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Chapter Text

Sheets rustle as Spe shifts her legs for the umpteenth time to try and get comfortable. The dormitory is silent save for the ticking clock on the desk, counting ever-closer to the unforgiving morning alarm. Tokyo nights are too humid and warm, and the polluted city skies have no stars, and this fancy bed is softer than the rustic, functional one she left in Hokkaido. It's hard to relax when everything still feels so distractingly surreal.

She stares at the ceiling for a moment longer, then rolls onto her side. Her wide eyes peer through the gloom, peeking at the still shape of Suzuka on the other side of their shared room. Sound asleep. Suzuka looks so small when she's not in motion. Her uncovered ears twitch once, twice, reacting to something only she can hear. It's… cute.

Once the unwanted observation pops into her head, Spe can't think of anything else. She buries her face into her carrot pillow to muffle her groan. She isn't going to sleep all night at this rate. Suzuka is the most distracting of all.

Most of the Umamusume at Tracen Academy are larger than life when they stand vibrant in front of her, ambition bright in their eyes, a challenge quick on their tongues. Spe didn't grow up around other Umamusume. She isn't used to their boundless energy. But Suzuka more than anyone – Suzuka's quiet, steady presence always fills the room in a way that eclipses everyone else. It's little wonder that all of Japan has their eyes on her, watching to see just how far Silence Suzuka can go.

And Spe is watching her every day too (although she does her best not to stare, which has to count for something even if she fails sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time). In her defense, it's difficult not to be mesmerized by every little movement of Suzuka's, because she can't bear to miss a thing. Suzuka is blessed with a natural grace in all that she does, a coolness, the polar opposite of Spe's eager clumsiness. Suzuka is just so cool.

Even now Suzuka is hard to look away from, and all she's doing is sleeping.

Spe fidgets with her blankets, ears flicking with restless energy. She absolutely cannot fall asleep. She itches to run, or train, or something, anything, but she also doesn't dare risk disturbing Suzuka's hard-earned rest. She watches as moonlight from the window above their beds washes Suzuka in pale hues, muting the fiery tones of her hair into gentle spools of silver. She is made of light, a soft but steady glow, thrumming like a heartbeat.

Abruptly Spe kicks her tangle of blankets off the bed in a muffled fit of frustration. Why can't it be morning already! She wants to move!

Suzuka sighs, stirring fitfully. Spe immediately freezes.

Her heart gallops in her chest, a thunderous tempo so loud she's absolutely certain it will wake her roommate from a dead slumber. Spe screws her eyes shut, ears flattened against her head, praying fervently that Suzuka won't catch her awake at this hour. She isn't even sure where the surge of fear and guilt comes welling from. She hasn't done anything wrong. Not really. She was just looking, but not in, like, a creepy way. She wasn't being suspicious at all. Honest!

It feels like ages pass before she risks opening her eyes again. Suzuka is still sound asleep. She's safe.

Spe stares back up at the familiar ceiling, fingers twisting in the fabric of her pajama pants.

Being here, being teammates and roommates and friends, being close, is more than she could ever have dreamed of. It was strange at first, becoming the famous Suzuka's roommate, getting to catch glimpses of the Suzuka that the television broadcasts never showed – unguarded, and awkward, and sweet. She wasn't supposed to see this side of Suzuka. It feels like a secret, but one that Suzuka seems more than willing to share. And Spe is too stubborn to give this chance up for anything, so she refuses to ruin it. 

"I want to run with you," Spe blurts aloud, confessing to the ceiling.

The ticking clock is the only response she hears.

Spe exhales a slow breath and curls around her body pillow, clutching it tightly. It's more than just a fangirl's admiration, maybe, that draws her so magnetically to Suzuka again and again. There's never been anyone this big in her isolated country life before, so she isn't sure what else to call it. She can't look away. She doesn't want to. She wonders if this is how her moms felt all those years ago, when they decided they wanted to build a life together: like there had been something missing before, but only now did they realize what it was, and there was no way to go back to the blissful ignorance of not knowing.

