As Mamori entered the gym-cum-ballroom, a powerful sense of déjà vu caused her stomach to resume its nervous churning. Much to her dismay, at that precise moment Taki and Suzuna spotted some of their former classmates and hurried to catch their attention, oblivious to their American guest's distress and the fact that she was lagging behind them.

Mamori tripped sluggishly forward for a few paces and then leaned against the wall, feigning casual interest in the people who were passing by her at a sporadic pace. It shamed her to admit it, but she really wished that Sena had been able to find time in his busy schedule to accompany her here. Being in his company always made her feel much braver. It was funny--when they were small, she'd always looked out for him, but now that they were older, it sometimes felt as if the situation had reversed.

Don't be stupid! Get a grip! She chided herself, even as her hands started to shake. You're here now, and there's no going back. Really, what's the big deal about a dumb little high-school reunion when you eat reasonably-sized corporations for breakfast? You make more than the majority of these people! What would your employees say if they saw you like this?

But it's all the same, some part of her whined–the portion of her psyche that still managed to sound unreasonably juvenile. Even the streamers and banners look like leftovers from the night we graduated.

She wouldn't have been surprised if they were. The folding chairs and tables were certainly the very ones that had been used decades ago. Granted, there were a few new restaurant style booths sitting smugly in the four corners near the exits, looking very impromptu and mismatched and ineffably Deimon. Still, it was uncanny how much tonight's red-and-black decor resembled the decorations that night so long ago; so much so that it was like stepping back in time.

The businesswoman bit her lip, feeling a sublime terror filling her at the comparison, but thankfully reason soon rose to counter it. Of course the gym would be the same! It made perfect sense that an upper-level secondary school in a low-income catchment area like Deimon wouldn't have updated its physical education facility in almost twenty-five years. And so, yes, there was the same paint job that had been laid down during her first year, the same little dents in the waxed-over wood, the same little blue metal doors leading to the boys' and girls' locker rooms and the weight rooms...

How many events had she helped to organize for the school or chaperoned for the disciplinary committee in this very spot? Too many to count. It wasn't right that nothing had been changed since she'd been here last. Hell--she choked back a burst of hysterical laughter-- she could even see the bullet holes from the time poor Kurita-san had hidden under the vaulting horse! The characteristic spray of depressions in the wall could still be seen despite a botched attempt at repairs, and the replacement floor planks that they'd put in were still a different shade than their neighbors.

Mamori did her best to swallow down the bile that rose up as she surveyed the room she hadn't realized would affect her like this and sent up a random prayer for the fast appearance of a friendly face. Feeling idiotically desperate, she latched onto the arm of the first person she recognized. "Satake-kun! How are you?!" Oh damn, she thought a little too late, this guy had a crush on me, didn't he? Oh well. Sometimes a girl had to use her waning assets to an advantage. Protect me, pervy basketball-guy. Save me from the big bad room. And also help me move in the direction of Suzuna over there, if you please... Why she couldn't move across the room on her own, of course, was a mystery. Or perhaps not.

Maybe she didn't want a confrontation, after all. It was time for wussing out. She'd smile through the ceremonies and leave. This was the new plan. Mamori decided rashly that she liked the new plan. Or maybe the plan was to look like she didn't want to speak to that certain person in particular, and seem like she was having a great time, and conversing with any old ex-quarterback regardless of what He might think was certainly not her ambition in coming here tonight, and the gods defend anyone who so much as hinted at such a thing.

Satake for his part acted almost perfectly... at first. While initially wary--for what reason she couldn't tell, he wasn't exactly bad looking, but then again it had been a long time and they had never been necessarily close--the man appeared to perk up quickly, and began to engage in earnest conversation with her. Satake's friend Yamaoka followed close behind, but didn't say anything. He seemed to be attempting to communicate something however with both his eyes as well as through gestures of the head, but it was difficult to discern the import of it as she found herself being pelted by a number of invasive and (to her mind) probably well-meant yet increasingly inappropriate questions. With some effort she diverted the flow of their conversation from her personal life to work. Satake shifted uncomfortably, and Yamaoka coughed. Satake jerked suddenly as if realizing Yamaoka's presence for the first time since he'd arrived, looked away briefly, and excused himself without reason.

Yamaoka lowered his voice once his buddy was out of earshot. "He just got out of jail, you see."

