Work Text:
A fitting working space is the key to efficiency, as it allows for better focus and is more likely to lead to desired results. It’s the sort of knowledge that one could come up with based on pure common sense. The chair shouldn’t be too hard, nor too soft. The lighting shouldn’t be too harsh on the eyes, yet not low enough to cause possible drowsiness. Additionally, the humidity preferably should strike the perfect middle. As a scientist, a rather respectable one at that, it’s assumed that Tachyon would follow these guidelines to a certain degree. Yet, she was never the one to stick to strictly established rules or adhere to expectations, so much that it’s considered to be a trait that greatly defines her being. Thus, a Tachyon that only colors inside the lines isn’t a Tachyon at all. The room might be too dark, the air too stale, and her sitting position too unnatural. But who would complain? In the scientific line of work, utilizing a certain degree of adaptability is to be expected. To further illustrate, a fish will swim despite possible changes in its habitat, such an increase or decrease in fluid movement or temperature. If it finds itself unable to adjust to these alterations, it is simply unfit to continue swimming there. If Tachyon was unable to handle a miniscule amount of discomfort brought onto herself by her work, could she truly claim to be a researcher at all? In fact, she finds herself plenty comfortable in her current environment. So what if her back feels like all thirty three of her vertebrae will pop and break the moment she straightens her posture? Living organisms are born to evolve and cross boundaries of what is considered “normal”. Slouching for just a bit surely won’t kill her.
From where her chin rests against her knees, Tachyon unblinkingly gazes at her computer. The pen that’s been in her grasp for quite some time only leaves disjointed shapes upon the surface of a paper laid before it; with how rapid, yet chaotic the movement of her wrist is, whatever is written will probably be found indecipherable after a second attempt at reading. Distractions, distractions…
The light radiating from the screen almost serves as a tiny needle that pierces her eyes as it lands on her retinas. Regardless, she doesn’t look away. The possibility of a crucial speck of data escaping her notice is never zero, yes. Even after second, third, fourth rewatch–the beauty hides in details. Ones that Tachyon cannot afford to miss.
A splatter of bright colors paints her vision with a spectrum of familiarity: a bright yellow, a light green, a hazelnut brown–and after that, a booming voice that excitedly announces: “ Jungle Pocket takes the lead! ”
She doesn’t need to be told. Not at all, when each and every movement of the other uma remains itched in Tachyon’s mind. Every stretch of muscle, every ragged breath. There is something she could call magnetic in the way Jungle Pocket runs. Not that she’d expected anything else from the girl who so boldly declared some sort of one-sided rivalry against Tachyon. Frankly, what use would there be in her boisterous persona, if it was easy to look away from her? It’s almost formulaic, how seemingly every aspect of Pokke is so closely tied together, interconnected just to develop into the image of her , who blazes across the turf with the burst of energy that could only be compared to a supernova .
As expected, the first place is Jungle Pocket’s for the taking. The recording only manages to show the briefest moment of her mandatory celebratory roar before Tachyon, with a forcefulness that leaves her momentarily stunned, hits the pause button.
Despite her brilliant performance and ever growing improvement, she still hasn’t crossed the limit.
The feeling that this particular conclusion brings to Tachyon is…well, she could describe it as a heterogeneous mixture. A solution of vastly different ingredients. Strangely, despite her lifelong adoration for seeking answers to everything that surrounds her, she finds herself reluctant to ponder about this development further. There is a point where select factors are to be freely rejected due to redundancy. Tachyon decides that this is an appropriate moment to do so.
Still…it’s almost as if all of her cerebral functions had failed her. All at once. Or rather, a vast majority of them had, because there is some strikingly proactive part of her brain that leads her to stare at a still image that displays the curve of Jungle Pocket’s victorious smirk in all its glory. What a high-quality camera , comes the quite useless observation, born from nothing else than the absent recalibration of Tachyon’s thoughts. It somehow managed to capture the details of her face splendidly. The drop of sweat above her brow that is stopped mid-motion. The faintest flush of her skin. The golden gradient within her irises.
The last one, Tachyon had a chance to see up close personally. It was a gut-wrenchingly beautiful sight, truly. Back then, it was not a full hypothesis that her sudden retirement would affect Pokke in the way it did. How disappointing it would have been, if her desperation served as nothing but a crucial stopping point in her development? It seems like Tachyon had nothing to worry about. Her experiment had played out just as well as she wished it to.
