The last two days flew past in a haze of paperwork followed by phone calls followed by visits to the principal's, accountant's or whoever's office that not only resulted in more paperwork. I hadn't been convinced if we were even capable of pulling the festival off until Thursday's late evening when, left alone to clean the Student Council room up, I noticed a carefully folded sheet of paper among other trash in the can. It looked like a timetable of sorts with a lot of information packed in it with compact writing. Imagine my amazement when on closer inspection it turned out to be a plan of that day's workflow, specked with laconic notes on the slightest deviations. All of our activities, down to the most sudden need for additional changes with imminent need for approval afterwards, had been foreseen and pre-calculated, even evaluated "satisfactory" post factum with no regards to us finishing the day's load ahead of the schedule.   Then there was that one discussion with the principal. We desperately needed to change the fireworks type due to new restrictions on the powder composition fifty hours prior to the delivery deadline. To speak the truth, back in the council room the fireworks had seemed questionable for this festival, but ten minutes later, looking at Shizune, a whole head shorter and no wonder if thrice younger than the man, calmly sign away and receive answers more suitable for a business partner than a superior, I believed that if someone of my age can make the bureaucratic machine grind its gears faster, it's her. Mish spoiled the serious mood with her stupid coquettish speech, though.   Speaking of business, the amount of funding the council receives is ridiculous, on par with the responsibility. Of course we're all eighteen with every right to sign contracts when requested, but what the Academy expects from us is to organize the festival, top to bottom, and if only that. Next weekend's live concert, the Marathon's first event, starring every class's musicians, lies on our shoulders as well, in fact, half the work we do now are preparations for it. You don't want to start guessing how hard the last week was on the loud duo without me and Molly around. If Daigo is to be believed, they chose this burden themselves, however, I have a hard time imagining something like that.   Good news on top of it? We're done with the documentation for now, meaning the weekend is relatively free. Of course the harpy's going to oversee the stalls' assembly, and I'm sure as hell not interfering, it was enough to learn that some years ago the council had that responsibility as well. Then again, they didn't have many others, and surely couldn't hire anyone to do it. Bad news? I've acquired a habit of calling the council "us" instead of "them", also there are two other problems hanging like Damoclean swords in the air. A change is as good as a rest, right?   At least I'm free until the class starts. Well, I would've been if not for Miura keeping me at the track after everyone else had left, which is outrageous because exercises are one thing, dragging people into your fanatic pre-competition training routine is completely another. Guess we're lucky it's not raining like yesterday. Don't misunderstand, we'd still have to run regardless.   I watch Miki finish her distance, with pleasure as always. Out of us four, she's the one to make our workout look enjoyable, since the others are still struggling to overcome their comatose weakness. That said, we're making progress: Misha stopped suffocating and Molly made it to the track on her own today, even if lurching. It's easy to do good in contrast to us, but Miki manages to impress and puzzle at the same time. Impress by her ever energetic legs and the grace, the majesty with which she flies around the track, puzzle by her appearance. Seriously, why try to look pretty at all during a sweaty exercise? Furthermore, why be stubborn enough to do it even though it's pouring outside? And it feels like the amount of makeup defines her attitude, too, for things have been gradually warming up between us. Wonder where that comes from.   "How was it?" she asks through ragged breath, coming up to the tree I use as potential umbrella.   "Lovely, what  do you expect to hear? The team should be jealous."   "Hah, I'm not on the pedestal yet," she giggles contagiously, "but it was about you. How do you feel?"   Simple words bring up a difficult question. Maybe my lungs don't hurt much anymore, or it's the mind that had adapted to the routine, either way, the track ceased to be a death trap even under the pouring rain. That said, the last time wasn't enjoyable at all, so given the unimpressive dark gray blanket above, this talk better be quick.   "So?"   "No idea, honestly. Could be worse."   Contrary to the expectations, Miki rubs her hands together.   "Why so excited?"   "Starting Monday, we are intensifying the practice!"   "You've got to be kidding, more?"   With a satisfied sigh she slides down to the ground by my side.   "Nope, dead serious. If you feel nothing, take more."   "All right," I start dusting myself off, "later then."   Miki doesn't look pleased with the outcome, however. Laying her elbow on my shoulder, she prevents my escape.   "Running away already, sweetheart? You were supposed to get mad or something."   "Mad? Best believe I'm mad. Mad and totally out of time for today, Miura. Business calls."   "You have 'business' now?" her laughter hurts like hot needles.   "Not really, just finalizing papers for the fest, searching for a couple of musicians and-"   "So she really got her claws on you!"   "Listen, Shizune knows her job, the expectations set for us are within our reach. Don't overdo it."   She just snorts with a despising grimace.   "So what's her plan for me?"   "Uh, third place at the track meet, as I recall, not higher in any case."   An entertaining show it is to watch someone's face slowly fade to blank, feeling your own guts curl to a form of a tight ball in fear.   "Did she ask you to tell me?"   "No, I-"   "Matters not, I'll show her the damned third place!"   Like a compressed coil she springs up, ready to spit hateful words, but barely has success standing.   "Sit down, will you?" I worriedly pull her down by the shirt. "What's going on?"   She's in a horrible state for a ready-steady athlete we have been seeing in her, it's hard to even check her pulse. Now that it's said, the bandage might be a part of the problem. Reaching out for her right arm, I'm too focused on ways to evade her chest thrown back and forward in voluminous breaths to notice a sparkle of mischief in the semi-closed eyes. In a moment my hand is locked between hers and something else, soft and hot, beating against my skin like a balloon hammer connected to a jackhammer compressor. Miki's voice flows on waves of hot moist air her suffocating body pushes out.   "Overestimated a bit. Nothing serious," the first short bursts of rain scrambles her words.   We should get back to the dorms, I should probably say something about it because she looks plugged out, staring at my face with a lost but pleasured expression like one of a cat that smelled a faint scent of catnip, like a stoner at a drug store, and thank nature the leaves are protecting us from the rain for now, until it gets denser so the cold drops will finally reach us to make contrast with her burning neck, a hot drum that does over 120 beats per minute, no need for a tonometer to figure it out; in all honesty, mine is probably behaving the same way to nobody's surprise because an unseen force brings our faces closer and closer, weakens my muscles, strengthens her grip until the swish of her breath is distinct from the rain's murmur and she looks at me and her lips slowly open and the rain intensifies and my mind goes blank and it's all like in a dream and-   Thump.   ***   The lunch bell signals it's been more than four hours and we still haven't spoken a single word out of the ordinary. From a bystander's point of view Miki must look cheerful as ever, maybe unnaturally so, the wreck if a weather outside considered.   "Off we go~!"   This has become another routine: a sonic blast to wake everyone up from pointless musings, a quick look around to ensure that Shizune has, as always, taken off to reserve us a place in the line, and here we are, Yamaku, Iron Maiden with her very own honor guard on what looks like a leisurely stroll through the hallways. Jesus, do I hate those nicknames. They make us some kind of local celebrities, attract every gaze to us, like an invisible red carpet rolls through the halls and staircases wherever we go. To be honest, it's hard to miss us moving side by side with Molly's naked synthetic meat in the middle. Misha loves the attention, just listen to her chirrup about today's assignment and how Math is useless while stealthily checking how many people are listening. Maybe it's a healthier attitude than the one of a grumpy crutch carrier. Hell, even Molly's fatal indifference is. Wonder that it takes to get through to the girl.   So as I was saying, our usual routine is to go down to the cafeteria and be intercepted by a certain person.   "Let the females go, dude!"   "You're early today," I answer, turning to meet him and his awkward toy soldier stride. We haven't even reached the stairs yet.   "Business won't wait. Thought about the offer?"   "You have other~ business now?"   "Be with you in a minute, ladies," annoyed, I shove the crutches to Misha.   "No he won't."   "Behave yourselves~!"   The mentioned offer means Daigo still wants me to join his club. Apparently, he thinks the Council load isn't enough, well, yeah, like hell it's not. To kill my precious time on newspapers? Newspapers, for the love of everything sacred, in the century twenty and first, I'd rather read the feed online.   "Remember our bet?" I intend to let him know my point of view as we drift against the human flow, but the words won't come out, or rather not the right ones. "It's lost."   "What? Shut up, dude, Sunday evening comes tomorrow."   "Listen to me. Listen. There was a perfect chance today and I blew it, all right? We're screwed. Sorry."   Among all the black-white-green people affected by the rainy mood, he's now the first one to have a smile on.   "Details, Nakai, you aren't being very clear."   "Go to hell."   I turn to the window to not let him start the mockery. By a coincidence, we're crossing a passage between the buildings, so I have the luxury of watching the landscape from the third floor. Landscape. Yeah. The outside consists of water, it seems, of thick streams rushing down the glass to drop into freefall from the cornice. To the ground they go, to hit the surface of an endless puddle and make their very own difference, summarizing their short lifetime: another ring in a chaotic ornament. Then pairs of heavy waves cross them and wash away, blade-shaped erasers, one for each wheel that has passed by. Heavy trucks cleave through the rain, the like emergency services use, or the military. The drops crush on the hydrophobic cloth of the caps and break to dust, powerless to leave any kind of mark.   "Are you going to pout here till tomorrow?"   Once again, Daigo's face blows away polite responses.   "The hell are you still grinning for?"   "You're so cute when angry," he tries to imitate a girly voice. The result is low, muffled and overall quite hideous.   "Right, piss off. A girl wanted a kiss, I screwed up big time, that's the story," we pick up the pace again, and the convoy escapes my vision.   "So lemme guess, Miki?"   "No chance, she's way out of my league."   However, he'd need to be blind not to read my face.   "How come you passed though, Casanova?"   "Try to score cowering on the ground with a fist clenching the insides of your chest."   His heartily laughter hurts more than expected, maybe because of the comical manner he does it in, head thrown back and mouth wide open. Just like an intellectual supervillain from Western movies.   "Whatever, it's your money we're losing."   "No, dude, look, you did good for a starter, got out the safest way possible."   "And just like the nurse, you aren't going to explain," I sigh in defeat.   "Chill out, okay? Things went better than expected, and Sunday is still tomorrow, meaning many things can still happen."   "From where I stand, we need a miracle."   "Wrong, just a girl. Don't let it get to your head. For now – VOILA!"   Since this building is quite empty already, his voice echoes and amplifies in the dim hall, acquiring volume as they go.   "Welcome," he throws open the door to our right, "to Yamaku Irregular, my little kingdom."   Pause for a second here to review your expectations of a newspaper club. A classroom filled to the brim with shelves, cases and cabinets of every sort, marked yearly and thematically, all centered around a long table. President's figure, residing at its further end against the window, blocks away the sun, and a pointy shadow reaches all the way to the door. The members, stern and formal in both looks and characters, hark his words, 'Today's discussion: journalism in nineteen-thirties, Great Depression to World War II', ready to dig in solid stacks of worn yellow issues.   As always, reality is quite different. The room basks in bright light despite the total gloom outside, thanks to numerous lamps, many more than half a class five computers are set up, all them running but only two occupied, and the people working are...   "Oughtta be a family reunion, but an introduction is obligatory. Naomi Inoue, our editor," a dyed blonde head with an ever-dissatisfied face turns our way and rolls reddened eyes as far up as possible, images refracted by glasses repeating the motion. "Natsume Ooe, part time editor and part time article writer, whenever the newsbreaker strongly depends on visuals, because our two main writers happen to be, you know, blind."   "Kurosaki," Naomi's voice is heavy with steel.   "What? He would be able to guess it at first sight."   The blonde quickly taps something, turns off her monitor and continues the morality, each word stressed with its own pause while the printer churns out transparent plastic pages.   "Need. I. Remind. You. Of the basic. Principles. Of etiquette?"   "No-no-no, not for the thirty-first time. I'm sorry, hear? Sorry."   Finally able to turn my gaze away from the interior, which with its semi-soft armchairs and a glass table stained with coffee doesn't remind of work in the slightest, I ask a question out of the nonexistent guidebook '101 things they don't tell about Yamaku'.   "So what's the big deal if somebody knows?"   "Wow, dude, that's like the rudest thing to say ever! We don't talk about this stuff openly, unless people bring up their troubles themselves, otherwise it's disrespectful, boo."   Merciless karma hits him in the back of the head in form of a stack of plastic pages guided by Naomi's hand.   "Pray they haven't cracked," Daigo looks completely unfazed. "Apologies to you too, Nakai."   The club's collective tolerance, already busy pinning fresh prints to the luminous whiteboard with magnets, cares enough to barge in again.   "What for?"   "Let's say Miura tried to make out with someone, unaware that at a place like this you need to be extra careful, and leave it at that," Natsume finally drops a word.   "And you were just happy to stick your nose in? Sorry for this hopeless piece of a human, er, Nakai."   I can't care less about Naomi's lunge though, there's a more important point raised.   "So... does everybody know?" I ask in an involuntarily weak tone.   "No, just me. It's my job," the curly-haired editor works with her head bowed, so it's impossible to guess how serious she's being, "to know everything on the campus. Everything and everyone. Eyes and ears, all over the place, you'd think a school newspaper ought to have someone like that."   "Almost makes you believe in feministic conspiracies," Daigo winks, making me shudder.   "Oh sure, you live across hall of that nutjob. Tough break."   "So, uuh, do you," voice betrays me for a second, "do you have a web of cameras covering every inch of the Academy?"   Natsume bursts into laughter so hard it almost sounds like Misha's giggling. And there's that omnipotent vibe again, coming from every part of her, the hair flowing like waves off her shaking head, the porcelain teeth uncovered in a wide smile, even the sound itself feels a little bit terrifying, like we all exist only in an article she's writing. If the play matches the scenery, she really doesn't need cameras to know. Not that I wouldn't hit it regardless. Where do these thoughts even come from?   "Ooh my goodness," she wipes a tear from under the glasses lowered to the very tip of her nose. "That must be from his latest opus, some brand new poetry. I need to talk to the man some time."   "You don't," I make a warning just to be sure. Even gods make mistakes, the biggest one being humans.   "Fair point, he's a whole another book. Well," she sends her work to the printer and stands up with a grunt, using both the chair and table as support, "only the blind haven't noticed you and Miki yet. Be a hero, pass my cane."   "I seem to be cursed with the Crutchbearer bane. And there's nothing between us!"   "Take comfort in it, you wouldn't like to need one yourself. And I assume today was nothing as well? Three-two may not see it firsthand, but they've heard rumors, and as far as anyone's concerned, you two are a soon-to-be sweet couple. Works wonder for your reputation, by the way. Even more so with your today's actions."   "Can anyone please explain this, please?" I yell in irritation. "First the nurse says it, then everydamnbody else, what's wrong?"   The answer is silence. Naomi and Daigo are too busy analyzing the pages, and the only sighted writer on the crew just limps to join them. Even with the cane's help, her right leg misbehaves. Poor girl.   "Here's your last columns," she slaps two more on the board.   "Oh, it's talking," come to think of it, two girls haven't shared a word until now.   "Not to you, and since I am, where's our publishing contract?"   "Same place your family catfights belong, ladies. The final edit is days overdue."   "Well, it's on the board right now."   "Well, I'm dialing Dad right now!" Daigo loses it, tearing the sheets off.   "Good, good, calm down."   "I am calm. As a breeze, damn it!"   On a second guess, he's more in a hurry than in anger. A couple papers picked up from one of the desks, might be his own, an umbrella from a tiny wardrobe, just enough to satisfy five people at best, and he's on the move. Not really, and echoing voice reaches us from the hall.   "What about the voice over?"   "Eighty percent ready, last I checked. He'll need the final!" Naomi shouts with a concerned face. "And don't forget the mobile version, last time was awful enough!"   "On it," and the clacking sound informs that the flat heels have started their way down the hall.   Descending silence makes the room feel empty. There isn't much in it all right, between the comfy side and the whiteboard side there are only desks tightly fit to the walls and tall lockers between them. Vertical space management is on the level, though, small shelves crawl up the walls here and there, filed with all sorts of stuff, mainly markers, magnetic pins and external hard drives.   "Uh, voice over?"   What do you want from a guy caught in close quarters with two girls and a desperate need to spark a conversation to stop staring at Natsume's butt.   "Of course," Naomi, minutes ago concerned about etiquette, doesn't bother to turn her head around, concentrated on feeding a page to a humming box next to the printer. "Some readers have difficulties with printed text here. And before you ask, yes, some people read us on so much of a run they can't be bothered to pull a tablet out, hence the mobile version. Idiocy if you ask me, but consumer's the boss."   Nothing better to shut a curious mind up than a complete answer. I'm not giving up, though.   "So if two guys write and you edit, then what does Daigo do on the team?"   The box slowly returns the page, now ideally clean. Must be an eraser of some sort. She looks through the surface critically before talking.   "He's the head of state, obviously. He made us happen in the first place, turned the club from a history geeks' hideout to a group that started producing things after the old president left. He makes the final pick from the newsbreakers, so we end up arguing to death every time, but after all is said and done, guess who's to thank for our audience. He's the one to make the team work, settle down IP conflicts and get us published, last two not without his father's help of course."   "Anything special about the senior?"   "Not much, just a controlling interest in a major publishing house, he makes some calls for free for the sake of the family. Although today's night shift fiasco is going to cost extra. Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one to dislike stretching deadlines."   "Count that two," Natsume adds from deep inside her thoughts.   "Aww, give me a hug and I'll melt."   "I'll give you a whole kiss if it shuts you up. We have a guest, remember?"   "Yeah, honored to have your attention," tired of standing, I get comfortable behind the table. "So why am I here?"   "Things," back of the head produces an instant pointless answer. "Bossman wants you to take an interview with Shizune for a start, and me to teach you the basics. So, a little work, but mostly lunch."   "You even cooked for this roo-"   The rest is soft muffled noises at the source of which I don't look but guess Natsume has finally succeeded in shutting her ruder half up.   ***   Establishing connection to Deepnet...   You are now known as 6E2A9DynamicNode@Nexus104.abyss   Under no circumstances disclose your personal location, IP or clues to such to other users.   Requesting channel at phoenixrc.abyss...   Enter your session ID: ********   Now talking in #mythbusters   /ulist   Other users in this channel: Big_Uncle, ~phoenix   code in   Singer Corp.   Bingo on your Tango   are u 100% sure   Ninety, without a photo   I know, I know   we need a guaranteed hit   <~phoenix> If our word means anything, we have dug up on the "tango" in question and believe it to be a person of interest for your company regardless of who you are looking for. Consider it a free bonus.   Look at the facts. Same approximate date of transfer, same condition, height, weight   will need eyes on target 24/7   Problematic, someone has been uncooperative   <~phoenix> Out of the question. Our presence within the grid has already been endangered by your agent's actions.   can u compile text reports without us inside   security corps write these scripts for breakfast   waiting on u   <~phoenix> Negative. Both of you will be informed on critical developments after we are compensated for your agent's behaviour.   ur full of surprises   not necessarily pleasant ones   <~phoenix> We have our reasons.   Ahem, instructions?   its on you for now   stalker, mentor, guardian, i need u to be all   until we figure out a way to communicate   unless were already wasting time   <~phoenix> The target hasn't talked neither gone off the grid the whole while.   