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Tachyon was not here.
It was a fact that was hard to ignore. In the usual cafe, at the usual time where Tachyon would arrive, she was not here. And though Manhattan Cafe would have claimed that she preferred silence, she could still feel the absence of a weight she wouldn't have noticed normally, like having the bangs on her face suddenly brushed aside. In the space where something should have been, there wasn't.
And, though all the reason in the world wouldn't have explained this decision, Manhattan goes searching for Tachyon. Her first stop was at the strange sort of not quite laboratory, not quite retreat they had set up together.
The door slowly creaks open, drifting, dallying, like the maw of a great beast lazily yawning. The smell of something chemical slowly wafts out, and maybe it ought to be a little worrying that it was a smell she had gotten used to.
Two footsteps slowly patter into the dark room, then faintly echo as if there was a second person behind. She's quite used to the dimness of the room, used enough that the outline of things was the only guide she needed for her feet to navigate. Besides, this room, this strange sort of amalgamation between Tachyon and Cafe? It was small, small at least for a room in Tracen.
It's small enough that it doesn't take too long to find what remains of Tachyon. There's a whiteish sort of lump slumped over a desk, flasks, papers, and little anatomical models all scattered around the desk that was currently doubling as a pillow. It looked a little like a crime scene, to be honest, though Manhattan never quite imagined Tachyon would be on this end of the documentary.
In fact, Manhattan's first impression is that Tachyon had finally pushed herself too far, and that the person that wasn't there would soon get a companion. That would be bad, she thinks.
So, ignoring the better part of common sense, Manhattan cautiously leans over the sleeping scientist, gently putting two fingers out. Slowly, every so slowly, she lowers them, brushing a few strands of hair aside as she finds her neck. It's warm to the touch, pulsing with a thump, thump, thump that proved she was living still. A small breath of relief escapes Manhattan's lungs as she relaxes a little.
Then she realizes that Agnes Tachyon was alive and well, and she was risking her entire arm on this.
In an instant, she darts her hand back to a safe distance, glimpsing a few strands of hair falling back down to veil Tachyon's face. She looked oddly peaceful right now, in a way only those asleep could be. When the mania left her face, she looked almost... nevermind.
If someone was there, they would have surely pointed out that this was a very uncomfortable position to lie down in, and Manhattan agrees. It was pity, she told herself. Pity for a reckless idiot who couldn't even take care of herself. This was just the decent thing to do.
Leaning her back, Manhattan cautiously drops Tachyon onto her arms, bracing for the sudden weight. Sure enough, Tachyon falls right down into Manhattan's arms, and it's heavier than she expects as she lurches forward slightly, but despite being slightly frailer than the rest, Manhattan was still an Uma. Standing back upright, she manages something like a Princess Carry, but clumsier than what one would expect.
It was a good thing nobody was there. If anyone had been there, they might have snickered, the amusement in their eyes enough for Manhattan to darts hers' away to anywhere except the two of them. But it was only the two of them in there, thankfully.
... She's only dropping her on the couch. May the heavens pity Tachyon if she had to carry her out into the hallways and into her dorm, because Manhattan just wouldn't. Gently, as to not wake her, she lowers Tachyon down on the couch, with a single cushion to serve as a pillow. Then, stepping back, she takes a cautious breath, then another, observing.
Tachyon was still sleeping.
That was relieving, Manhattan thinks.
Well, it was time to go. The room goes from two to one, as the natural order of things.
A glass clinks.
Yes, the table. If anyone would have wandered into Agnes Tachyon's mad laboratory, they would have been interested in whatever the scientist was plotting. Surely, they would have peeked at the papers, maybe even held one of the bottles in a curious attempt to look through it. Though, of course, the table was a complete mess- anyone could tell that. Anyone, including Manhattan, who would surely have come and shoo'ed away any potential people for their own good.
And, yes, the desk was messy. Tachyon had claimed she had a sorting system for that, where high-processing brains needed everything in arms' reach in a manner that made sense to them only. It didn't make much sense to Manhattan, but then again, neither did the fact that there were only two people in the room. Sense was optional, really, in the life Manhattan chose to live. If somebody had been there, they would have agreed with Manhattan wholeheartedly.