Strangely, the memory spurs a tangent of neurons to deliver the previously watched imagery in vivid motion–the phantom of her supposed “ rival ” (a role that Tachyon never wanted, or needed) as she crosses the finish line, bathed in the whirling wind as she goes beyond what was her best once again. Ah, it was simply glorious! The umamusume were truly beings so full of secrets, of undiscovered possibilities that Tachyon was so hellbent on unveiling! Of course, Jungle Pocket’s present inability to break the barrier that stood in the way of progress is highly unfortunate, there is no use in being hasty. A step forward, no matter how small, even if it isn’t her own, still provides movement in the right direction. Tachyon has lots of patience. However, she doesn’t have an unlimited amount of time–so many experiments to enact, so many guinea pigs to observe, but only one body to do it all. She stretches her arms out as far as they go, finally giving her back some reprieve from the awfully uncomfortable position. Her foot only faintly aches as she stands up.
(She, once more, ignores the strange relief that engulfs her each and every time she watches others fail at grasping what was right in front of her, back then).
Dreams, from a purely scientific standpoint, are a curious thing. In this case, particularly the recollection of dreams–currently, there is no certain way for a person to prove that they’ve been experiencing the same sequence of events multiple times while sleeping. Other than their memories, of course, but those are often unreliable and not concrete enough to use as evidence. Still, Tachyon is almost entirely sure that she’s seen this dreamscape before. Probably more times than what would be considered normal. The abnormal physics and peculiar dream logic are fascinating on their own, making way to the state of existence that is not replicable anywhere else, characterized by the disconnect of mind and body, and their equal “weightlessness”–or rather, freedom from limitations. In short, it would be the perfect environment for a variety of never-seen-before testing and evaluations! But alas, she is out of luck, as her own brain apparently betrayed her by making her go through the same scene over and over. She's not even excited about it anymore!
In fact, she remembers exactly where this vision will take her next. It doesn’t matter if she wants it to or not.
The scenery that expands before her is a sight that the majority of umamusume knows by heart–a racecourse, one that is longer than what would be possible in the real world. When Tachyon attempts to look at its end, there is none.
The turf is both familiar and unfamiliar beneath her feet. When she takes a step, she’s met with no resistance. The ground exists in the perfect balance of softness and hardness, making movement feel easy. The air is unnaturally still. Even when she breathes, there is no movement. In fact, it’s almost as if inhaling and exhaling are no longer necessary actions that her body is programmed to do, but more so optional processes. Terribly convenient.
Tachyon’s eyes drop to the tips of her shoes. Predictably, it’s not the leather of her school uniform footwear that meets her, but instead the almost blindingly white of her racing boots, that have been left to collect dust and cobwebs in some closet where she wouldn’t have to see them. Looking at them now, they seem almost mocking. What a funny thought. At least the modified labcoat that she decided to keep on her person even after she ended her career doesn’t add onto the effect of these mixed emotional responses she’s been experiencing. Thinking about it, it’s impressive how they’ve managed to follow her into the depths of the REM stage.
Even her injured leg, that is usually plagued by numbness or a persistent dull ache, feels light. As if it is untouched by Tachyon’s fragile constitution.
Well. It’s more than obvious where this scenario is going to lead to, again . To run or not to run would be a question, if there was ever more than one answer. Just like in the dream before this one, and the one before that, and the one even further behind–with a solemnity that some would consider out of character for her, Tachyon accepts the only moment where she will be one to redefine what the maximum potential of an umamusume is.
She doesn’t bother starting out slow. In this realm, she doesn’t need to worry about running safely or keeping herself healthy. There is no scenery that passes her by, but she can tell she’s speeding up. Wonderful it is, how she’s allowed to go all out, without the protests of overworked muscles dragging her down. With every chemical reaction in her system rendered null, she is left with nothing but the thrill of moving forward. It’s as if she’s a child again; the one who had latched onto something that was so far away, a shimmering star somewhere where she would never have it in her grip. Yet here and now, she can.
Ah, there she is.
A condensation of light, given the shape of another Tachyon. The sight of her is warm, as would be a meeting with an old friend. Even with her immense speed, she’s light and graceful, with a certain ethereality that gives away the fact that she’s a mere fragment of imagination. Still, she’s radiant, as she barrels towards the colorful prism that waits just a little ahead.
Seventy kilometers per hour. That is the assumed highest speed an umamusume in top physical condition can reach. While there were a few recorded cases of those who had approached, or gotten up to that number, not a single one had ever managed to surpass it. Which is understandable; going over it meant trampling the very laws that were the foundation of life. Even the most gifted of racers wouldn’t dare think of pushing themselves so hard so recklessly. Not even those with near perfect physiques could step into that territory. So what chance does Tachyon, with her poor legs, even have?
None.
Someday, she will be there to witness the birth of the one who will reach that light in the distance. She will be plenty capable of building up her test subject for that task. But right here, right now…she’ll allow herself to step into that role. Even if it’s not real.
