Chapter Text
Academics should be the least of Agnes Tachyon's concerns.
In a perfect world, they would be.
Make no mistake— she hadn't gone down without a fight. In fact, she tried on multiple occasions to test out of the academic aspects of Tracen Academy's curriculum. Attending class had proven, ad infinitum, to be an egregious waste of her time. Emails, papers, publications, and a carefully designed visual presentation— she made the student council, the director, and even Miss Hayakawa painfully aware of her over-qualifications by any means necessary.
And yet.
Her leaden-tongued teacher, twisting an unused piece of chalk between her fingers, droned incessantly about the basics of a topic Tachyon could guarantee she understood at age seven. The sounds swirled around her disinterested ears, dipping in and out of her awareness when their shape was vaguely familiar. Certain words would pull her back in long enough to realize the lecture hadn't inched beyond definitions, and she'd drift away back into her mind, scribbling synthesis routes onto her paper in place of notes. If the lecture could prove it contained anything of substance, she might've invested more than a shell of herself— but, as with many classes, it was far from being worth her time, so she'd play along with the student council's plea for her to keep up appearances. Attendance was practically her grade, after all. And despite how much it pained her, she'd waste an hour or so staring out of a window if it meant she got to keep her place at the academy.
If she would be kept from her research without any hope of appeal, she would make use of the time to organize other aspects of her life.
She stared down at the small drawings in her notebook.
On paper, it appeared to be the simplest synthesis she could think of. Obtaining the main reactant wouldn't be so much of a challenge as it would be a chore, as it was the active ingredient in a drug store expectorant. Thankfully her ammonia stores were not yet depleted, as it would double as a solvent and a nucleophile for the second step of the reaction. The only true problem would be procuring the reagent for the first step. It irked her to no end that the perfect molecule for her synthesis had an equally perfect degree of lethality. Even so, some sardonic part of her felt that the pulmonary embolism it threatened would put an end to her purgatory of wasted potential.
She cracked her neck once, trying to shake it out.
Not the time. Her guinea pigs had worked hard to push themselves in the recent months— what good would moping do when the frontier of possibility was inching ever forward? The entire purpose behind this experiment was to progress her return to the turf.
If she were to indulge in her undeniable need to run, she would have to take every necessary precaution. Participating in strenuous activity would inevitably induce flare-ups, which meant a nagging nociceptive response to keep her from what little rest she could be getting. All of which would deal a fatal blow to her productivity, and that sacrifice would drain her of more than just comfort. In terms of pain management… NSAIDs helped, of course, but there was only so much one could ingest before the incurred liver damage outweighed the prospects of a "good" night's sleep.
Her solution? A hybrid drug of muscle relaxants, anti-inflammatories, and sleep-aids.
To say it worked well would be an understatement. Tachyon would consider saying it worked too well at times, given the hours of research she'd sacrificed to sleeping in on mornings after taking it. Still, losing an hour to extra rest on weekends was more tolerable than being so perpetually sleep deprived that she published more than a fair share mediocre papers. Time had to be sacrificed to sleep for the sake of efficiency, and that was an awfully difficult pill for Tachyon to swallow. Her medication, on the other hand, went down quite easily. Keeping such an effective form of recovery pain management to herself would be an insult to academia.
So, when a younger, hesitant umamusume approached her one afternoon for advice regarding a recent injury, she had just the remedy (and a perfect excuse to gather more data on the treatment's efficacy). If only she'd had the foresight to make more of it, though, so that laborious task fell to the Tachyon of the present. Woe unto her, the burden of generosity weighed heavily on her precious and limited time…
At least she was getting an unwitting guinea pig out of the ordeal. The poor unsuspecting thing, she'd even handed over her medical history without so much as a second thought. Tachyon combed through it to take some notes the night before, just to be certain she wasn't putting the young one at too much of a risk.
…notes which were, much to her dismay, undoubtedly still sitting on her dorm room's desk. Meaning she'd have to trudge all the way back to her dorm, then all the way across town to the pharmacy to get the medication, and finally all the way back to her lab before she could even think about starting the synthesis. Her legs pulsed at the thought.
She never should've taken her notes out of her lab, it was inevitable she'd forget them in her dorm. Even with the time crunch, it was a thoughtless decision to take them back with her just to get the work done. Room checks had truly become the bane of her existence, only serving to keep her from the lab, and for what reason? Just to meet Fuji Kiseki face-to-face at curfew each night? They were beneficial, sure— Tachyon could admit that fairly. Students would sneak out and work themselves to the bone training for the upcoming onslaught of end-of-year G1s if they were left unsupervised. Tachyon, however, was on hiatus. Her whereabouts didn't need policing.
No amount of complaining could change her circumstances, though— evidenced by her mandated presence for the longest lecture she'd ever sat through.
Which, apparently, she'd missed the end of.
Students all around the classroom had begun eagerly packing up to meet with their friends, head off to training, or find some other Friday afternoon activity to busy themselves with.