"I want to be by your side, always," Spe adds, softer, barely above a whisper.

Being here, in the shadow of her light, will have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The late bell rings for the final time, making Tachyon's sensitive ears involuntarily twitch. None of the classes on today's schedule hold any scientific value, so Tachyon won't even bother to show. The faculty are well-accustomed to her truant behavior at this point. Frankly, they're probably a little relieved whenever they don't have to deal with her in person. Her classmates certainly don't want to be anywhere near her.

Not that their fears are unfounded, of course. See, isn't she really doing everyone a favor by skipping school?

An inappropriate giggle bubbles up in Tachyon's chest and seeps past her teeth. Her tail swishes gleefully behind her.

Her experienced hands, however, are perfectly steady as she flicks the gas valve shut on the Bunsen burner, suffocating its flame. The glass beaker resting atop the tripod is lifted with tongs, then its boiling contents poured into sterilized and numbered test tubes lined up in a rack. Tachyon quickly caps them before they can evaporate, then leans back in her chair in satisfaction. Once this solution cools, she can measure the potency, and then it's time to find some willing – or at least gullible – test subjects to gather another round of research data.

Perhaps there are some younger Umamusume who haven't been warned about her yet. She should try skulking around the resistance training equipment to see if she can spot some ignorant targets impatient enough to take unlabeled supplements in the hopes of finding a shortcut. There's always a few frustrated enough by their limits to try anything. 

“Ahh... Smells like burnt coffee beans again...”

Slouching in the doorway of the dorm room, Cafe gazes reproachfully at Tachyon's home laboratory setup. Tachyon spins around in her swivel chair and joyfully flaps her lab coat sleeves in Cafe's direction.

“My dear Cafe, have you come to volunteer for an experiment? Excellent timing, you can be my guinea pig for a promising new formula!” She bats her eyelashes and flashes her most charming smile in Cafe's direction. “It's a supplement that will either improve the stamina of fast-twitch muscle fibers by reducing the buildup of lactic acid, or, it will induce instant sarcopenia by degenerating those muscle fibers and leaving you immobilized. Help me figure out which!”

“I am not drinking that.”

“But it's for science,” Tachyon wheedles. “Don't you want to advance understanding of Umamusume biology? These mysterious, miraculous bodies of ours hold so many secrets just waiting to be discovered!”

Cafe shuffles over to Tachyon's desk, cluttered with equipment and empty teacups, and clears space for a styrofoam takeout box with a quiet frown.

“Take care of your own body first. You skipped lunch, so I figured you'd be holed up in here. You should probably eat an actual meal instead of straight sugar...”

Tachyon's ears perk up. “Why, Cafe, that's so thoughtful of you! Are you sure you wouldn't like to consume a few suspicious concoctions in return, out of the kindness of my heart – ahahaha!”

Tachyon can barely finish the sentence before another fit of manic laughter tears through her paper-thin composure. She doubles over in her seat, eyes gleaming with dubious mirth, as she chortles into her sleeves.

Cafe just stares listlessly, gloomy as ever. It's a shame Tachyon has such a cursed personality. She's pretty when she keeps her mouth shut. 

Cafe hesitates, then gingerly pats Tachyon on the head. She watches with mild interest as a pleased Tachyon's tail waves like a banner in response. There aren't many brave enough to touch her these days, but Cafe has nothing to fear from the living. 

“Whatever it is, I don't want it. Food first. Mad science after.”

Chapter Text

The cafeteria is bustling with famished athletes by noon. Bumping elbows with taller, stronger Umamusume than herself, Rice barely manages to escape with her tray of food. She ducks and weaves through the crowd, squeaking apologies left and right, to finally emerge on the far side of the dining hall. She glances down to make sure it's all still there. Carrot hamburger steak, miso soup, bread roll, fruit, check. Rice slumps with a sigh of relief.