So she runs faster. Hues mold together into mere spots in her vision as she flies past them. It’s here . The radiance that’s been hiding in every edge of her mind for as long as she’s been aware of herself. Like this, she doesn’t have to worry about anything. Like this, she has gained the knowledge she sought. Like this–
A flash– a bright yellow, a light green, a hazelnut brown –cuts a line forward, from the corner of her vision, with the precision of a surgical knife. She doesn’t need to breathe but she can’t stop the sharp gasp that is wrenched out of her mouth as the mirage of the ideal Tachyon disperses into the tiniest particles. Instead, a muddy yet recognizable – of course , because Tachyon would know it’s her even when asleep–shadow twists into the faceless form that is the near replica of the rambunctious girl that simply refused to leave Tachyon’s memory cells ever since she’s found home in them.
Every time, it is at this point that the dream stops being kind to her–just like in reality, Tachyon’s feet fail her. She stumbles, just like a newborn umamusume would. With her center of balance almost entirely thrown off she scrambles to catch up with a desperation she’d consider unbecoming of herself. But now, she cannot afford to falter. To let her ambition slip through the gaps between her fingers, even if this is no longer is this the ideal space for evolution, but the stage on which a fear (whose existence she didn’t want to acknowledge) came to life.
She continues to run.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Tachyon awakens when a ray of the sun pierces through her eyelids. As usual, it’s not a pleasant sensation (in the midday gold, she finds a small excerpt of her eyes). The newfound source of light makes the scattering traces of dust too visible. Her impromptu base of operation could use a deep clean. It’s gotten rather untidy lately.
She can’t bring herself to do anything about it.
She lets herself lay still. The previous imagery produced by her neural activity, although diffused now that she’s awake, continues to repeat uselessly in front of her open eyes.
Well, it would be considered a day dream now, wouldn’t it? Except those are usually a pleasant experience meant to distract the subject from reality. Tachyon personally isn’t feeling pleased . Being distracted, on the other hand…
She can’t dwell on it.
It’s just a spark of many hues in motion. Just a heavy feeling in her stomach.
The sting of tense pain spreads across the back of her neck as she sluggishly cranes it back. No wonder she feels a headache settling in, as she had fallen asleep on her desk. She managed to carelessly crumple up her materials, too. Amongst other things, a book about orthopaedic science is open at a midway point. A diagram of an umamusume’s skeletal structure, printed out in black and white, with many notes added in various colors. An unfinished graph detailing the differences in previous measured running times and the most current one. Right next to it rests a photograph of Jungle Pocket mid run. Her hair is visibly tangled and her racing outfit is wrinkled, as it’s expected to be. There is dirt staining her legs, and some of it is stuck to her cheek. The expression on her face is far from what would be considered conventionally attractive, but in the wide eyed mania and the sight of her teeth peeking from behind her lips, Tachyon is forced to recognize both the essence of potential for greatness and a numbingly striking beauty. In the way that various carnivorous plants make use of different mechanisms that allow them to catch prey, this ruthless way her focus kept getting stolen is reminiscent of it.
Right. She was in the middle of work. Jungle Pocket still needed to improve on her muscle mass, to aid her in keeping her speed sustainable. Her late-race acceleration could use some improvement, too…
Just as she is about to throw herself into another fanatic bout of, by some standards, unhealthy research, the click of a porcelain mug being set in front of her notifies her that she, in fact, isn’t the only person in the room. It’s the silky black strand of hair that enters her field of vision before its owner does, but it’s enough of a hint for Tachyon to find out that it’s Manhattan Cafe, in her usual cryptic glory, who gave her the drink. Not that it came as a surprise, as she was the other resident of their not-so-secret hideout. Strangely enough, even with Cafe’s almost spectre-like disposition, her presence never eluded Tachyon’s attention like this.
A strange development, but one that Tachyon doesn’t want to classify as worrying just yet. An early false diagnosis is more than useless.
“Hello, Cafe!” she greets her, with wisps of sleep still hanging onto her vocal chords. She manages a small wave too, even if her arm feels like it’s made of lead.
The girl’s usual impassive look doesn’t change in the slightest. “...Hi.” And that’s all she says, before she moves away and turns her attention to her own beverage.
Tachyon supposes she should do the same, as a gentle silence falls between them. The faintest aroma of her favorite brand of tea is enough to make her feel more invigorated after the disastrously inconveniently placed nap. It would be a shame to let such a small delight go to waste.
Just as her lips meet the rim of the mug, she notices the absence of a crucial component; there is no sugar! How close had the bitterness come to ruining her peace! She valued her glucose intake a lot, thank you very much.
