Sunset ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the day of the Satsuki Sho. And as the rest of the Umas were on this day, Agnes Tachyon was headed to the starting gates.

Tachyon was situated directly in the middle of the outer post, in bracket 7. A lucky number, number 7. Of course, luck was all superstition, but Tachyon didn't believe in luck or chance or whatever anyone else wanted to call it. Tachyon believed in science, statistics, fact. Tachyon believed in what was absolute and could be proven, not in things as fickle and false as luck and possibility. She had done the necessary calculations, taken every necessary measurement, looked out for every possible contingency. She was not only prepared for everything, but she was setting herself up to win. After all, she was undefeated. There was nothing that could stop her now. All the numbers were right, all the measurements lined up. Now all she had to do was race.

Tachyon raced best as a pace chaser—stalking the others in the front, making them think she wasn't too much of a threat, and then coming around to take the lead in the last 200 meters or so. Of course, that small detail about not appearing as a threat was hit or miss; now that Tachyon was three times undefeated, she was this race's favorite runner, which meant that every other Uma at the starting gate was going to be doing their damndest to beat her and prove that they were better. (Jungle Pocket, in particular, seemed especially determined, but that didn't scare Tachyon in the slightest. Tachyon knew that she was the superior racer.)

The Satsuki Sho was a 2000 meter turf track in Nakayama Racecourse—a medium length race, another factor that ensured Tachyon would be the winner today. Tachyon had no proficiency to speak of on dirt tracks and solely raced on turf, and medium length races were where she excelled above all else. (She was also comfortable racing on long distance tracks, but medium length races were much easier for Tachyon to run in comparison.) It was a sunny, mostly dry April day, so the track was good, but not firm, but that wasn't enough of a factor to ruin her chances of winning entirely.

(Her birthday was two days ago. She celebrated with a sugary tea and more calculations.)

She hadn't kept track of any of the other racers, in all honesty. She was most focused on where she was placed and what she would need to do in order to win today. She didn't know who was to her left or to her right, which gate Jungle Pocket was standing in or which gate Dantsu Flame was standing in. Everyone here was basically a mystery to her except for herself... and honestly, she was comfortable with that, because that meant no one else was important enough for her to worry about losing. She was Agnes Tachyon, and she was going to win this year's Satsuki Sho.

She stood there in the gate, bringing herself into prime position. One leg forward, one leg back. One arm forward, one arm back. Head stretched forward, body curved back. She was ready for this. All her calculations were perfect, all her calculations had been leading up to this moment. She darted forward at less than maximum speed as the gates opened, taking note of the Umas that were already closest to the front. She had to follow them and be on their tail, to let them control the pace and only overtake them when they didn't have enough time to do anything about it. She had to follow them and ride their wind stream, swerving around them when they least expected it to get ahead.

The commentators were saying something, playing through the speakers placed near the crowds watching. Tachyon could barely hear any of it, the wind whooshing through her ears as she sped off, riding the wind of an Uma dressed in blue and white. Jungle Pocket was nowhere in sight, a good sign for Tachyon; she wasn't really worried about losing at all today because of all her calculations, but if there was a threat to her win, it was going to be Jungle Pocket and Dantsu Flame, so not being able to see either in her peripheral vision was a good sign. She was going to win.

Her mind raced as she sped down the track, turning a corner alongside the other Umas. She kept hereyes focused on the racer in front of her, keeping her eyes focused on the gap to their left that would allow her to swerve around and take the lead as they rounded the final corner. She thought about what it would be like when she won; it would almost be like a birthday present to herself, because this win would be the product of hard work. All her calculations, all her training, every ounce of effort that she had ever put into this race was coming to fruition in the form of a first place trophy, and-

Before she could finish thinking, her foot twisted on the way down, prompting a gasp.

The rest of her body collided with the ground in a flash. Her ankle twisted and sent her leg down from the side, and despite her sending an arm down to catch herself, her entire body landed on its side on the turf. She barely had a moment to catch her breath, only managing to turn her head to see the other 13 Umas headed her way. Foot and heel and foot and heel all buried her underneath, leaving as quickly as they came each time. Her throat felt like it was being crushed, her back felt completely stiff and unmovable, her legs felt like they were being yanked in each direction with every step that crushed them underneath an Uma's full body weight. (They all weighed roughly 44 kg an Uma. That combined with the pressure coming from an umashoe...)

