Chapter Text
This was her birthright. This was her punishment.
That’s what Tachyon reminded herself, the words churning over in the thick sludge of her brain, as she slipped on her heels. Even if they had not yet noticed her absence, Tachyon knew her parents were waiting. Waiting to see her presence, even if they just marked it down in the background of their brain before moving on to the next point of interest. Waiting for her to show herself, the famed Agnes Tachyon, the Superluminal Princess with a broken body.
The fundraiser was set to begin in an hour, and here she was, still in her bedroom, bare feet swinging off her bed and grazing the wooden floor. She felt the cool oak's strength seep up into her toes, a welcome contrast to the heavy draping of her gown that engulfed her frail legs.
Tachyon hated her mother's fundraisers. They were always for a good cause, sure, but it was all performative in the end– a way to uphold the Agnes name, to demonstrate their wealth and power even as Tachyon destroyed what remained of their legacy with her feeble attempt at a racing career. She was never too concerned with the family name, anyway.
The public, with their incessant questions and pandering, would be here in an hour. Jungle Pocket should be here soon. Her mother and father were here now. They would all witness her, her small form wrapped in a dark blue silk that caused her to trip on her own feet and stumble over its pooling fabric. And she would stare at the cameras, let her mother show off her perfect, curated family, then leave. Tachyon promised herself that.
And so, with a heaving sigh that never quite left her lips, Tachyon slipped her feet into her stilettos even as her ankle protested. She wasn’t unused to wearing heels– her racing silks featured a pair of thick-soled boots with a significant arch. But Tachyon was not prepared for the flimsiness of a stiletto, the way it forced her Achilles tendon into a sharp, jutting angle. She took one shaky step, then another. The dull ache of her disintegrating tendon was there, constantly flooding her receptors through each flex, but it wasn’t unbearable. It simply was, in the same way her lungs ached as she sucked in air after a race or the way her vision swam when she stood up too fast. It was all a pile of evidence pointing towards her failure as a racer, a holy tribute to her cursed genes.
She did not look at herself in the mirror on her way out.
“Yo! Tachyon!!” Jungle Pocket called, waving her arms to catch the brunette’s attention from across the hall.
The Agnes estate had been meticulously decorated, its grand hall glowing as maids and servers ran about, putting the final touches in place. Chandeliers glittered from the high ceiling, hanging over the large ballroom and casting the space in a golden glow. Pocket stood off to the side, leaning against the wall nearest the stage and podium. Waiters bustled around her, setting place settings, fluffing tablecloths, and laying wires for the upcoming speeches. Tachyon hiked up her gown and walked, slowly, dreadfully, across the grand hall, her eyes glued to the ground. If Pocket noticed how long it took her to maneuver across the minefield, she stayed blissfully quiet.
Pocket whistled through her teeth as the heiress drew nearer. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had an estate, huh?”
Tachyon sucked in a breath, willing her mouth to curl up into her signature smirk. “Why would I kid about that? I don’t keep my background a secret,” Tachyon remarked as her red eyes grew wide and nearly glowing under the lights. She nestled herself parallel to Pokke, pressing her back against the wall and letting the pressure hold her upright, and taking the weight off her ankle.
“You know what I mean, dumbass.” Pocket’s gaze darted around the space, taking in the hustle and bustle before the inevitable storm of reporters and donors made their way into the hall. “This is, like, huge…”
“Welcome to my mother’s yearly attempt at philanthropic ventures.” Tachyon twisted her earring in her fingers, her arms uncomfortably bare in the sleeveless dress she was wearing. “As you know, my family hosts a gala intended to raise money for various charities of my mother’s choosing each year.”
She paused, staring at a maid who was struggling to hook up a microphone to the podium.
“I’ve been able to avoid it for the past few years due to my career and following hiatus, but since announcing my return to racing…”
Pocket visibly perked up.
“...I’m being forced to show my face once more,” Tachyon sighed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that. But why invite me? Not that I’m ungrateful or anything, but… this isn’t really my scene, y’know?”
“My mother invited you, not me.” Tachyon leveled. “And Cafe was busy.”
“So I’m your second choice, huh? Way to make a girl feel appreciated,”
“Not my choice, my mother’s. She wanted the so-called “leaders of the generation” here. She wanted Cafe too, but she said she was going mountain climbing, probably planned it today on purpose, that wretch…”
“Uh huh…” Pokke launched herself off the wall, spinning around until she was standing in front of Tachyon.
