Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tomi pulled the bike into the venue lot like she planned to tear the earth open with it. Brakes screeched, tires skidded, and the back wheel hit a patch of gravel that sent the bike slewing half a meter sideways before it stabilized with a guttural, gasping stop. Her hands stayed tight on the bars, her hair whipped wild across her face, eyes locked forward.

Senku swung his leg off the back with the disheveled grace of someone still riding a scientific high. His lab coat had half-flown off during the last turn and was now tangled around one arm like a straitjacket. His hair looked like it had been assaulted by static and open defiance.

"Hah! We made it!" he announced, staggering forward, then turning to look at the motorbike like it had just personally helped solve cold fusion. "You—that was—holy crap. That was phenomenal."

Tomi, still mounted, exhaled through her nose like steam. She tapped the engine off and finally looked at him. Her face was flushed, not from embarrassment but from wind and adrenaline and maybe a small spike of fury that he looked that excited when her body was still vibrating from holding the throttle like a lifeline.

Senku reached for the cords holding the rover and immediately yelped as the heat from the bike rack seared his fingers. "Shit—okay, nope, science says wait ten seconds. Maybe fifteen."

Tomi slid off the bike without a word. She pulled her sleeves down, inspected the cords. The rover was still miraculously intact, despite their route, their speed, and the fact that at one point they’d been airborne.

They both crouched down and started unstrapping.

The parking lot smelled like pavement and distant concession food. Teams were already inside the venue, rolling in with their project carts, matching shirts, polished presentations. Senku and Tomi were covered in road dust, sweat, and solder residue. One of Senku's socks had a visible burn mark from the soldering iron he'd dropped two nights ago and refused to acknowledge.

They didn't speak as they worked. Tomi unscrewed the platform bolts; Senku adjusted the stabilizers. She passed him a wrench without looking. He wiped his hands on his coat, immediately regretted it, and did it again anyway.

The rover hit the ground with a small, definitive thud.

They stood there, looking at it.

The motor whirred to life on the first try.

Tomi blinked.

Senku grinned.

"Okay," he said. "We’re late. We’re filthy. I might be concussed from a low-hanging tree branch. But this thing works."

Tomi signed, "Barely."

"Barely is still scientifically valid," he said. "That's what calibrations are for. Come on. Let's go give them a reason to regret scheduling us last."

They each grabbed a side of the rover. Lifted. Moved.

And without another word, they hauled their janky, road-worn, over-engineered dream across the threshold and into the judging floor like it was a weapon.

The entrance buzzed with energy—LED displays, competing color palettes, voices overlapping like static. But the buzz shifted the moment they stepped in.

Senku felt it first. A few students nudging each other. A teacher doing a double take. A whisper that sounded like his name, half-recognized, half-dared.

Tomi stiffened.

Senku didn't slow his stride, but the corner of his mouth pulled tight. “Great,” he muttered. “Forgot we can’t go anywhere without someone thinking I’m going to reinvent electricity on stage.”

He was known—unfortunately. Not school-famous, but STEM-famous. Enough for his name to linger in physics forums and science club Discords. The kid who published a paper before sixteen.

Some lollipop genius.

The reason most kids either wanted to challenge him or avoid him.

Tomi had learned early on to ignore it. She kept her eyes forward, gripping the rover like it was a shield. Her pace never changed. But Senku could feel her tension like static between them.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Their booth was near the far wall—modest, marked only with their school code and a time slot that was already ticked past. A clipboard hung uselessly from a hook. The rows beside them were pristine: polished tables, printed diagrams, team logos.

They reached their square. Tomi exhaled sharply through her nose.

Senku set his end of the rover down with a low thunk. Tomi followed.

Dust scattered across the linoleum. Someone nearby sneezed.

Senku straightened, rolled his shoulders, and looked over the prototype like a battlefield general surveying his troops.

"Alright," he said. “Now we rebuild. In five minutes. With no screws left over."

Tomi tapped her knuckles against the rover. Once.

"Let’s begin."