Tachyon sighed heavily, and a rawness in her throat quickly made itself known as it scratched against the dry air. She gave a tentative, experimental swallow and grimaced as the familiar stinging sensation she dreaded covered the entire back of her mouth.
What divine timing.
She rubbed at her eyes, which were so obviously swollen that she nearly kicked herself for failing to notice it earlier. Time would not wait around for her to mope, however, so she begrudgingly gathered her belongings to shove away into the depths of her bag.
"Ay, Tachyon."
Ah. The star of the week.
It wouldn't be the first time they'd interacted since Jungle Pocket's enormous victory that Sunday— in fact, the newest owner of the Japan Cup had come to visit her lab the very next day. It was a cordial conversation that ensued, even if that cordiality was likely far from Pokke's intention in broaching the talk. She hadn't taken more than three hesitant steps into the lab, but it wasn't as though Tachyon had taken any initiative to meet her halfway.
There wasn't any benefit in admitting the event's impact on her— not at that time, at least. She wouldn't be so quick to announce her potential return to the track. Not before she was certain. And, although the short conversation primarily composed of "Congratulations," and other similar pleasantries, the subsequent silence that lingered in Pokke's absence had been anything but.
Tachyon pivoted in her chair.
"How can I be of assistance, Pokke-kun?"
She looked the same as always, if not the slightest bit taller. Physiological manifestations of confidence shone like beacons across her skin. Beacons that itched to be measured and plotted.
"C'mon, I'm not trying to use you for something," Pokke made a grand display of dropping her bag next to Tachyon's feet before lazily slouching her figure onto the now empty desk before her. "Just checking, cause you look tired as all hell. More than usual."
"Mmm, yes, and I assume you're no stranger to exhaustion, what with the endless parade of post-victory proceedings and all."
"Nah," she flashed a bright smile. "I'm kinda on top of the world right now. I was honestly starting to miss everything being 'go-go-go', y'know?"
Tachyon contorted her tired face to return the expression, and Pokke's vivacious demeanor soured instantly. Had she known it would be that jarring, she wouldn't have bothered to reciprocate in the first place.
"Dude, your eye bags are literally purple. Are you even sleeping? Like, at all?"
What an ignorant question.
"Yes, of course I've been getting sleep. Your dear Fuji Kiseki has made a great effort to ensure that much. There's just a…" her voice trailed off into a deep yawn. "…non-zero chance that I'm coming down with a cold. Now, have I sated your curiosity? I really am quite busy-"
Pokke tilted her head into Tachyon's view. "I figured you of all people would know that passing out at your desk doesn't count as sleep."
"Let me put it this way, Pokke. If you are planning on running in this year's Arima Kinen, I suggest keeping your distance," she pressed her cold fingers to Jungle Pocket's chest and pushed her back out of her infectious radius. "—unless you'd be a willing host for the virus currently parasitizing my somatic cells."
"Nope, I'm not racing again till March," she steadied her weight by leaning her hand on Tachyon's desk, imprisoning the last of her notes against its surface. "And besides, you couldn't get me sick if you tried. My immune system's top notch." She pointed a proud thumb to her chest.
"Mm. I'm not entirely surprised by that, though I'd love to put it to the test," her gaze lingered on her work trapped beneath Pokke's palm. "Children exposed to a wide variety of pathogens typically grow up to have fortified immune responses. I hate to ever invoke something so Freudian, but did you ever have an oral fixation?"
Jungle Pocket's eyebrows shot up as her mouth fell slightly agape. "Geez, Tachyon," she teased, words bobbing slightly atop a giggle she failed to fully contain. "You can't just ask someone something like that outta nowhere."
Much less bothered by the question than her answer suggested, Pokke slipped her hand off the desk and took Tachyon's notes with it. She straightened the paper with pantomimed professionalism and eyed its contents, doing a poor job of pretending she had any idea of how to even pronounce the words written.
"I am innocently inquiring about a childhood habit of putting toys or dirt in your mouth to explore the environment," she quickly snatched her notes back from Pokke's prying eyes, shoved the last of her belongings away, and zipped up her bag. "Did you eat so much filth that it corrupted your mind?"
Not caring for any answer Pokke could manage to fire back, Tachyon stood from her desk to make her exit, but was rudely interrupted. Not by any well-meaning interference, but rather by her body's inability to persist.
Numb, hazy, ringing. An exponential increase in the strength of gravity…
Tachyon slumped back into her seat to readjust.
When it didn't fully take her down, the smorgasbord of sensation wasn't… uncomfortable. One moment she was at peace, alone, adrift in the void, and in the next she rediscovered just how wonderful that void was in comparison to her current predicament.
"Riiiight, so, are we going to the cafeteria or the dorm?" In came Jungle Pocket's voice to help disperse the static.
Still, the daze hadn't fully lifted. "I'm… not sure I understand the inquiry."
"Food or sleep. Your choice."
Her vision cleared just enough to map the morphology of Pokke's face.
If only she'd been in the right mind. That veil of self-satisfaction thinly draped over a therapeutic dose of concern… Jungle Pocket's expression was so exquisitely oxymoronic that it was almost shameful Tachyon hadn't taken good enough care of herself to commit every fiber of it to memory.