Anyways, the desk. Tachyon had always been more focused on biology, almost above all else, and the desk's almost stereotypical because of it. And though Manhattan's no scientist herself, being around Tachyon inevitably led to a few terms being picked up. Recessive and Dominant Genes, Contact Osteogenesis, Osseointegration... Seemed like all the usual things were there, as well as a checklist for a control group and an experimental. It's all written in Tachyon Shorthand, unfortunately, so Manhattan never could tell which group she was listed in.
There's an anatomical model of a leg, too. Just a leg. The rest of the body had vanished somewhere, and all that was left was a bendable plastic leg. Manhattan holds it up to the light, as if to present it to an invisible studio audience as a laugh track played. And if there WAS someone in the studio audience, they would have agreed- the plastic leg was indeed very weird. They might have even tried to put their leg on the chair, as if to compare the two, a well-worn leg against a clean one.
Which belonged to whom, of course, was purely hypothetical. Manhattan shakes her head, before putting the plastic leg down as a paperweight over the stack of reports. She didn't want to disturb them much, as Tachyon really preferred her reports as she left them. The flasks filled with various chemicals, though, needed to at least be put in a fridge before they spoiled. These... probably wouldn't burn a hole in her hand, at least, as she often saw Tachyon putting a few drops of whatever chemical it was into her tea.
Out of a strange, reckless impulse, she takes a small sniff of the flask. It smelled... Oh. Coffee extract. Smelled nice, too.
How very ominous.
Manhattan makes a note not to accept any potential treaties from Tachyon about the superiority of coffee in the next few weeks. Picking up the flasks with a little cling!, she carries them over to the fridge, as it opens it's door for her. A small wave of chill washes over her as she looks deep into the fridge. This was purely Tachyon's fridge, cold and distant, as coffee and fridges never quite mixed. Though, at the same time, it was a very colorful fridge, with a kaleidoscope of technicolor chemicals. Gaudy, some might even say.
On instinct, as if to check if someone was there, Manhattan turns around behind her. But there was nothing there but her shadow, stretching out long behind her from the fridge's light, and Tachyon, still slumbering on the couch. A smile that hadn't been there before was half-formed on her lips, for some strange reason, but their eyes were still closed as they should be.
Manhattan hoped they had pleasant dreams, and if someone else were there, they would have surely agreed. But it was best to conserve power right now, and so she puts the flasks back in the fridge. They go in with tiny little clinks like the chime of snowbells, one after the other, until they're all lined up in convenient columns. But there was something there behind the walls of bottles: A small cake in the fridge, sliced in two. Streaks of dark chocolate layered against spongy white, shining in the light of the fridge.
Her mouth waters. While Manhattan preferred the bitter taste of coffee, she also enjoyed the cafe food, and that sometimes meant cake. Just a small slice of dark chocolate a fork could almost sink into, velvet-soft and almost melting in her mouth. Then, to wash it down, a sip of bitter coffee, as a perfect contrast of taste. All that goes through her mind as she stares at the cake.
Something tells her that she should go for it. After all, it was technically their fridge, and Manhattan had done Tachyon a favor anyways by cleaning up after her. Surely a slice wouldn't hurt. Life was short, after all, and there was no guarantee the cake would still be there to ask for tomorrow, as pristine as it was, especially if Tachyon puts whatever sort of chemicals into it. She should take it now.
And Manhattan wavers a little, but doesn't. This was Tachyon's, and she almost thrived off the sugar. It wouldn't be worth it to take.
... But, then again, she did leave a cafe visit for this. Might as well make the best of it, right?
Shutting the fridge and leaving the room back in darkness, she makes her way to her side of the room, where a electric kettle was waiting. This was Manhattan's own, untouched by Tachyon as a silent agreement between the two. Manhattan got coffee without having to go to the school's cafe, and Tachyon would have a nearby subject to pester and bounce ideas off of.
She heats the water up to boil. But, then again, she couldn't just sit back and drink coffee if Tachyon did wake. Then, Tachyon would simply look at her with the saddest expression she possibly could, and then the coffee would lose it's taste. Plus, the water would be a pain to reheat again. Might as well boil enough for two.
The heater hums. Steam slowly curls into wisps as bubbles burble quietly. Five minutes to wait. Not too long, yet it felt so.
She sits facing an empty chair, thinking. If a person was to walk into the room right now, they might have joined Manhattan as they waited for the pot to boil, talking to themselves.