good. uncle out   /quit   ***   One of Dad's favorite sayings goes like "Got a job, get a friend to cry about it." Doesn't matter which one works harder, as long as you don't share departments, both are going to think other's problems are worse and take comfort in it. Or completely the other way around, whatever floats your boat. That's probably the point of human interaction: we interpret it the way we want to get a more likeable result which requires more effort with other forms of sensory feed. No wonder I find myself in the stuffed air behind the heavy wooden doors again. Hard to believe an oppressive place like this is hosted by Yuuko, judging by the outside you'd expect a strict old gentleman in a tailcoat rather than a nervous girl. Uh, should I say "lady"? Because she looks too innocent for it, too pure for this whole place with Shizunes handling the Council with steel spiked gloves and upper class kids using their parents' businesses to pursue own shallow goals, all possibly under tight surveillance. Huh, so I'm giving Kenji's insane figments a go now. Must be this place pressing down on my shoulders. Seriously, who thought it would be a good idea to plan a library this way? In broad daylight it's shady enough inside, but right now with all the clouds in the sky it's effectively night in here. No way to read anything without a lamp, and judging by the total absence of light sources, save for librarian's screen, the place is as popular as an abandoned construction site. That's what attracts Yuuko, the silence and solitude. Paper is a morally outdated data carrier, she says, and whatever operation done digitally can be as well performed remotely, so she has to watch over the Academy property more than anything else on her job.   We've been talking for quite some time, her reordering this week's batch of new books and me simply enjoying the emptiness of the place and a calm conversation after a busy week. Turns out she's not the only one librarian here, duh, can't work a full-time job with shifts at that cafe, and besides, Yamaku doesn't want a full-timer on this position for some reason. When asked which job is better, she cutely panics but admits it's the library. Yes, less pay and sounds boring, until there's something else to do. In her case, it's a degree in Greek mythology. I was shocked too, I mean, forty-eight hours of work per week never combine with a full-time scholarship, be it even a virtual one.   I try to imagine he take a lecture on a morning shift, which she likes best because those are live from the university and it's possible to ask questions, and option mostly ignored, because virtual education, while having been declared as an ultimate solution to the accessibility problem, became the last straw for shut-ins, chronic drop-outs and every other kind of spongers. Not in Yuuko's case. Mind draws her concentrated face lit up by the screen with a dim halo of brightened racks around, distant ones standing like pillars of a different shade of black on black background. A priestess meditates before the ceremonial flame in a temple of knowledge. We rock the walls with laughter when she uses a raincoat as a tunic and tries to pull off a fitting expression. Then on a completely serious note adds that the library's proportions resemble an Elladian temple to a degree, especially if the racks are counted as pillars, throwing me for a complete loss.   "Um, it feels selfish to talk about my stupid hobbies all the time," she changes the subject, fiddling with a barcode scanner nervously. "How have you been?"   And we forget about time again, as I'm more than happy to relive all the work done and maybe take credit for a little more. Day by day, back and forth, we go over every event in my new life in detail. Yuuko gives meaningful advice that weirdly contrasts with the stories of her own unsuccessful high school years. She attended Yamaku as well, but failing to detect any obvious disabilities, I recall the unspoken rule and stuff the question back down my throat.   "-and while journalism shapes up to be a difficult skill to master, Ooe cooks like a pro," we finally hit the finish line.   "You're going to fir tight in at this pace, don't worry."   "Hey, I thought the librarians weren't all meant to be mind readers."   She giggles timidly.   "Somebody claimed to be, um, antisocial earlier. With this much work it's just impossible! If you'd like to listen to an old hag, keep at it and everything is going to be fine."   "Too optimistically said for our dark library. You know, I still have a couple of unsolved problems," you could've been working on them instead of having a sweet light chat, moron, "and no end in sight."   "Can I help?"   An image of Yuuko helping out with the bet sends blood rushing to my temples. Although,   "Sure, you know students better. There's the band competition slash concert next week, and 3-3 is in bad shape."   "Oh, Lelouch was a great drummer. Such a handsome!"   