Her miserable luck hasn't caused her to spill soup on anyone's uniform. Yet.

Rice steals a curious glance at a familiar face from her last race, standing stock still against the wall. Unlike the others, Mihono Bourbon shows no interest in jostling her way to the lunch counter. She must be hungry after how hard she trains, though. Rice would be happy to share her lunch if Bourbon wants it. That is, if Bourbon even eats food.

Rice has never seen her consume anything that didn't come in a bottle. It could be motor oil for all she knows.

Rice knows she's staring again. Envious though she is on the surface, her 'secret' crush must be painfully obvious at this point. Bourbon cuts such a distinguished figure, well-groomed chestnut mane spilling past her shoulders and down her back. She's in peak physical condition, all lean power and natural grace, making her running appear effortless. Her uniform is always meticulously pressed and wrinkle-free. Regardless of the lunchtime chaos around her, Bourbon's neutral expression is calm to the point of appearing robotic.

She's perfect in every way. Too perfect, if Rice is to believe the rumors: that Bourbon could actually be some sort of cyborg.

In either case, that makes her the polar opposite of Rice Shower.

Rice shrinks in on herself, long ears tipping backward as her stomach flip-flops. Jealousy, admiration, and loathing curdle into nausea. It's not a fair comparison, of course. Rice is timid and small and pathetic. No one expects greatness from her. People hate it so much when she happens to win that it makes her want to lose on purpose. 

She gnaws on her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral into panic. Surely it would only bring Bourbon misfortune to be associated with her, right? She shouldn't drag someone with as much talent as Bourbon down to her level. Maybe Rice shouldn't talk to her for her own good.

The lunch tray rattles as Rice's anxious hands begin to shake, sloshing a few drops of soup out of the bowl. She would never forgive herself if fraternization ruined Bourbon's chances of victory.

It would be all her fault.

Everything is her fault.

Bourbon's ears swivel toward the clattering noise. Rice's eyes widen in abject horror as Bourbon closes the distance between them to tower over her.

“Oh no, no no no, it's okay, you don't have to–!”

“Target identified: Rice Shower. Primary objective: undefined. Do you require assistance?”

Rice gulps, shaking her head so vigorously that her hat nearly falls off. Bourbon's keen eyes scorch her with a heat as intense as the summer sun. Her looming presence is equal parts beautiful and terrifying. Rice wishes she could be her as much as she wants to be with her. 

“I-I-I'm fine! I was g-gonna give you my lunch since you didn't have any! T-take it!”

She tries to push the tray at Bourbon, nearly dumping everything onto the floor in the process. Bourbon's deft hands cover hers, steadying the tray, whilst maintaining unblinking eye contact.

Rice's face heats up with a confusing mixture of shame and attraction, right as her gay little tail starts wagging. If Bourbon truly is a machine, Rice hopes she's programmed to put her out of her misery.

“Request denied. Rice Shower requires sustenance,” Bourbon says tonelessly. “It would be illogical to perform such an action. However... it is appreciated. Thank you.”

A small smile curves Bourbon's lips upward. Rice's mouth flaps on an empty syllable.

She smiled. She's smiling. Bourbon is smiling at her.

“No worries,” Rice manages to choke out.

Maybe her luck is turning around.

Chapter Text

Tachyon is so focused on her work that she barely reacts when Pokke kicks the door open with a slam. Pokke throws herself bodily into Cafe's chair, taking advantage of Cafe being absent. It's not like Tachyon is going to invite her in or offer her a seat, so she's learned to just take what she needs.

“Tch. Did you know lots of Tokyo's public schools let their students choose their uniforms now?” Pokke grumbles in lieu of a greeting, yanking on a loose thread in the hem of her skirt. “As in, the girls are allowed to wear pants if they want. Because it's the 21st century.”

The thread starts to unravel further before she snaps it off. She's gonna have to buy a replacement soon. These damn things are getting expensive.