They dropped to their knees on opposite sides of the rover like twin orbiting moons. Their hands moved with purpose: efficient, clean, silent. Tomi reattached the left stabilizer bracket while Senku clicked the sensor casing into place. She passed him the cable loop without looking up; he routed it over the microcontroller with practiced ease.

People were watching.

They didn’t say anything—yet—but Senku could feel it, that quiet pull at the edge of a crowd's attention. The same instinct that made you glance over when someone ran too fast or dropped a glass. And Tomi, despite the nerves she would never admit, kept her expression impassive.

Senku broke the silence first. "Power cell reading?"

Tomi flicked the switch. Checked the gauge. Held up two fingers.

"Stable," he translated aloud, mostly for himself. "Running hot, but acceptable."

Someone whispered nearby: "Is that Senku Ishigami?" Another voice responded, hushed and breathless, like watching a storm form over water: "Yeah, that’s him."

He ignored it. He always did.

Tomi clicked the heat sink into place with a snap. Senku spun the rover slightly, checking alignment. Their movements were sharp, efficient—and not a word passed between them that wasn’t necessary.

It was a kind of intimacy only shared by people who had built under pressure. Who had failed together. Recovered together.

By the time the last panel was fastened, a few teams had stopped pretending they weren’t watching.

Senku stood, brushing his hands against his coat. The rover gleamed like it hadn’t just been strapped to a motorbike and launched over municipal infrastructure.

Tomi remained kneeling, double-checking the wheel alignment, her expression flat.

Senku looked over at her.

"We make a good entrance," he said, smirking.

She didn't look up.

But she signed, quick and dry: "Just wait for the exit."

Movement at the edge of the floor caught their attention. Three judges approached, clipboards in hand, their pace deliberate, heads angled toward the rows. Their expressions were unreadable.

Senku straightened just a bit. Not defensive, but ready.

Tomi stood too. Quiet. Braced.

Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the air between them hummed like live wire.

Senku leaned in just slightly, speaking low and fast.

"You take build specs. I’ll do design logic. Emphasize modularity, not aesthetics. If they ask about the drive system, mention the terrain simulation from earlier trials."

Tomi nodded once. Then signed: "Power source stability last."

"Exactly. Wait for them to ask about weaknesses. We control the pacing."

Footsteps neared. Pens clicked.

Tomi exhaled slowly through her nose.

Senku smirked.

They turned in unison.

And waited for the first question.

One of the judges—an older woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses perched too far down her nose—adjusted her clipboard and glanced at their disheveled table, the scorch-marked solder lines on Senku’s coat, the precision-silent rover at their feet.

“...You’re entry 4K?” she asked, blinking.

Senku nodded. “That’s us. We, ah, arrived unconventionally. But the build’s intact.”

The judge beside her—taller, wiry, with a sharp blue pen tapping his clipboard—cut in. “Specs first. Power source?”

Tomi was already signing.

Senku read aloud, “Custom-assembled lithium polymer cell, stabilized with dual capacitors for voltage consistency.”

“Why dual?”

“Redundancy,” Senku replied. “Also kept the motor temp stable when testing on incline terrain. Less lag, smoother torque curve.”

The third judge, younger, curious, leaned in toward the rover. “This chassis. You designed it to articulate under load?”

Tomi nodded once. Then gestured, swift and pointed: “Modular suspension. Recalibrates based on weight distribution. The brackets pivot.”

Senku rotated the rover slightly to show the mechanism. “It adapts dynamically. Not AI, obviously—it’s hardware-timed—but it adjusts its angle based on pre-coded thresholds.”

The wiry one scribbled. “And the obstacle simulation?”

Tomi crouched. Flicked the rover’s main switch. It hummed to life—wheels lifting slightly, stabilizers adjusting.

Senku smiled faintly. “We modeled after a varied-terrain test run. Incline, gravel, uneven flooring. If it crosses your judging mat like it’s floating, that’s why.”

The older judge raised an eyebrow. “And aesthetic?”

Tomi’s eye twitched. She didn’t answer.

Senku didn’t miss a beat. “Function over form. It’s not pretty. It doesn’t need to be. It works.”

The younger one smiled, like they appreciated the bluntness.