"Oh?" Mamori felt a wash of horror come over her. And she'd clung to the guy the moment he'd walked in the door! But how was she to have known? All she could remember was an ingratiating promise to continue playing on the amefuto team in return for attention from herself, and then girls in general... Inwardly, she tried to foist the blame for this gaffe on Kurita for not mentioning it to her the night before. But in all fairness, these two semi-permanent helpers, like her, were never included in the later incarnation of the Bats. It would make sense that the boys would fall out of touch-- "Do I want to know what for?"

Yamaoka grimaced. "Probably not." He answered truthfully. "Look, I hate to say this, but how about I take you back over to Taki-kun? It's been a while since I've seen him. We were in the same line of work for a while, so it won't seem too much like I'm telling you to get away from him."

"Aha. Okay," Mamori found her face was starting to burn with embarrassment. People were so proper in Japan. She'd forgotten how bad it looked to be talking to the wrong sort of person. She couldn't help but wonder what that boy had been in for--of course, he was a man now--but still! "What occupation was that?" She asked politely.

"Oh. Adult entertainment."

"You mean... dancing? For parties?"

"Uhm, no. Think film. The kind that doesn't go to theatres." Yamaoka said lightly. "We thought it would be all fun and games at first, 'ladies' men' that we were, but experience taught us that being objectified isn't all it's cracked up to be. Makes me sort of look back at the way I was as a teenager and feel kind of ashamed. Going apeshit over the Yuuhi Guts' manager in buruma and waxing poetic about there still being paradise in Japan--if you could see some of the things I've been forced to wear on screen, you'd understand why I'm eating my words these days."

"...eating your words?" Mamori repeated, feeling very much at a loss as to what to say. She was deposited at Taki and Suzuna's table with little ceremony. The siblings seemed more than a little embarrassed to see her saviour, and the words they exchanged were polite but brief. Mamori noted that after Yamaoka left, Suzuna squeezed her brother's hand. But when the ex-cheerleader turned to speak to her, all Suzuna did was smile. "See!? I told you it'd be fun! Cute, wasn't he?"

Mamori opened her mouth to answer that no, almost giving out your information to a possible stalker was not her idea of a good time, and neither was the very real possibility of contracting a number of diseases, but her words were forgotten when the entire table shuddered. Suzuna swore and kicked something hidden by the tablecloth, but didn't look down. She turned towards Mamori and smiled. "Don't look, but there's Omosadake over there. We need to protect Kurita-san from him, at least until the presentation begins and people take their seats."

"I... what?"

"Here, have a cucumber sandwich," Suzuna said, a touch too loudly, placing one of the dainty refreshments from her plate onto a napkin and making a show of handing it to Mamori. Quietly, she said, "drop it."

Mamori blinked, perplexed, but did as she was told.

And covered her mouth when a slightly chubby hand snaked out from underneath the table and snatched the falling treat out of mid-air. "Th-thanks!"

Mamori crossed her legs, and then remembered with a rush of relief that she was wearing pants. "Kurita-san?"

"Y-y-yes?"

Mamori couldn't help it. She bent over and lifted the fabric so she could look the ex-linebacker in the face. "Why... are you under the table?"

Suzuna intervened and pulled the fabric back down. "It's a long story," she explained cheerfully.

"Well, give me the short version...?"

"Shh. You can hear about it later."

Mamori snorted. "Whatever. Just pile some cakes in front of the guy. He'll think running after Kurita-san is 'unecessary effort.'"

A series frightened of whimpers issued from underneath the table.

Mamori sighed and poured herself a cup of tea. People said that Americans were crazy—but they'd never been to Deimon.

At length, the lights dimmed and their old principal appeared. He was now retired, and shook a bit as he approached the podium and pawed at the microphone with shaking fingers. The man must be ancient by now, she realized. Somewhat unfairly, Mamori found she was wondering whether the man ever did end up leaving his wife. It had been wrong of him to have an affair all those years ago, but now that she'd tried and failed at the marriage game herself, she couldn't help but feel a strong sense of sympathy towards the aged administrator.

She was dimly aware of Kurita's sigh of relief followed by some small amount of commotion as he squeezed out from underneath the table and took a spot in the empty seat to her left. It was still somewhat amazing that he now truly only needed a single chair. Perhaps that was the main cause of his argument with the former head of the sumo club... some kind of jealousy, or a perceived slight in the refutation of the lifestyle her friend had mastered and then left behind? If that were the case, she found she would have to take Kurita's side in the matter. There was tradition and that was fine and well, but one should be allowed to take responsibility for one's own lifestyle choices without worrying about what other people thought... Justifying our own indiscretions by making stretched comparisons, are we now? Her conscience sneered. Mamori steadfastly ignored it. She'd become rather good at it, over the years.