“Mhm,” Tachyon says with her back turned, clearly not listening, as she taps on her keyboard. “Do elaborate. In great detail.”

Pokke curls her lip at the back of Tachyon's head. Her tail flicks in annoyance. Maybe she will go on, but not because Tachyon told her to.

“I'm just saying! We have perfectly good track suits for training. No reason we couldn't just wear those indoors, too. Only stuffy private schools are clinging to these outdated uniforms with the stupid mandatory skirts.”

“...When was the last time you washed your track suit?” Tachyon murmurs absently. She pauses the video she's typing notes on and leans back in her chair, smug face washed in blue light from the computer monitor. “That thing is a biology project at this point. I should do a culture swab and discover what new forms of Jungle Bacteria you've invented for me.”

“Sh-Shut up!” Pokke blusters, ears angled back. Her cheeks redden as she tosses her hair in frustration. “I'm just trying to make a point. Like, what about during winter? We can wear coats, but not leggings? Everyone freezes their asses off for no reason. This is an all-girls school. Don't you think the dress code should be decided by girls?”

“Take your thesis up with the Emperor, then,” Tachyon drawls in dismissal. She spins idly in her swivel chair to amuse herself, obviously bored to death by Pokke's complaining for the sake of complaining. “Or be the rebel you pretend to be, and wear whatever you like as a statement. Call it a social experiment. Test the limits of the establishment. You're surprisingly rule-abiding for a Yankee, no?”

Pokke growls through gritted teeth. She stands up, raises one leg, and kicks with precision timing, stopping Tachyon in mid-rotation with her shoe. The chair nearly tips over from the force of the powerful blow.

Tachyon barely blinks.

“No, because I'm not an idiot. You're a literal genius, but you skip practice all the time, not to mention class, so your grades are shit,” Pokke accuses. She jabs a finger at Tachyon's chest to emphasize each point. “Plus you wear that stupid lab coat over your uniform regardless of how many lectures it gets you. I don't want to get kicked out of this school, but you don't give a damn if they expel you.”

“Correct.” Tachyon's unnerving eyes widen with interest as she studies Pokke's features, as though actually noticing her presence for the first time. Her leering smile stretches from ear to ear. “I'm here for the convenience of the facilities and equipment, but as soon as a busy schedule interferes with my research, it's outlived its usefulness. Why does that bother you so? Did you think I had any other reason to stay?”

Tachyon is always baiting her to get a reaction, but that one hits a nerve.

Pokke grinds her molars, trying to rein in the angry impulse to grab Tachyon by the lab coat and shake some damn sense into her thick skull. Tachyon wouldn't care even if she got a concussion. She would only mock Pokke for losing her temper once again.

“At least try not to get expelled before I beat you on the racetrack,” Pokke says bitterly. “Your dumb formula doesn't have a deadline. Homework does. You act like you're running out of time or something. Pick a priority.”

Tachyon answers by stifling a high-pitched giggle with her sleeves. Her shoulders are shaking from holding it in.

Pokke backs away from the chair, brows furrowed in suspicion, as Tachyon bursts into peals of uncontrollable, incomprehensible laughter. The uncomfortable sound makes the hairs on the nape of Pokke's neck stand upright. Pokke stares at Tachyon as she continues to flap her sleeves and kick her feet in the air.

“What's so funny?” Pokke finally asks, voice low and rough. “I'm serious.”

“Pokke, my dear,” Tachyon says, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. “That's the funniest joke you've ever said to me. Also, I think you look cute in a skirt, so I have no vested interest in changing the dress code. Now run along to class like a good girl, so I can see what you look like from behind.”

“H-hey!” Pokke yelps indignantly. “Is that – are you making fun of my looks or my racing?! 'Cuz next time we run, all you'll be seeing is my behind, because you'll be – I mean – behind me, that is – because you'll be behind – shut up!”