Tachyon, Tachyon. Such a strange person. Her reputation wasn't unearned, far from it. Her experiments were the stuff of legend around the campus, a tale the older generations would weave to the younger to scare them away from Tachyon's approach, and not without merit.
After all, nobody would say that Tachyon was good company. She was mad, she was self serving, she only viewed others in the light of her science. Being near her was in itself a danger, and if anyone here were to say that Tachyon was a good fit as Manhattan's friend, why, they would have to be mad too.
And yet, Manhattan felt... unridiculed. As if, in the eyes of the mad, she herself was sane. When almost every single person questioned her mind and her friend, when even her own senses were at doubt, then how much was it worth to have someone believe you? Not pity, nor doubt. Just belief, just the knowledge that your words meant something to them. Manhattan would call that priceless.
And if to be sane was to follow the ways of the world, then wasn't everybody a little mad? Everyone, of course, from the people in this room to the people across the academy and throughout the entire world. Manhattan is mad, and Tachyon is mad! So what? Let them be mad, and the world be sane, if they at least understood each other's madness.
Manhattan doesn't think so. They had very different madnesses, you know?
But madness is madness, in the eyes of the onlooker. And if Tachyon trusted Manhattan's madness, and Manhattan tolerated Tachyon's madness, then why bother with the details? Life is short, fragile, and full of mishaps, after all. One might as well run with good company, than away from the gaze of the sane.
The pot whistles, ending Manhattan's thoughts for now. As strange as that train of thought was, at least the coffee was ready. Picking up two cups, as there were only two people in the room, she fills one with coffee powder (a concession from lugging beans everywhere) and puts a tea bag in the other, before stirring. The twin aromas fill the room, familiar and unfamiliar, and Manhattan feels calmed.
She holds a single sugar cube over the steaming tea, considering, before putting it back in the jar instead. This was really for Tachyon's own good. Too much sugar in any drink was a travesty, especially if the sugar itself completely overwhelmed every other flavor in the drink. If she could wean Tachyon off the sugar sludge she consumed daily, maybe there would be hope for her yet.
Picking up both cups and sweeping out her leg, she hooks the chair where nobody was sitting and pushes it back in it's proper position, before putting back her own. She hadn't a good place to put Tachyon's own brew right now, nor did she really have a plan if Tachyon would simply sleep so long the tea would fall cold. She... just supposed she'd leave the tea on the table near the couch and hope Tachyon had the sense to throw out spoiled tea. Manhattan hoped, at least, even though she didn't quite believe.
Silently, with footsteps that echoed for two, Manhattan places the cup down on the table, in front of Tachyon's face, then turns for the door.
"Why, thank you."
"No problem."
Well, all was good. Time to lea-
...
Wait a second.
Manhattan whips around, her tail flying behind her, and witnesses a very convincing attempt to portray a sleeping uma. Tachyon was still in the exact same position as before, but the smile on her face had gone for the most neutral neutrality that would even have poker players weeping. Her breathing was regular, so regular it could have been used as a metronome. And her tail had gone completely still, without even a single twitch or flick.
Wow, amazing. Anybody would have been fooled by this brilliant display of acting prowess. A person could have walked in, seen this, and immediately agreed that Agnes Tachyon was indeed asleep. They would have then flicked her on the forehead to tell her the jig was up, but thankfully Manhattan moves first.
Trying to stifle the feeling of her ears heating up, Manhattan manages a shaky breath before fixing her glare on the 'sleeping' uma. "How long."
A scarlet eye sheepishly lifts out of it's eyelid as Agnes Tachyon gives up the trick. Getting up off the couch and stretching luxuriously, she rubs the last hint of sleep off eyes brimming with mischief.
"Only a little, only a little! It was peculiar, yes, quite peculiar indeed, that this sleep felt more comfortable than most. So, I wake myself, and find that you've taken the liberty of arranging these mundane affairs for me! What did I ever do to deserve such treatment?"
And despite the blustering that swelled in her voice, a small tinge of curiosity lingers as she tilts her head, searching eyes slowly smouldering with mania. She pulls herself up with a catlike smile, observing as Manhattan stands there like a deer frozen in highlights.
Yet Manhattan's voice fails as she tries to muster a response. Her ears felt like they were burning, but her voice had frozen in her throat. She stands there, haplessly, before quickly turning to flee, a black tail quickly where she once stood.