For the first time that evening, Tachyon took a proper look at Pocket. She was clad in a cream short dress with a cropped suit jacket that ended right at her stomach. Through the ruffles and pleats, Tachyon swore she could see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lungs expanded and contracted in the stifling air of the hall. It was oddly endearing to simply know that the girl in front of her was alive and breathing. A testament to her own vitality, she supposed.
Pocket seemed the pinnacle of health, a natural contradiction to Tachyon. Broad shoulders, strong, visible muscles that rippled under the tan expanse of her skin, smatterings of freckles that lingered even into the winter.
Tachyon, on the other hand, was her reverse in almost all ways: a thin frame, shoulders permanently hunched, and a sallow, constant shadow under her eye sockets that even layers of concealer couldn’t hide. The pair were like the sun and the moon… if the moon was far more battered by craters and was crumbling from the inside out.
“You look different. You didn’t braid your hair.” Tachyon blurted, forcing her eyes away from Pokke.
“Wha- that’s all you have to say?! I’m all dolled up for your stupid event, and that’s your takeaway?” Pokke spluttered, running a hand through her loose curls. The ringlets twisted around her finger, holding onto her flesh like ivy to a tree.
“You look nice too, you know. It’s weird to see you without your dingy lab coat and greasy hair.” Pokke’s eyes widened for a second, and she leaned in, examining Tachyon’s face like a detective would approach a magnifying glass. “Wait, are you wearing makeup?!”
Tachyon squirmed under her rival’s gaze. “Don’t look too surprised, Jungle Bucket! It’s only natural that I look decent for my own family’s event. I am still a woman, despite my… scientific proclivities.”
Tachyon moved out of Pokke’s line of sight, settling herself instead behind Pocket. She reached her own hand up, carding her long fingers through the hazelnut curls before pinching the soft skin at the nape of Pocket’s neck. Her other hand came darting out, holding a cotton swab drenched in some odd blue liquid –
“Nuh uh.” Pocket caught her other arm midair, wrapping her own hands around Tachyon’s wrist. “I’m not your guinea pig today,”
“Ah, foiled again!” Tachyon pouted. “It was completely harmless, I’ll have you know. I just needed a small DNA sample to test if the pressures of–”
“Nope, don’t care. No experiments for just one night! If you have me glowing neon green in front of all these people, I’m going to kick your ass.” Pokke dropped Tachyon’s arm, plucking the cotton swab out of her grasp. “And your hands are freakishly cold, dude. You should find some gloves, or something.”
“You only glowed green once, and it only lasted for a few hours! A completely inconsequential amount of time in the long run, if you ask me.” Tachyon’s smile grew wider, though her eyes crinkled ever-so slightly in the corners. Pokke’s glare relaxed in turn, her shoulders dropping once it seemed like the danger was over.
From behind Pokke, the two heard the telltale clack of heels along the marble floors drawing closer to them. Tachyon watched as Pokke turned to find the source of the sound, her eyes widening with confusion, then understanding, as she identified the older uma in front of her.
Her face was covered with a cloche hat and a veiled fascinator, and her dark purple gown ended just midway through her calves, revealing a slightly gnarled, misshapen mass of a right ankle that even a small heeled boot couldn’t hide. Her hands gripped onto a dark wooden cane as she leaned forward, mashing the rubber tip into the smooth marble floor.
“Tachyon!” She crooned, her smile stretched taut across her jowls, her teeth flashing shockingly white in the artificial glow of the room. “Introduce me to your guest!”
“Mother,” Tachyon said. Her voice lost all of its previous inflections. Her smile stayed intact, extending itself over the pinks of her gums as she stood up straighter. Agnes Flora smiled wider in turn, her veneers glinting under the chandeliers.
“Jungle Pocket, winner of the Derby and Japan Cup, standing in my event hall? Why, Tachyon, you never told me you had become close with such a strong competitor! Pocket – do you mind if I call you by your first name? – What a pleasure to have you here!”
“You invited her-”
“Hush, Tachyon, I’m speaking to Pocket. Tell me, how does it feel to stand at the pinnacle of success for your generation?”
Pokke’s eyes darted between the two women in front of her. Tachyon seemed… Pocket didn’t know. It was like a switch had been flipped on, and now she was standing straight, looking almost… normal. Pocket didn’t like it. She stumbled on her words, feeling the way her tongue seemed to twist in her mouth.