Last question. The wiry judge again.

“If this were scaled up to full size—let’s say exploration, rescue—what would fail first?”

Tomi didn’t flinch.

“Battery capacity,” she smiled. “Heat sink ratio would collapse under pressure without external cooling.”

Senku nodded, then added, “It could survive terrain. But not time. We’d need liquid cooling or passive convection panels.”

The judges stepped back.

Made a few final notes.

The woman with the glasses looked up, just briefly, and said: “That was… efficient.”

Senku gave a shallow nod. “We aim for results.”

Tomi said nothing—but her posture relaxed. Just slightly.

They stood in the aftermath like two ghosts who’d finally proven they were real.

The judges had moved on, clipboards tucked under arms, murmuring to each other in the usual bureaucratic murmur of academic assessment. Other teams refocused on their own presentations, though more than a few glances still trailed toward booth 4K.

Senku let out a breath, long and slow. “Alright,” he said. “We survived.”

Tomi nodded, arms crossed, her gaze still on the rover. She tapped the top of it once. A silent thank-you.

Senku glanced sideways and raised a hand.

Tomi stared at it for a beat.

Then gave him the lightest, driest high five imaginable. Their palms met with the quietest smack known to man. No sound, just acknowledgment.

“Peak athleticism,” Senku deadpanned. “We should go pro.”

Tomi signed, “I hope you trip on a wire.”

“Love you too,” he said.

She gave him a flat look that didn’t quite mask her smirk.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his call log, then lifted it to his ear. “Alright, let’s notify the parental unit.”

By the time Byakuya picked up, Senku was already pacing near the edge of the booth.

“Yo. We’re alive. Mostly intact. Need extraction after the event—Tomi brought us here on a rocket bike, and I don’t feel like risking my teeth on a return trip.”

Tomi flipped him off halfheartedly, already tugging her hoodie sleeves down.

“Mhm. Yes, we’re fed. Yes, we drank water. No, we didn’t die. Yes, I’m wearing a helmet next time. Chill.”

He hung up, then turned to her. “He says congrats. And that we’re idiots. In that order.”

Tomi signed, “Fair.”

She stepped back from the booth, scanning the crowd.

“I’m getting water,” she muttered. Voice quiet, but rough-edged from disuse.

Senku nodded, already turning back to inspect the rover for stress damage he’d definitely imagined.

“Don’t vanish. You’re still on cleanup crew.”

She rolled her eyes and walked off.

The noise in the venue shifted the farther she moved from their table. Brighter booths. More excited voices. Lights strung haphazardly over STEM slogans and hopeful branding.

Tomi exhaled. Her shoulders began to lower. Her brain slowed. Her fingers flexed at her sides.

Just water. Ten minutes. Then she’d return. Easy.

But she’d barely reached the corner of the refreshment area when—

“Oh my god, wait—are you with Senku Ishigami?”

She froze.

Two boys, maybe a year younger, definitely not part of any presenting team, were staring at her like she’d just walked out of a physics meme page.

“He’s here, right?” one whispered to the other. “I thought I saw him. That’s definitely him. That hair? He’s like... famous.”

Tomi blinked. Didn’t answer.

The bolder of the two stepped closer. “You’re his partner, right? Like, you built that with him? That thing’s insane.”

His friend grinned. “Do you think we could get a photo with him? Or like, just a quote? For our blog?”

Tomi slowly reached for the water bottle she hadn’t picked up yet.

The first boy leaned in. “Does he talk like that all the time? Like, in real life? Is he really like... you know. Senku?”

She stared.

Debated just turning around and walking back.

Instead, she opened the water. Took a sip.

And said, voice dry and low:

“He’s worse.”

The boys gasped.

Tomi walked away. Very quickly.

Tomi took a longer route back from the water station, skirting booths and dodging lingering glances. She was not in the mood to be intercepted again. Her face still burned faintly from whatever that “STEM fan blog” nonsense had been.

She adjusted the strap on her sleeve, cradling the water bottle like a buffer between her and the world. Almost made it back.

Almost.

Until—

“You handled yourself well in front of the judges.”

Tomi stopped.