Ever since Tachyon and Cafe began spending time in the formerly abandoned classroom, Tachyon had taken upon herself to make sure that there was a box of sugarcubes stashed near her usual seat at all times. With how frequent their little teaparties (or coffeeparties, for some) were, it was both a logical and convenient decision to make.
Without looking, her hand finds the inside of the packaging exactly where it always is. It’s empty.
“Huh.” Tachyon lets out. It’s a soft sound, nearly distant even to herself. Ah , now it comes back to her–she was supposed to buy a new one. However she managed to completely let it slip her mind, she doesn’t know.
For the second time today, Tachyon doesn’t detect the other’s presence next to her. Not until Cafe hands her a small plate with the exact number of the cube-shaped additives that she usually puts in whatever it is she’s drinking that needs sweetening. Momentarily stupefied, she can only blink until she gathers herself.
What an unforeseen occurrence! “My, my, Cafe!” she smiles, allowing her face to mold itself in accordance with the movement of her zygomaticus major. “You’re unusually caring today! Could this be your way of agreeing to take part in my next experiment?”
To be frank, Tachyon is not expecting an affirmative response at all. If anything, she’s ready for the usual dismissive rejection that Cafe delivers every time, without fail. Such was their relationship, after all; its nature too outside of the societal boxes to be properly classified. Just the way she liked it.
But instead, Cafe merely sighs. It’s a quiet, yet undeniably deep exhale, filling the air of the room with a heaviness as it dragged out. Apparently satisfied with the portrayal of whatever it is she wished to convey, she offers nothing more as she goes back to ignoring Tachyon’s existence.
Hah. Cafe is still as enigmatic as always. The most fascinating specimen.
Back when they had first met, Tachyon assumed that there would be some sort of mutual understanding between them. As she herself had put it: a bond between outcasts. She was wrong, in one way, at least. Still, Cafe’s strange fixation on the entity that was visible to her eyes only…well, Tachyon would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a bit curious. The “friend” that clung onto Cafe (the more fitting term would be haunted , if working under the hypothesis that said being truly was a supernatural phenomena), driving her to push herself more and more…Such passion is nothing short of marvelous. If Cafe’s claim that Tachyon had almost caught up to “her”, then that meant the quiet uma had her eyes on the same goal. In a world like this, Tachyon would never run out of topics for research!
In spite of that, she realizes with a sense of detachment, she doesn’t feel fully enthusiastic about the prospect of more candidates.
This occurrence–the unexplained formation of doubt and unease that were strangers to her–it only comes second to the feeling that she’d closely describe as…fear.
Her gaze drops to the tea. With the final figments of sleep disappearing, she can freely indulge in the saccharine taste. And yet, she merely lets her hand rest against the porcelain. In the small ripples of the liquid, she meets the eyes of her reflection, although molded and bent. She notes the disarray of her hair. She’d have to cut it soon. The picture on the table rests in the background, catching her eye just enough so she can’t ignore it. And with it comes back the vestige of her dream, still sufficiently fresh that she can recall it in decent detail. The thrill of the run. The kaleidoscopic patterns. Going beyond a “tachyon.” A bright yellow, a light green, a hazelnut brown. A roar of victory. A smug grin–
She smiles. It’s a humorless thing, of course, or rather a depiction of irony. Foolish, the way she regarded Cafe as “haunted”, when there is a ghost that had enraptured both her conscious and unconscious moments. No, scratch that–in no way could any version of Jungle Pocket be described as anything of the sort. Not when she is simply, fully alive , by every definition. How can she be something of the transcendental nature, when both she and her running are brimming with so much passion and enthusiasm ?
Passion. Enthusiasm. Concepts that, in relation to racing, always hung above Tachyon’s reach. A realm of the unknown, which she had yet to uncover.
A cacophony of excited yells breaks her line of thought. In the field outside, there are a number of students participating in a practice race. Another group crowds around and cheers them on. Their speed isn’t particularly outstanding, as they’re most likely still beginners, yet they continue. There is little to be found there that would aid her in her pursuits, but she can’t look away.
Of course, because Tachyon had, by her own will, taken the role of an observer. The scientist that analyses from a distance. She can only watch.
And that’s what she’ll resume doing.
(Some time later, realization will creep up slowly, like how a predator hunts its target; after Pokke, now much calmer and assured, no longer burdened by whatever weighted her down for so long, once again reaches out–after Tachyon watches her as she runs with everything she has in her and then more–she will find that in her longing gaze and subconsciously moving feet, there lies a yearning so strong it will burst through her lacrimal ducts. It will show itself in aching bones and breaths that tear themselves out of her lungs as she, in that moment, on that bridge, chases nothing at all. In the end, Agnes Tachyon truly wants to run).