“I wouldn’t say I’m at the top yet, but-” her gaze drifted over to Tachyon. “But I’m getting closer! I get stronger every day, the more I work at it, and keep training, and all that. The Japan Cup was just the first step in my journey, y’know?”
“What eloquent words! See, I knew it was the right choice to have you here. We only have a few more minutes before we officially open the doors to our other esteemed guests, but I just have to introduce you to my husband before we all get lost in the bustle. Oh, and then I’m sure a few company heads would love to chat with you before the night is over. They’re always looking for up-and-coming umamusumes to feature in their ads. You don’t mind, do you?” Flora nattered as she clapped Pokke on the back, causing her to stumble forward just a bit from the sudden force.
“Wh- hold on a sec.” Pocket turned back to Tachyon, who still stood rigid and unusually silent throughout this whole ordeal. “Tachyon, come with me! Introduce me to your dad, or something,”
Flora’s eyebrows furrowed, just a touch, but she said nothing.
“Go on ahead. I have some prep work to finish up on my own before everyone comes in. I’ll find you afterwards, however– it’s no issue.”
“You sure?”
Yes, Pokke-kun, I’m sure. Now go, go.” Tachyon turned, waving her hand as if to shoo the girl away. Pocket shrugged, stepping forward with Flora in tow.
“Always an interesting one, isn’t she?” Flora joked once they were out of earshot, gripping her wooden cane as she dragged her right foot behind her across the floor. “They call her the Phantom Triple Crown, you know. Quite the nickname!”
Pocket chuckled, a small exhale that came out more as a wheeze than a proper laugh. “Trust me, I know.”
“Do you think she would’ve beaten you, if she had raced?” Flora’s smile stayed unmoving, glued onto her face, her eyes facing only forward.
Pocket felt her blood run cold, just for a moment. She paused, running her tongue over her teeth in mock contemplation. She knew her answer– she always did. But this was Tachyon’s mom she was talking to, the woman that somehow shaped that infuriating, intoxicating woman who managed to haunt Pokke’s days.
“Maybe,” She settled, the weight of the single word both a lie and her ultimate guilty truth. “Maybe, but she didn’t. She didn’t, so I won, and then Cafe won instead. We share the Crown, and we all just have to deal with it.”
Flora’s eyes met Pokke’s own from underneath her veil.
“You’re an interesting one, Pocket.” She murmured, more to herself than to the younger uma. “You know, I won my own fair share of races back in my heyday. And my eldest, Flight, did the same. I’m sure you know her, the Derby winner the year before yours! She couldn’t make it tonight, unfortunately. It’s too bad, I would have loved to introduce you two, maybe get a photo or two together to show the metaphorical baton-passing of the Derby–”
“What was Tachyon like as a kid?” Pokke interrupted. There was only so much self-aggrandizing she could take. She was never a patient person, and that wouldn’t change now, no matter who she was talking to.
“As a kid? She still is a kid.”
“She’s 19.”
“Yes, I know the age of my own daughter, thank you. Truth be told, she hasn’t changed much from when she was little.”
Pokke’s ears perked up. “Really? I can’t imagine her being any younger than she is right now, honestly. She’s so…” Pocket thought her words over carefully. “Intimidating,”
“She’s always been like that. Very quiet, very shy… and those eyes! So unnerving!” Flora shivered. “I still don’t know where she got those red eyes from. Both her father and I have brown eyes, and Flight managed to pop out with pink, but red? If I didn’t give birth to her myself, I would’ve sworn she wasn’t mine.”
“Tachyon, quiet?” Pokke laughed. “I’m lucky if I can get her to stop talking about her weird science stuff for more than a few minutes.”
“Well, she always was a curious child. She always preferred the company of her science experiments and her own thoughts to those of her family. It worked out for the better, in all honesty. Flight was quite the handful, so Tachyon was a nice change of pace for the poor maids who had to look after her… besides the constant experimentation, of course. She always did prefer human subjects to the animals I got for her.” Before Pokke could properly process that, Flora stopped abruptly.
The pair found themselves facing a tall, older man, clad in a crisp, almost sterile suit and tie. He did not smile or make any inclination of a greeting– Pokke wasn’t sure if he actually noticed her presence at all.
“Pocket, meet my husband, and Tachyon’s father!” Flora hummed, her smile reaching a new blinding wattage.
The man finally nodded in Pocket’s general direction before turning his attention back to his wife. He summoned her over, whispering something in her ear before turning away once more and walking away, his movements sharp and brisk. Flora’s eyes darkened for just a moment, and she pursed her lips in thought.