She tried to lift her head up, disoriented as all hell, but a stray Uma or two ran across her, burying her head further into the turf beneath her. A cloud of dust and grass appeared around her and over her head, faintly in her blurry and obscured field of vision, and she could barely place anything. She couldn't tell where the turf ended and the crowd began, she couldn't tell where the voices she could barely hear were coming from, she couldn't tell what part of her body was touching what because she could barely feel anything. All she felt was pain—sharp, burning, excruciating pain, all up her back and through her legs. She had been crushed inside and outside, buried into the ground as though Nakayama Racecourse would be her grave.

She could barely remember anything from there, only hearing screams and shouts as shadows entered her vision. And slowly, her vision faded away, bringing nothing but black and silence.

Chapter Text

Tachyon woke up to the sight of a stark white room and the sound of an old TV. She could barely remember everything that came before. The last memory she had was-

The accident.

Once she thought about it, everything came rushing back into her mind at full force. The feeling of hitting the turf, every foot that pressed itself into her body, the lack of sensation in any of her limbs, the loss of vision and consciousness once every other Uma on the track had already run her over. Her body still felt stiff, and her eyes were barely open enough to comprehend the images on the television before her, which seemed to be playing a broadcast of another race Tachyon couldn't identify. All she knew was that there were a bunch of other racers, running down a track very much like the one she had fallen on, and they were racing without a care in the world, because Tachyon was the only Uma she knew who actually took racing as seriously as she did.

Before she could think about much more, she was suddenly made aware of how much pain she was in. It radiated up her back as though she was being repeatedly stabbed with daggers, all up her spine and into her neck. She tried to move but found her entire body rigid and being held in place by something she could only feel and not see, minus one thing that was within her field of vision—a cast around her leg, being held up in a sling attached to some kind of metal bar. She tried to crane her neck up to look at where the bar led, but found that to be too painful to attempt, so she kept her head facing forward in the end. She resigned herself to where she was, knowing that she was miserable and unable to move as she closed her eyes.

Her nose twitched at a smell.

Earthy, slightly nutty, and mildly bitter on her tongue when she inhaled. She recognized the smell—it was freshly brewed coffee, the kind that her friend, Manhattan Cafe, would make for herself and her friends. Cafe visited Tachyon often, but never without a mug of freshly brewed coffee in hand. It was a very distinct smell, what with the beans used to make her coffee being imported by her family, so Tachyon could tell she wasn't smelling just any cup of coffee. That had to be a coffee made by Cafe, a coffee made with her special coffee beans and poured into her special white mug with a black cat emblem on the front.

"Cafe?" she asked, finding her voice softer and more hoarse than she remembered.

"Tachyon," said Cafe's almost excited voice, and she came into view from the left side, holding her signature coffee mug. She was keeping it at an angle, towards her, so she didn't spill it on Tachyon.

"How long was I out?" Tachyon said, peering her eyes to the side to look around. She couldn't find her phone, but she knew she hadn't brought it with her onto the track, because she never did. Her phone couldn't have been damaged alongside the rest of her; realistically, it was probably still sitting in her dorm room back at Tracen. There wasn't a clock nor a calendar within her field of vision, so telling the time or the date was up to guesswork right now. She was hoping it wasn't more than from the day into the night... but the severity of her injuries left little room for that to be a possibility.

"Two days," Cafe said, her grip on the coffee mug wavering ever so slightly. (Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, Tachyon had an eye for the smallest of details.) "You were... asleep. Two days." She said it as though it was hard for her to think about and much harder to say out loud.

Tachyon had a feeling she was either wording it softly or just a little ignorant. She didn't feel rested, like she should've been after two straight days of sleep; she felt exhausted and in pain. She still felt as though she had been trampled and crushed under the weight of 13 other Umas, and she felt stiff as a board from sitting in the same position in this hospital bed for two days straight. Tachyon hadn't been sleeping for two days—Tachyon had been in a two day coma as a result of all the physical trauma she endured on Nakayama Racecourse.