But before she could turn the doorknob, a warm hand falls upon her shoulder, not quite a grip, and yet feeling too firm to simply shake off. From behind, Tachyon's voice calls out.
"Leaving already? Why, I was hoping to discuss this at length with you." Then, with a half-dimmed smile, she jerks her head over to the fridge. "I do believe I had some cake left over. I was planning to eat it myself, but, alas, it seems I must share it as recompense for your kindness. Oh, too bad."
But despite that, Manhattan's hand still lingered on the doorknob, feeling the cold steel. The hand on her shoulder was still loose, after all. If she left now, then she sensed nothing would really change. This was just their pull, their routine. Tachyon acted, and Manhattan endured or fled. This was just another one of those moments between them, and Tachyon wouldn't think different of her if she decided to act the same as always.
And yet, something stops her. Wise words from a friend, perhaps, or a straggled piece of unfinished thought. How did they go again? Better to run in the company of the mad then away from the sane? That, frankly, was insane advice, in and of itself. She would have to be mad to follow said advice.
But... she didn't disagree, either.
The moment of hesitation was enough for Tachyon, to pull Manhattan away from the door and back onto the couch she was just sleeping at. Then, digging out the cake slice and two platters, Tachyon takes out a clean scalpel and neatly cuts the cake into a 55/45 split, before taking the larger slice and offering the smaller to Manhattan, who lets out a skeptical stare at it.
"What coud you possibly mean by that expression? This particular treat was meant for my consumption solely, of course." Alas, that Tachyon's bluster was as calming as an alarm bell. As Manhattan's expression still remained skeptical, Tachyon frowns slightly before pushing the platter closer. "I have cajoled, perhaps. Enticed, maybe. Coerced, occasionally! But, cross my heart, I would never lie about the good I offer."
And, as strange as it was, Manhattan felt as if this was the closest Tachyon would come to sincerity, at least right now. She bows her head slightly, mumbling her next words. "Thank you."
Tachyon's breath holds still for a split second, as if it had just been taken away. She wasn't used to being thanked, after all. Admired, feared, respected, yes. But not thanked. At least, not genuinely, not like this from someone who knew her. So, with furrowed brow, she speaks.
"Your behavior perplexes me, Cafe." Agnes mutters, as there was no worse thing to be than a scientist without an answer. "You are not my trainer, nor anybody with a vested interest in my wellbeing. On the contrary, you stand to gain the most if I was incapacitated. So... why?"
"You seemed tired. So I thought I would help." Cafe answers. Perhaps, if they were enemies, just enemies, perhaps that would have been a correct assessment. But... they weren't. Manhattan didn't know what they were, but enemies was the wrong answer to that question.
"Mmm, peculiar indeed. Perhaps you are experiencing Stockholm Syndrome?" Tachyon posits, though the light expression on her face suggested even she didn't quite believe that. The unimpressed look on Manhattan's own face quickly denies that suspicion. "No? Fascinating. Then, perhaps, do you consider us as more than a scientist and her subject? Have you perhaps decided that we are closer than that?"
"Have you?"
"Deflection will get you nowhere, dear Cafe."
Perhaps, but Cafe still stays mum, letting the conversation drip away like droplets from a spoon. Even if pushed, she wouldn't have an answer, anyways. That was the scientist's way of thinking, in labels and definitions and categories, but Manhattan was no scientist, and she didn't care for labels. They were not quite friends, and not not quite friends. Was that a good enough answer? Anybody who would have listened would say so.
They eat the rest of the cake in silence, each quietly observing the other with unwavering eyes. Forks softly clink against plates, over and over, the only sound in which some deigned silence.
It was a surprise, when Manhattan's fork falls on an empty plate. In this impromptu staring contest of theirs', Manhattan had forgotten about the cake she had been eating. Glancing at Tachyon's plate, she had also finished hers in a similar absent-minded fashion.
A moment of confusion flits across Manhattan's mind. What now? Was it already time to leave, as she had planned to do before? Or was there something el-
A light brush touches her cheek.
Manhattan freezes.
A few crumbs fall upon the ground, brushed off her face and forgotten, as Agnes Tachyon was leaning across the table, arm extended and a dimness in her eye. The light of mischief was gone and what was left in it's embers was a chilling analytical stare, the kind that only recognized Manhattan as a fascination, unfocused and yet piercing. They stare directly at her, and Manhattan knows she was the only thing in their gaze.