The voice was quiet, smooth, accented—but not unkind. It came from a man in a dark coat, far too formal for the venue, standing near a column with his arms loosely crossed. He was tall, narrow-eyed, with silver hair sculpted into a slick, exaggerated pompadour that arched high above his head. Definitely not another Highschooler. 

She blinked. Her grip on the water bottle tightened slightly.

“I’m not here to interfere,” he added quickly. “Just observing.”

She stared. Not out of fear—but evaluation.

He waited.

“…Thanks,” she said flatly.

Then, realizing the word had come out sharper than intended, she cleared her throat and tilted her hands forward, fingers beginning to sign— "Do you—?”

He caught the motion instantly and signed back, “Japanese Sign. I’m fluent.”

She blinked. Twice.

He gave the faintest curve of a smile. Not mocking. Just watching.

“I saw your wiring hand-off. You don’t look at your tools.”

Tomi stared, then slowly signed back, “Didn’t need to. I know where they are.”

“Muscle memory?”

She shrugged, expression unreadable. “Preparation.”

The man nodded.

For a moment, she waited—for the question. The obvious one. The one about Senku.

But he didn’t ask.

Instead, he signed: “Are you always partnered with him?”

Tomi hesitated.

Then signed, “When I can tolerate him.”

His eyes narrowed—not in judgment. Assessment.

“Do you want to work in robotics?”

Tomi looked away. Briefly. Then back. “I like building things that survive.”

“That’s not the same as wanting to innovate.”

She paused.

Then: “I don’t care if it’s new. I care if it works.”

The man seemed genuinely intrigued by that. He gave a small nod. “Interesting answer.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t compliment her. Didn’t ask for details.

He just stood there—reading her like a data sheet.

Finally, he signed: “Tell your partner that Dr. X says his field strategy could use refinement.”

Tomi didn’t react.

Just sipped her water, eyes sharp. “You tell him.”

And walked away.

Tomi returned with her water just as Senku stepped away from the rover, stretching his arms overhead like he’d just survived a natural disaster. He glanced over at her—noticing the slightly furrowed brow, the lingering flush on her ears, the way she drank too casually to be relaxed.

But he didn’t comment.

Just jerked his head toward the announcement stage.

“Come on. Let’s go see how rigged this is.”

Tomi followed.

The crowd had thickened near the far end of the venue, where a small podium stood beneath a flickering overhead screen. The regional science board director was adjusting a mic, squinting at their clipboard as rows of sleep-deprived competitors leaned in like it was a holy decree.

Senku and Tomi didn’t push to the front. They stood just to the side—Tomi with her hands in her sleeves, Senku with his arms crossed, mouth twisted somewhere between amusement and expectation.

The announcer began listing commendations.

Team numbers. Sponsors. Buzzwords.

Senku’s eyes glazed halfway through the fourth mention of “interdisciplinary STEM synergy.”

Then:

“…And we’d like to acknowledge Team 4K, who demonstrated strong field adaptability and technical cohesion. Their presentation lacked some, ah, refinement—but their raw functionality and field strategy were exceptional.”

A few polite claps.

Tomi blinked once. That was… generous, actually.

Senku muttered, “That’s award-committee-speak for ‘they almost killed themselves, but the machine survived.’”

She huffed through her nose. Almost a laugh.

Then—

“And this year’s regional winner is… Team 1D from Nada High School!”

The crowd erupted. Confetti cannons misfired overhead. A team in matching neon polos jumped up and down while one kid cried into their wooden clipboard.

Senku and Tomi didn’t flinch.

They clapped.

Tomi’s was dry. Minimalist.

Senku’s was sarcastically enthusiastic.

“Gotta hand it to ‘em,” he said. “They remembered to bring a poster and didn’t arrive via illegal motorbike.”

Tomi signed, “They also had matching lanyards.”

“Disgusting.”

The lights dimmed. The crowd began to disperse. Tomi rolled her shoulders once, muscles finally releasing. Senku crouched beside the rover and disconnected the power cell.

Neither of them said, we should’ve won.

They didn’t have to.

They knew what they’d built.