I omit the question on how exactly much physical attractiveness contributed to his musical talents.   "On top of it, we need a singer."   That guy drew the short stick. Unlike the transferred Lelouch, he suffered a sudden condition degradation, something tumor related. Didn't end well at all. Looking at Yuuko's mournful frown, I can't get rid of a background thought that if not for him, I may have not been summoned here.   "I... don't know if it whould be said openly," she produces with effort after a long silence, "but you do have another singer."   "Really?" I doubt her unconfident tone.   "It's supposed to be a secret. Oh, don't you get it, it's Hanako. Everything's unknown about her, poor girl can't talk about her skills to anyone, it would do good to have her work on a team for once."   "Lady Shirakawa," I shake her hand over the counter, "you're a lifesaver."   She completely ignores the play.   "Beware of Lilly, she never said how good Hanako was with computers and still gets angry whenever I get her help."   Frozen in the middle of a step by a sudden realization, I ask how exactly skilled is "good".   "Sometimes when I touch a button, everything breaks, um, then she touches another and it works again. It's good enough, right?"   Yeah, right. Like it's that easy to hit a jackpot.   "Please go easy on her!"   In order to do that, I'd first need to find her. The second floor is empty, so, reluctant to go outside under the cold shower, I search where it's bright. Or dry in today's case. Elusive talented singers found: nil.   In the end, out of breath and wet with sweat, I find myself stepping into the Council room. First look around confirms that going outside is one of the least spectacular activities today. Shizune's squeezed out but still wet uniform hangs piece by piece on the chairs, the president herself in dry change and warm slippers sipping coffee at her desk. Not upset at all, it seems.   "Found us a voice," I say just as she starts signing to spare myself from a possible half an hour report on the stalls assembly progress. "No rhythm though."   It takes an explosive finger snap to distract Misha from a hot donut.   "Nicely done, Hicchan~!" she forces with a full mouth before decrypting her quieter companion's transmission. "Start thinking of a style~ change if the time's short~."   "Already, not just because of it," I sigh and let the shoulders droop. "Our class simply doesn't have a drummer anymore."   For a while the heavy silence is disturbed only by measured chewing.   "You've got it then!"   "Tell me one thing: why am I the one responsible?"   "Because you've had~ experience."   Yeah, well, it's true, I don't need to check the history books to recall the time I was with our old school's band, mostly as an errand boy and jack-of-all-trades, not a musician by a long shot. Learned how to manage things, of course, but there's another argument.   "Your guys have been at it for two full years."   "But you have the authority, Hicchan~!"   "Pffsh. Ability to make people laugh is hardly authority, and it's all the Council's good for."   Shizune's deep frown promises nothing pleasant.   "In addition~, your dirty deeds are covered," yeah, of course she's going to pull the leash every time the dog barks, "and indulged."   Her face is bright and clear all of a sudden.   "Why are you helping me?"   "Honestly~? Prestige, all for a chance to put Takeshi in his place. Besides~, can't wait to see Kurosaki's face when he realizes this win wasn't his own."   Something sounds off in Misha's voice, and the answer lies in her expression. For once, their emotion is one: revenge, only now the president has a more dreamy look and the interpreter's beastly grin gives away her bloodlust for a second, until her attention is drawn by another detail.   "Wait, Shicchan~, are you going out with him?"   The emotion on her face can be filed into any actor's handbook under the "intense mistrust" category. However, Shizune just slowly shakes her head and continues staring at Misha without a movement. The next expression should already go under "extreme bewilderment".   "Shicchan?"   The sudden drop in volume makes a harder impact than if she'd be screaming. I don't know what to expect, tears or a fight, and Shizune continues drilling her with a cold gaze. Of course, my ringtone has to go off right in the middle of a crisis.   "Yes, Dad?"   This room's tension must be leaking through my voice to the other end of the connection, because the old man takes his sweet time to reply.   "You know, junior, things keep flying out of my head with this damn work. Remember how we promised to visit you at your first weekend?"   Central, operation Sunday Foxtrot looks like a total trainwreck.