She blinked twice to combat the overhead LEDs fighting to scramble her cerebrum.
"Can I-"
"Nope. Food or sleep."
…
Her hand was forced.
"…we'll walk to the dorm," she mumbled, irritated both by her adamantly obtrusive guinea pig, and the sharpened threat of a headache that had begun pressing against her temples.
Pokke's charming conceit returned. "Wise decision."
It took a moment for the fuzz to fully dissipate from around her vision, even longer for it to clear from her brain, but it seemed victory did well to improve Jungle Pocket's patience.
Which had another added benefit, as the walk back to the Ritto dormitory took much longer than it should've.
Cold and dry November air grated like sandpaper against Tachyon's sinuses, irritating her respiratory tract easier than any fumes ever had. It reached a point that every few minutes or so Tachyon had to stop to lean over as she heaved out syncopated coughs, wincing slightly at each unpleasant pound of her lungs against her ribcage. After one particularly violent fit, she was forced to sit and lean against the base of a tree to catch her breath again. She was slow to make good on that effort, though, as every inhale carried a dreadful promise of more sharp air to flay her throat even further.
Winters dawned slowly on Tracen Academy, with hints of the cold to come dropped in late November evenings after the Autumn hour fell back. Some persistent leaves still clung to their chlorophyll, fighting a slow battle they'd inevitably lose by the season's end. Others seemed content to let gravity take them to the forest floor, spun out like death-defying dancers before laying to rest. How long had it taken them to accept the decay that awaited them there?
Tachyon hunched forward to stop the lumpy bark behind her from scratching her neck too deeply. Ironic, it had been, for her to retire in the season of new beginnings and metamorphosis. The spring sunlight never even got the chance to graze her. Then again, she was nothing if not true to her namesake.
One green leaf, speckled yellow from its struggle against the sun, fluttered to the ground beside her foot. She was quite fond of it, for whatever reason.
"Want me to run out and grab you something?" Pokke's neck was loose as she glanced down to her lump of a rival balled up beside her feet. "Meds? Fuji and I could make you soup or… would tea help?"
Tachyon's ears perked at the word.
"Without all the sugar."
She leaned her face against her arm. "I'd rather not waste time ingesting something so nutritionally dilute." Even words were caustic as they came up.
It took a moment longer for her to realize the opportunity that had fallen so simply into her palms.
"Mm… guaifenesin."
"Hm?"
"Medication. Guaifenesin and diphenhydramine."
She quickly peeled the case off of her phone to remove a written reminder and handed it to Pokke, who was unamused.
"What, so you already had plans to go to the drug store? What am I, your gofer?"
Tachyon puffed her cheeks out slightly. "Of course not— you're my guinea pig," she cooed. "And here I thought you were trying to be considerate for your sickly friend… should I consider your offer to be false, then?"
"Fine, whatever, I got you," she tucked the slip into her jacket pocket.
The silence persisted for a second or two.
Pokke ran her shoe over the yellowing grass. Each blade was pliant, bending beneath the sole before slowly rising back up again. She smiled at its persistence. Not her typical smile, with her tilted head and grin on full display— just a small, personal smile. Tachyon wasn't completely sure if she was even aware of it.
Pokke's eyes flitted to Tachyon's face.
"…what're you smiling for?" she teased.
"Ah—Hm?"
"You've got a goofy ass smile on your face," hers had tilted into a smirk. "D'you really need these meds that bad, or are you just scheming something?"
Of course she needed the medication. For one, Tachyon was utterly miserable. The full body inflammation response, the pain propagating from the nape of her neck, and the prospect of a long night of arduous lab work that she needed the other drug for… all of it piled up to burden her already phlegm-flooded brain.
Still, something about that smile of hers was hypnotic. For something so small, like the death-bleached blades of grass, or the gift of teasing her rival again. A smile for simplicity's sake, quietly thanking time for spinning out in such a way that made all good things possible.
"I'm simply observing."
"Old excuse. When are you not?"
"…I have no defense against that accusation."
"That mean I win?"
"If victory in a baseless competition would satisfy you, then yes."
"For now."
Pokke smiled, this time it was one Tachyon was used to seeing. Confident, brash… pain management in its purest form.
She was quite fond of it, for whatever reason.
Jungle Pocket fiddled with the paper inside her jacket. "…how're you feeling?"
Tachyon pulled back into her body to assess her internal environment and desperately hoped the warmth she found rising there wasn't the beginning of a fever.
She shifted and stabilized herself on the tree to stand back up, leaning her weight against it when her vision threatened to bottom out again. An earnest hand readied itself by her arm, and Tachyon felt the warmth's previously steady climb take an exponential upturn, proliferating across every square centimeter of her skin.
She coughed out a breath and steadied herself upright, foolishly flapping her hand around to somehow imply she didn't require any assistance.
"Well enough to continue on," she replied, lugging her bag over her shoulder. "Shall we?"