"Two days," Tachyon repeated, running it through in all sorts of different numbers in her head. Two days. 48 hours. 2880 minutes. So much time, gone in the void while she was recovering from the injuries her brain had endured on top of the pain in her back, neck, and legs. There were probably bruises everywhere that she couldn't see, probably numerous broken bones, probably a good amount of internal bleeding that had been treated through surgery. (Not to mention the damage to her dignity; she had tripped on air and been trampled in front of a gigantic crowd, and now anyone would remember about her was this.)

Cafe didn't say anything else, just moving the chair she had been sitting in before so that she was now within Tachyon's line of sight while they sat with one another. It was honestly surprising to Tachyon that Cafe was here, just sitting with her and coexisting. Cafe seemed to fear Tachyon to a point, although that could be attributed to Tachyon's incessant begging for her to be a guinea pig, and Cafe's continued declining of that request. So for her to be here despite that, for her to be at Tachyon's side while she was at her lowest... that meant a lot, even if Tachyon wouldn't admit it out loud. And they sat there for a good while in one another's company, Tachyon keeping herself occupied by silently watching the TV in front of her and wishing she could be there on the racetrack again.

Chapter Text

Five days after waking from her coma, Tachyon began going to physical therapy.

Physical therapy, she found, was a lot like training for races. She would start on low levels of exercises for the first few weeks while her body was still healing, and she would progressively move up into more intense exercises as her physical condition improved. Training was similar, although it was instead building up tolerance to improve your body and push it past its limits, rather than building up tolerance to improve your body back to the state it began in. It felt like all of her development that she had made while training for races had been undone and taken away from her, never to return.

Today's round of physical therapy felt very rudimentary, but it was still painful and difficult to work through, even though she was wearing her complicated back brace and using a wheelchair to get around. All her exercises were done sitting or lying down because her ankle was still broken, and they were done in the order of all laying exercises then all standing exercises, in order to put as little strain on Tachyon's back as possible. All of the exercises were simple, meant to be small exercises that would give both Tachyon and her physical therapist a concept of what her limits were and what they needed to work to build up to—things like methodically rolling her head in circular motions while she was sitting upright or tightening her stomach muscles to flex her spine as she laid flat.

She would go to physical therapy in the morning after breakfast, and by the time she returned to her hospital room, her lunch tray would already be there waiting for her. After lunch was visitation time, by which Cafe would normally stop by, just coexisting in peace with her until dinner time, when visitors had to go home. (Coexisting, in this case, was the word Tachyon used for when they both just sat in the same room, doing whatever they pleased in one another's company, no words exchanged. Lately, they had been doing the same thing, as far as Tachyon could tell—watching other Umas race on the television, with Cafe occasionally pulling out her phone for one reason or another but never saying anything.)

Today, if Tachyon's calculations were right, which they almost certainly were, was April 22nd. 9 days after her birthday. A week since the Satsuki Sho. 5 days since she had woken up from her short coma. And all too many days before she would fully recover.

When she had finished her lunch and Cafe walked in, the first thing Tachyon did was turn on the television to the sports channel that broadcast the races every time they happened. "What race is today?" Cafe asked in a meek voice, sitting down in her usual chair.

"The G2 Flora Stakes," Tachyon said, reading the TV screen as though Cafe couldn't do it for herself. "The favorite is Lady Pastel." She spoke about races very mechanically now; it was less of a game for her and less of a limit to be broken. Her limits hadn't been broken, but rather, destroyed, and now she had nothing left to do. No other races to run. Nothing left to look forward to. Nothing left to examine. All she had in her life now was a routine. Wake, eat, physical therapy, eat, see Cafe, eat, sleep. That's all life would ever be now.

"Oh," Cafe said, equally as emotionless. It felt like she was only expressing any sort of interest in the televised races for Tachyon's sake. Cafe didn't even seem to like racing that much, as far as Tachyon could tell; it felt like she only raced because of her natural speediness and not because of any sort of passion she had. (But of course, that was just Tachyon's point of view, and the truth had infinite possibilities until Cafe confirmed it.)