"Your complexion is pale. Warn, yes, but not as warm as the usual touch of skin. It's colder, as if fallen ill." Tachyon's fingers only graze the tiniest tips on Manhattan's skin, and yet they leave trails of fire upon a patchwork gone cold. She mumbles, and yet it felt louder than anything else in earshot. "Trillions upon trillions of cells all gathered together to form you. In theory, each a perfect replica of the other, each system a perfect optimization of it's resources. Every cell in your body, designed to prolong your life as endlessly as possible."
She trails downwards to Manhattan's chin, as if to scratch a mewling cat, and Manhattan unconsciously lifts her chin a bit. Tachyon smiles.
"And yet, we aren't. There are still flaws in our systems, ways for things to break down and collapse, and ways we can exploit. Hidden signals, impulses forming without a single word. Like buttons and levers, hiding beneath our skin." She moves her fingers ever so slightly, repeating the same scratching motion, and Manhattan's eyes droop slightly heavier. "A simple trail of fingers across your cheek and chin, for example, and you're already pliable."
Her hand retreats. Manhattan blinks, once, twice, and feels a small surge of heat warm her ears again as her eyes snap back to reality. She immidiately pulls her chin back down and tries to compose herself, but she couldn't muster any words, only a simple huff from her nose and a flattening ear. Resting her own chin on her other hand, Tachyon lets her gaze communicate her own laughter, only deigning to have a smile upon her lips.
And, if anyone was here, any silent witness to both Tachyon and Cafe's long history together, they might have noted this as affection. An honor, perhaps, to be teased by Agnes Tachyon, to be made a demonstration for something harmless. A way to connect, maybe, and to frame this brief connection in a way she found comfortable. Wasn't it better, after all, to run and act at your own pace? Forget whatever holds you back, wrest back control of your life from anything that tries to take it? Wasn't that right?
Manhattan's hand darts out.
"Hm?!"
It grabs Tachyon's by the wrist, and half-lidded eyes suddenly dart up in anticipation. Manhattan's own stare matches her head-on, a quiet flame still burning. After all, the silent witness would have been right. Run forward, run through, run against anything that tried to define you.
And, though maybe she misses the brief touch, Manhattan wouldn't let her take the pace without some resistance. They were, after all, more than what numbers and expectations could define.
Gently, Manhattan leads Tachyon's hand back down on the table. Then raising her finger, she slowly presses down on her palm, moving slowly, ever so slowly.
The finger traces over. Tachyon's palm is soft, with the smallest creases and bumps that brushed against Manhattan's fingertip. And her fingertip is light, almost ghostlike, grazing so lightly and leaving little static trails that tingled like electric sparks. The touch sometimes trails, sometimes lifts off gently, but always leaves her nerves sensitive, waiting for a redoubled assault.
And Tachyon is entranced. Part of it is hypnotic, that constantly repeating motion, too gentle to be noticeable, too constant to be ignored. Yet, there was also a pattern in her movements, a logic in her motion that only she saw. And with each brush of her finger, her mind only buzzed more, constantly trying to cross reference and analyze them even as they pulled her thoughts away, an ever-constant struggle against her mind-
Until it stops.
A half-dazed mind lifts her own hand back up, as if to discern some hidden marking left behind. She looks down, trying to remember each brushed stroke, trying to extrapolate a pattern through half-remembered sensations. Slowly, blinking, she manages a single word. "What... did you inscribe?"
Manhattan's finger slowly curls back into her hand, as she matches Tachyon's stare with her own. "You'll never know."
And, in turn, Tachyon returns a wry, wiry smile. There was nothing that frustrated a scientist more than a question they could not answer, after all. And, even beyond that, there was nothing that frustrated the mad more than not reaching their goal, as insane as it may be.
If an outsider were to watch this scene, what would they have done? Would they have smiled in joy, smirked in excitement, or watched with bated breath? Would they be standing behind Manhattan, whispering in her ear, or behind Tachyon, silently hoping she'd move a bit further? Would they have tried to push them a bit closer, nudge a bottle to get their attention, or even just wobbed on their feet in giddy excitement for a friend?
They could have done all these things, or none of them.
After all, everyone in this room was mad. And madness is simply about breaking expectations, is it not?