Chapter Text
You had never been a nighttime person, at least not any more than the average individual.
Though, you had never really viewed it in a negative light either. The lingering feeling of the dark, the cold—they were soothing in their own right, you suppose.
Lately, though, you had discovered an appreciation for moments characterized by those exact qualities, despite how strange it could feel. How alien in comparison to what those fleeting thoughts claimed to desire. Slow, quaint, enamoring in the feeling of supple saturation, to simply lie still and absorb the world around you.
The feeling of quiescence.
No, you never wanted that. Moreover, you hated it. Why?
Because of the sluggishness this body enforced upon you. The vibrancy and celerity you were robbed of without any form of say. Why? Why did it have to be you? Why?
To be robbed of the only thing in your existence that you believed would let you be—
To feel trapped within a constant prison that would never—
To know that as long as this cruel anguish, this insurmountable wall that faced you anytime you looked in the mirror, this unfixable, disgusting, miserable—
You didn't like how quickly those thoughts turned sad, how easily they turned violent and ugly. How quickly you were able to turn those thoughts upon yourself. That wasn't it, nor was it what you wanted.
You just wanted to think. To be somewhere you could actually think. Think about now, think about yourself, think about thoughts and things; everything. What you could be, not what you are, what you'd like to be. What, if given the choice, you would have chosen to be.
That’s what this place had become for you now—a place to revel in those types of thoughts. Because even long after the halls of Tracen Academy had fallen quiet, after the last of the students had returned to their dormitories and the campus lights had dimmed into soft amber pools across the windows, one room remained stubbornly awake. A room unlike your own head in a lot of ways.
The steady hum of the room's lights overheard a constant mechanical chorus, joining the low bubbling of glass condensers, the quiet ticking of dials and timers, and the low whine of computers processing data that had long since exceeded the scope of any ordinary student project.
The air in the laboratory carried its usual, comforting scent: solvents, circuitry, and perhaps most comforting of all, sweet, sweet tea forgotten hours ago.
And, of course, paper. Hundreds upon hundreds of pages, like drifts of pristine white snow, with the occasional iridescent stain marring a few. Covered in frantic equations, anatomical sketches, and racing telemetry, they littered nearly every available surface. Entire whiteboards disappeared beneath sprawling mathematical formulas that stretched from edge to edge like the web of a spider obsessed with fluid dynamics, arrows connecting theories that only one person in the entire academy could decipher without a headache.
The room looked less like a functioning laboratory and more like the inside of an endlessly racing mind. That part, of course, was not dissimilar. For you, the two may as well have been one and the same.
A familiar, uneven sound echoed through the space. One so supremely distinguishable from the rest of the symphony of equipment, yet so necessary you couldn't imagine what the room would sound like without it.
Agnes Tachyon crossed between her workstations with the practiced, halting movement she had developed over the past several months. One forearm rested comfortably in the cuff of her crutch, while her right leg carried the vast majority of her weight. The heavy brace secured around her left leg gave an occasional, muted creak whenever she shifted her stance.
It wasn't graceful. Not compared to how she used to move. You remembered that all too well, back when you were one of the pillars standing to support her.
There had been a time when every step she took carried the effortless, physics-defying balance of someone born to do so—perhaps even destined. Even simple walking had possessed a strange, mesmerizing confidence; every motion economical, fluid, and brimming with latent power. A power so blindingly radiant that, in your eyes, it possessed no equal, even if you could only observe it from afar.
Now, every movement required a split-second of planning, a conscious physical adjustment, or a quiet compromise on her part. An avian given the brilliant, wondering desire to soar, yet allowed only to remain idle.
Her oversized laboratory coat swayed behind her with each uneven step, the sleeves hanging well past her hands as they always did. Her brown hair had grown far longer than when she had still been racing, falling untidily around her shoulders in soft waves. She still insisted she simply hadn't found a reason to cut it.
But you knew the real answer. She just forgot. Or, perhaps, she had stopped caring altogether.
"Now then..." Her voice drifted across the room, bright and analytical, sparing no amount of liveliness when it related to her experiments. Her pen scratched rapidly against the paper underneath her hands. "Thirty-six point eight... Yet, no appreciable degradation compared to yesterday's catalyst. Curious."
"Hm." She tilted a glass beaker toward the desk lamp, watching the pale blue solution inside refract into a variety of shifting, glimmering bands of color. A tiny, self-satisfied smile spread across her face. "Though successful nonetheless."
She sounded pleased. Not because she had achieved a monumental breakthrough, but simply because reality had once again behaved exactly as she had predicted. Though to what extent, you probably had no idea in the slightest.
You smiled to no one but yourself, resting your chin on your hand as you looked at Tachyon in her element. "...You're doing it again."
"And what behavioral display would that entail?" She didn't even look up from the beaker, merely directing one of her ears in your general direction so as to not pull too much of her attention away from the examination at hand.