“Well, then. Pocket, you’ll have to excuse me, we appear to have an issue with the catering. See, this is why women handle the planning!” She giggled at her own joke.
Pocket picked at her own fingernails awkwardly. She didn’t know quite what to say to that oddly misogynistic joke, if it could even be called that.
Once again, Flora's brows furrowed in the absence of a response, but she left the awkward silence hanging without further comment.
“Guests will be coming in any moment now. Why don’t you find your seat and prepare for the auction later on? I’ll direct some important people your way when I have time, so you’ll stay occupied. We’ll chat later, hm?” Flora veered abruptly on her good heel and stalked away, her bum leg dragging behind her with each step.
Pocket watched with a morbid curiosity as it trailed behind her, the heel of her boot sliding and catching on small divots in the shining marble floor. She should’ve asked about it, she thought, mindlessly watching the figure move further away.
Pocket was suddenly acutely aware that she was standing in the middle of a massive event hall, dressed in finery that felt more like a costume than a proper outfit. She was alone, as the masses swirled around her and made their way to their seats. Did she even have an assigned seat? All Tachyon told her was that her presence was “not required but greatly appreciated,” and even that was like pulling teeth to get out of her.
The scientist had dropped the invitation on her and Cafe only a few days ago, spouting off about “auctions,” “donations,” and the like. Pocket would’ve skipped– she had nothing to donate, anyway, since she had already given all her winnings to Nabe-san and her parents. But the look on Tachyon’s face as she handed her the small envelope, the way her eyes drifted downwards, the way her small lips pursed and sneered as she talked about her childhood home… Pokke couldn’t leave her there.
It was weird, the way their relationship had evolved. They had once been rivals, switching roles of predator and prey, and they always would be, but lately, their relationship had begun to feel warmer, more friendly. Tachyon never approached Pokke until she wanted something, and Pokke never came to Tachyon unless it was with a challenge.
But still, Tachyon had reached out to Pokke and Cafe first, dropping the invitation into their laps with a smirk. She had insisted that their attendance wasn’t necessary, that the invitation was merely a formality, that all they had to do was RSVP no and Tachyon would take care of the rest. But her face as she spoke… It was almost pathetic. The way her crimson eyes darted around the room, never quite landing on the two umamusumes in front of her, how her long white sleeves dangled and shook as she handed them the envelopes.
Tachyon was required to be here– Pokke knew that. But she wasn’t. And even if she was loath to admit it, and even as she tried to insist that Pokke should say no, Pocket was almost convinced that Tachyon wanted her here as well, if only for the company. But this was Tachyon she was talking about, Pokke rationalized; the Tachyon that pushed her away, that refused to let her in, who shoved ethically dubious concoctions down her throat and hooked her up to heart rate monitors and haunted her every waking moment. Tachyon, who was untouchable, a heart of steel and ozone.
Pocket didn’t like Tachyon’s parents. She was sure of that, at least. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with them, per se, but there was something up. Flora was shifty, duplicitous, her smile so wide and unnerving that it put Tachyon’s to shame. She seemed only to hear every other word Pocket had said, and even then, it was like it was filtered through her own mental sieve. And Tachyon’s father barely even acknowledged Pocket– she realized he hadn’t even told her his name. Like she was some speck of dirt on the ground, unworthy of his attention. Pocket had never felt so tiny in this golden event hall.
Speaking of, where was Tachyon? Pokke was standing alone, a solitary figure in a wash of reporters, CEOs, and the wealthy who chattered and grated at her ears. The volume in the hall was gradually increasing as more people flowed in, and Pocket was exceedingly conscious that she was in the way of something, anything. She willed her legs to move, to carry her further into the sea of people, back towards the stage and away from the center of the floor. She could hear the whispers of people as she marched past, the quiet murmurings of Is that Jungle Pocket?
Pokke missed Tachyon. The thought crept in out of nowhere, infiltrating her already divided and anxious mind the way a parasite slithers through someone’s gut. She didn’t miss Tachyon. She was stressed from the crowds, looking for the one piece of familiarity she knew in a horde of aliens.
As Pokke resorted to elbowing the people who stood in her path as she writhed through the swarm (Was it these people’s first time on Earth? Or what, the rich never learned how to not stand in the middle of walkways?), she kept her eyes peeled for the slightest glimpse of chestnut, of dark blue silk, or glowing red.