"The race will end around 4pm," Tachyon said, "and that's when visitor hours are over. So we can watch the race together." Even listening to her own voice, it sounded distant and disinterested.

They silently watched the TV together, watching all the Umas run on Tokyo Racecourse without a care in the world, because they all foolishly thought it would be perfect for them forever; because they all foolishly thought that nothing could ever go wrong in an instant; because they all foolishly thought that Tachyon's accident was a one in a million occurrence; because they all foolishly thought nothing like that could ever happen to them. And when the fifth favorite, Oiwake Hikari, won by half a length, Tachyon didn't laugh or even give a meager applause. She just turned off the television and told Cafe goodbye, watching her go out the door and close it behind her.

She was now at the third "eat" stage of her day, when she would have her dinner tray delivered before she went to bed for the day. (And yes, that meant she would go to bed for the day around 6pm, but that didn't bother her anymore. She had nothing to look forward to in the evening.) But that small stage in between Cafe leaving and her dinner tray arriving filled her with dread. The emptiness and quiet reminded her that this was all her life would be forevermore—nothing but waiting and small visits and doctor's appointments. She was stuck in this cycle with no way out, all because she foolishly thought nothing would ever go wrong for her.

She was brought out of her cycle of thought by the sound of the door opening. It wasn't the normal creak, like it would've been if the nurse was bringing her dinner tray or if Cafe was coming back to grab something she'd forgotten. It was a loud crash, the door slamming against the wall behind it with such force that Tachyon would be surprised if it wasn't broken by the door handle. And there, standing in the doorway with an outraged expression, was Jungle Pocket.

"TACHYON!!!"

Tachyon straightened her posture as Pokke approached her with a stomp in every step. She honestly wasn't surprised to see Pokke like this, because she often was like this. Pokke had energy, which she would often direct into her strong emotions, such as today's anger. Tachyon wasn't even surprised that Pokke was angry (not that much could ever surprise Tachyon anyway), given that the first Uma she had ever seen as a rival was now bedridden and likely never to recover. If she wasn't a better person, Tachyon would've been mad, too.

"What the hell happened out there?!" Pokke shrieked, standing at the foot of the hospital bed and putting her hands on the frame. "You fucking ruined your life!" She began to shake the bed frame, sending sears of sharp pain up Tachyon's pain with every movement back and forth. "You didn't even try to pick yourself up! I saw it on the news! You just laid there on the turf! You could've saved yourself!"

Tachyon laid there, taking it all. Visitor hours were over; the moment the nurse walked in with her dinner tray, Pokke would be rushed out and this would all be over. She would probably see her again, sure, but she would see her again when Cafe was there to get a nurse about it if anything went awry. Of course, Tachyon only started paying attention when she saw teardrops start to land on the bedsheets in front of Pokke. "You were my rival," Pokke said, a hiccup in her voice. She still sounded angry, but it was clearly more than rage now. "What am I supposed to do without one?"

"...you'll find another," Tachyon said, voice dull and void of any care. "Just like everyone else does. They always find a new favorite, a new trainee, a new thing to gawk at. They'll talk about me in the paper for a day or two, and then I'll be gone. And all you need to do is find a new rival. And I'll be gone."

Pokke stared at her almost absently for a second before circling around the bedside and sitting on the edge of the mattress. "No," she said, all anger in her voice gone. She just sounded defeated. "No, I can't do that. You were supposed to be my rival. I don't know what to do now."

"What about Cafe? Dantsu Flame? You raced against more Umas than just me. And you'll race against more. Just find someone new."

Pokke stood up and whirled around to face her, hair and skirt swishing from the movement. "But you were my someone!"

Tachyon was quiet for a moment. "Visitor hours are over," she said, trying to cut the conversation short. "Go home, Pokke. I'll be here tomorrow."

Pokke sniffled. "Well- well, I will, too!" She ran toward the door with a choked sob, pushing the nurse coming inside out of the way.

Tachyon just waited silently for her dinner tray, thinking about what would happen tomorrow.