"Talking to your beakers, Tachyon," you stated, pointing vaguely at the large variety of differently shaped glass containers. Some of them were filled to the brim with colors you weren't entirely sure you had the necessary photoreceptors to properly comprehend.
"They are considerably more attentive than most people," she retorted smoothly, swirling the blue liquid. "In fact, unlike a certain someone, they always seem so eager to assist me in my endeavors."
You couldn't help but scoff playfully at that, your drive toward being used as a test subject being compared to that of a piece of glassware. "So I've noticed."
"They also do not interrupt my experiments," she continued, clearly intent on making it known just how superior her transparent friends were in contrast. "Perhaps sometime you could show me the same consideration."
"I only interrupt when you've done something wrong, which in my experience is pretty often. Primarily forgetting to eat." Your tone turned slightly accusatory, insistent that you had not forgotten today's oversight.
Tachyon's gaze quickly flitted back to her work, doing her best to mask the suddenly guilty demeanor that crossed her features. "I have not forgotten."
"Tachyon," you chided, not entirely playful, hoping to at least get your point across.
"I simply prioritized... other things," she replied, her tone airy and dismissive, still refusing to meet your gaze directly.
"...For fourteen hours straight?" you pushed on, not at all convinced by her, at best, piss-poor argument.
"Time is relative—"
"We're in the same room."
She finally turned to face you. Those deep crimson eyes settled on you. There was no light or shine in them—there never had been—but they still managed to carry an incredible, arresting amount of expression. Today, they sparkled with amused annoyance.
"My dear guinea pig." She folded her arms inside the oversized, swallowing sleeves of her coat, leaning her hip against the edge of the desk. "You continue to confuse biological necessity with arbitrary scheduling."
"And you continue to confuse starvation with efficiency."
"I fail to see the contradiction."
"Of course you don't."
She puffed out her cheeks, her ears twitching backward. "How cruel!"
"You say that every time."
"And every time it wounds me deeply!"
"You'll recover."
"Scientifically speaking..." She placed a hand dramatically over her sweater-clad chest, her long bangs swaying. "...the emotional damage from your heartlessness may very well be irreversible."
Tachyon watched you with quiet satisfaction. There it was, just for a fraction of a second—that tiny, vulnerable expression she tried so hard to mask. Relief. She was always secretly happy whenever you bantered with her, whenever you didn't treat her like glass. She would never, ever admit it, but the subtle relaxation in her shoulders spoke volumes.
Instead, she glanced toward the brown paper bag resting on the desk beside you. "...Incidentally."
"Hm?"
"That sandwich."
"You mean your sandwich?"
"I was under the impression it belonged to whichever organism exhibited the greater nutritional deficiency."
"You've somehow turned stealing my lunch into an experimental theory."
"It is science."
"No, it's petty theft."
"The distinction is largely semantic."
You sighed dramatically, though you still made an effort to slide the wrapped sandwich across the cluttered desk. "There. Eat."
"Excellent."
She accepted it with surprising, almost childlike eagerness. There were no dramatic speeches, no pretending she wasn't hungry to preserve her pride. The moment the food reached her hands, she immediately took an enormous bite, her tail giving a tiny, unconscious flick.
"...Good?" you asked.
She chewed thoughtfully, staring at the ceiling as if analyzing the molecular structure of the mustard. "...Adequate."
"You say that every single time."
"It remains objectively accurate."
"And in human terms?"
She looked away, a faint flush of color returning to her pale cheeks. "...It tastes nice."
"That’s good."
"You continue to exploit my honesty," she mumbled around her next bite, sounding genuinely offended.
It made you grin wider. Watching her eat had become strangely comforting over the past few months. It was such a small, mundane thing, but you had learned very quickly that if left to her own devices, Agnes Tachyon would happily survive on raw, unwashed vegetables, lukewarm tea, and whatever happened to be chemically adjacent to food. Actual meals required your direct, persistent intervention.
You had lost count of how many mornings you had walked into this laboratory carrying a warm breakfast, only to discover she had been awake all night. Or two nights. Or... you had stopped asking.
Someone had to make sure she remembered she was a person before she was a scientist. Eventually, she had simply accepted that the role belonged to you. Not because she couldn't take care of herself, but because she trusted you enough to let you do it for her.
You leaned back on the squeaky metal stool, watching her continue to scribble notes one-handed while navigating the sandwich with the other. A comfortable silence descended upon the room, and your mind began to wander, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows. You let out a quiet, wistful sigh.
"Guinea pig," Tachyon murmured, her voice snapping you out of your thoughts. You refocused on her face to find her observing you closely. "Do not look so sullen. If you keep sighing like that, I shall have to measure your carbon dioxide output just to ensure you aren't suffocating yourself out of sheer boredom."
"I'm not bored, Tachyon," you said, spinning slightly on your stool to look busy. "Just thinking."
