth. Well, that didn't quite go the direction she expected. Inspired, surely, pissed off, naturally, annoyed, undoubtedly. Tired of, feasibly.
Worried?
She barks out a laugh that surprises even herself, let alone Jungle Pocket.
"Worried about me? You barely know me, Pocket."
"Know enough to see that you didn't run as someone who truly doesn't want to do it anymore," Pokke immediately snaps back.
That makes Tachyon's jaw clench uncomfortably. The implication that Pocket here, evidently someone much more attuned with her own emotions, can allegedly read into her where Tachyon herself struggles is. Unnerving.
She doesn't stop smiling though. In fact, her smile grows wider, a sufficient distraction from whatever just jolted inside her.
"Plus, Cafe here knows you plenty," Pocket backs down a bit, easing up the tension.
"Ah, teaming up on me, I see!" Tachyon laughs easily this time. Finishes up half the mug in one big gulp and turns away to get herself busy with the familiar, reliably structured data. The numbers under her fingers put her tired mind at ease a bit.
"Anyway, to answer your previous question," she says casually, ignoring the telltale sound of Pocket immediately holding her breath, "yes, I do intend to eventually run again. I make no promises or plans as of now, however."
So much to consider. Some lost time to compensate for. Finding new ways to strengthen her body again. Preparing countermeasures in case it all goes terribly wrong.
None of that is for Pocket or even Cafe to know, so she continues to ramble.
"You see, I have arrived at the conclusion that certain milestones are better achieved with one's own feet, after all. And it appears I am simply left unsatisfied with, as you would put it, throwing in the towel so early. My research still comes first, however, so..."
"Well, you'll have to beat me first for those milestones of yours."
Tachyon's ear jerks in Pocket's direction and she almost sighs. Not quite in annoyance, though. Expected as much.
"Naturally!" she throws one arm up, swinging an oversized sleeve around. "You're quite ahead of me now, after all, in career terms at least! Plus, I have recently come to discover that perhaps taking competition into the account is overwhelmingly beneficial to one's development as a runner, so really, if I am to reach new limits, then--"
"Tachyon." Cafe coughs.
Ah. Tachyon knows that cough. The "you-are-missing-an-important-social-cue" cough.
She turns around to find Pocket extending her balled up fist in her direction. A challenge. Tachyon notes that she's seen this gesture from her at least three times before. And she ignored it all three times, mostly because at no point was she entertaining Pocket as a proper rival instead of a mere promising test subject for her means. Scratch that, she wasn't entertaining the concept of rivalry at all. Not after it failed to deliver previously.
But the test parameters had changed. Perhaps a new experiment is in order.
Speaking of which, it seems she's ignoring the bid again, judging by the fact that Pocket's hand is starting to lower. And so do her ears.
Emotions, emotions. How important is a rival's acknowledgment for one's performance? There's a way to find out.
So Tachyon quickly fixes her blank thinking face back into a smile, sighs and throws her hand up, shaking down the sleeve. Then forms a fist and softly bumps Pocket's with her own.
Pocket blinks. Her ears stand up at attention. Then her eyes, frankly full of disbelief, slowly rise up to meet Tachyon's own.
"You're welcome to try and keep your first place, Jungle Pocket," Tachyon hums. "I'm looking forward to breaking the limit you've set."
She watches in amusement as Pocket slowly inflates. Her eyes go wider. She audibly sucks air in. Her hair seemingly fluffs up. If Tachyon wasn't strictly a woman of science she would've sworn she starts glowing. And then there it comes.
"HELL YES!" All the vials and beakers in the lab clang in unison, shaken by the sheer wave of decibels as Pocket throws her fist up in the air. "YOU'RE SO ON!"
"Rendering me deaf won't earn you any advantage," Tachyon hisses, flattening her ears and jerking her hand back, but is then unable to resist curiously tilting her head to the side as Pocket is muttering apologies. "Fascinating, however, how one simple gesture can influence one's emotional state so strongly. You truly are an exemplary subject, Pokke."
"A subj-- Hey! Quit analyzing me!" Pocket immediately bristles.
"And ignore all that rich data you're giving me? You wish." Tachyon waves her hand dismissively, turning back to her experiments. "Speaking of placings, however, I believe I am yet to congratulate you on your recent win," something compels her to add. Perhaps it's just that Pocket earned it, objectively. Or perhaps she's slightly curious if Pocket could feasibly combust if she feeds into her emotions enough. A silly thought, of course, but if that were to be possible, this would be the prime candidate.
"You saw it, right?!"
What an immediate and entirely predictable question. Tachyon's smile uncontrollably softens in sincerity at it, not that anyone sees it.
"Of course." Not entirely a lie. She left the stadium before the finish line was crossed, true, but she did look it up online later. She also, weirdly enough, knew that Pocket did it even before she checked. Back there, at the bridge even.
One could say she "knew it in her heart" or something, although Tachyon would scoff at the romanticized stupidity of it.
She's just a good judge of one's capabilities is all. Especially when it's her studies' subject.
If she were someone else, this would probably be an appropriate time to mention that Pocket's running was frankly inspiring. Or to play into the whole rivalry thing by claiming she's back to running because she wants to beat her in particular. Which is not entirely untrue, but also way too shallow of a description for what happened to her.
But she's Agnes Tachyon and none of that feels right on her tongue, so instead she smiles over her shoulder and adds:
"It might still be a bit till I am back to training personally, but you simply must let me study your running again."
And for once, it seems, Pocket takes it as a compliment that it is.