"A dangerous pastime for a human," she chimed, tilting her head. She offered a sharp, slightly mischievous grin that showed a hint of her teeth. "And what, pray tell, is occupying that delightful brain of yours today? Still dwelling on the past? Or perhaps you are merely lamenting the tragic, unkempt state of my hair? I assure you, the natural oil buildup actually provides a minor barrier against mild acid splashes."
"Ew," you said, before looking past her toward the glowing monitor displaying old race archives. "I was actually just thinking about the Twinkle Series. I was watching some old footage of the Classics this morning. God, it's just... it's the most beautiful thing in the world, y’now?"
That caught her attention.
One of her ears twitched. She continued to write, but her pen visibly slowed against the paper. "Oh? The mindless pursuit of the horizon? The primitive urge to propel oneself forward at velocities the skeletal structure was scarcely designed to tolerate?"
You couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, put scientifically, maybe. But I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching Umamusume race."
"You humans do seem to be endlessly fascinated by it."
"How could I not be?" you breathed, your voice warming with an old, deep-seated passion. This was a conversation you two had iterated dozens of times, a comfortable orbit you always spiraled back into. "When I was little..." You smiled faintly, staring at your reflection in the glass of a nearby cabinet. "I watched every race I could. I'd stay up way too late looking at race recordings. I memorized winners. Split times. Track conditions. Strategies."
You laughed quietly. "My parents thought I was insane."
"...An understandable conclusion," she murmured softly, earning the sharpest side-eye you could manage.
"I just thought Uma Musume were..." You searched for the right word, your chest tightening slightly. "...Amazing. Beautiful. The strongest, most free people in the world. I wanted to be a part of that."
Your smile shrank, turning a bit bittersweet.
"...Actually. I wanted to be one."
The laboratory grew unusually quiet. It wasn't an awkward silence, but rather a profound, still hush that seemed to absorb the room.
You looked down at your own hands resting on your knees. Human. Small. Ordinary. Completely incapable of reaching the speeds that were only natural to her.
"I always wished I'd been born an Uma Musume." The words came easier now than they ever had before. Perhaps because there was only one person in the world you trusted enough to say them to. "I wanted the ears. The tail. The strength. The… body. I wanted to run until my lungs burned and the world blurred around me."
You swallowed hard, your voice barely rising above a whisper. "And... I still do. Every day."
For several seconds, Tachyon said nothing at all. She didn't mock you. She didn't laugh. She simply watched you, her dark red eyes holding you in a quiet, unwavering gaze. When she finally spoke, her voice was completely devoid of its usual theatrics, sounding remarkably flat.
"...I see."
She rested both of her hands atop the handle of her crutch, leaning forward slightly. The sheer physical presence of an Umamusume—even one as thin as Tachyon—was palpable. Even hunched over, she towered over you, a constant, silent reminder of the vast gap between your species. Yet, her expression was soft as ever.
"...Then perhaps..." A tiny smile appeared on her face. "...we are not so different after all, my dear guinea pig."
You blinked, looking up at her.
She glanced down at the heavy medical brace secured around her leg.
"I possess the body of an Umamusume." Her fingers tapped lightly against the cold metal. "...Yet it refused to become the body I so desired it to become. It broke under the weight of an ambition it was never meant to sustain."
She looked back up, locking her eyes with yours.
"And you, you possess a human body which, likewise, refused to become the body you desire altogether. Lost to none other than a simple chance, beyond your control just the same."
She let out a soft, dry laugh.
"What remarkably stubborn pieces of biology we are burdened with."
A beat passed, and the heavy atmosphere dissolved as Tachyon suddenly burst out in a smirk, her usual persona returning in an instant.
"But alas, that was such a wonderfully poetic confession from you!" she purred, taking a halting step closer, her expression incredibly smug. "You truly are a fascinating specimen, Guinea pig. Your devotion to our kind borders on the pathological. I absolutely love it."
"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and laugh," you muttered, rolling your eyes, though there was no real heat in your words.
"Laugh? Why, I would never!" Tachyon insisted, her voice taking on a petulant whine as she puffed out her cheeks again. "I am nothing if not magnanimous! Your dreams are... noble. And highly scientifically relevant! In fact, your constant pining has given me a tremendous spark of inspiration. A breakthrough, if you will!"
Despite yourself, you laughed. "...That's your takeaway from my emotional vulnerability?"
"But of course!" She smiled, brighter and more brilliant than before. "Where there are dreams of overcoming the impossible, there is science! Which means there remains only one reasonable course of action for us."
"Pfff, yeah? What's that?"
"We continue arguing with biology until it surrenders to our peaceful and I dare say extremely reasonable demands."
You stared at her for a moment. It was such an absurd, impossibly arrogant, and utterly Agnes Tachyon answer that you couldn't really argue.
Perhaps reality wouldn't bend so easily to a broken leg or wishful thinking. Perhaps neither of you could simply will your bodies into matching what your hearts desperately wanted.
But, it didn't feel entirely hopeless either.