The principal's speech was short but laudatory—after these years graduated, the school had an established amefuto team and facilities which had been paid for through fundraising on the part of said graduates entirely--

Mamori almost spat out her tea at that bit. She'd never heard anyone call counting cards, blackmail and extortion "fundraising" before—she started laughing into a napkin. Suzuna patted her on the back distractedly.

--and it would please the principal now if he could hand the floor over to Yukimitsu Manabu, the noted holder of Doctorates in both physics and psychology at Kyushu University, who would give a few words to his fellow graduating members of 2007 as well as those who followed in 2008.

Mamori sobered up a little for Yukimitsu-kun. She was glad to hear he'd done so well for himself. She drummed her fingers on the table and tried to concentrate on the words. It was a corny speech, filled with football metaphors. She did her best not to yawn. Mentally, she recalled a map of the country in her head. Kyushu, eh? She wondered if he'd taken a post that far away to get out from underneath his maternal parent's thumb, or if he still lived with that overbearing woman. People had thought she was bad, with the way she'd watched over Sena during his first year, but her 'big sister' relationship with Sena had nothing on Yukimitsu's mom. ... looking at Yukimitsu now, and remembering what Kurita had told her last night, she figured the guy had never married. His male pattern baldness gleamed like a fuzzy peach in the spotlight, and Mamori decided sympathetically that if her son were here he'd agree it would be a better look for the man at this point to simply shave it off and go entirely bald. She wondered absently if he still pronounced 'Mother' with a capital letter, like you'd see in the subtitles to an old Alfred Hitchcock movie.

"--and as we hit that series of downs in life, we must always recall that we had embarked on this quest as a team, and we must always endeavour not to forget that this is the place where we realized we were part of a greater whole, that with each yard we gain we must look back and thank our brothers and sisters for blocking the opposition and giving us encouragement when we needed it--"

Mamori did her best not to groan. Oh, Yuki-kun. So idealistic, even now. But at least his speaking voice was better, these days. He no longer seemed to speed up when he was nervous. She let her attention wander, and scanned the room for more familiar faces now that people were sitting down. In the dim light she could make out two of the three Hah-Hah Brothers. Juumonji, she knew, had taken over his father's company and now was the successful proprietor of a chain of resorts and golf courses mostly catering to expensive foreign tastes. Toganou, looking somewhat shabbier off to his left, was a starving artist—or should one say, hack animator-- made to keep long hours working for some company that contracted out to Korea. It was his job to clean and edit the cells for final production. He looked like he hadn't slept for days. Kuroki was conspicuously absent. She wondered if he'd even come. Kurita hadn't had any news of him for a very long time. Maybe he fell off of the face of the earth, sucked into some kind of Hah-less void. The thought was silly, but it still made her feel a little sad to imagine it. She let her eyes pass again over the faces in the makeshift auditorium, letting the memories come and go as they pleased.

No, that person didn't seem to be here. She should really stop looking. It was rude. Her eyes should be on the podium, her mind on Yukimitsu's carefully written speech, politely parsing all its goofy amefuto jargon.

"As the hurdles we encounter rip and tear at us, it is good to approach at times a place of safety, to call a 'time out' as it were, and to pause and recollect, to converse and strategize before choosing one's next move. This is what I learned here at Deimon, and I believe it is in a way, what we have all learned. I would like tonight to be such an instance of rest in the hectic second half of our lives, before approaching that third quarter--"

"Laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?" Suzuna giggled, but Mamori didn't have the attention span to respond. She'd seen something, a glint of black gunmetal, in the far corner of the room, near the door. She needed more light, she decided faintly. Just to be sure. As quietly as possible, Mamori unzipped her purse and liberated a book of matches. With some care she excavated and re-lit the guttering tea-light whose wick had been drowning in its own wax. Her vision thus improved, she directed her gaze to that point once more. Her eyes widened.

It wasn't fair, she decided, once her brain resumed normal activity after shorting out for a good few minutes. With a quiet hiss Mamori withdrew her hand from the glass candle-holder and sucked on her stinging fingertips. After all this time, he wasn't supposed to look exactly the same. He should have grown up and changed, like everyone else. And maybe he had, in little ways. There were probably wrinkles around his eyes, maybe deeper lines around his mouth, as if he'd smirked one to many times and it just got stuck that way. And maybe his voice was deeper when he spoke—and maybe there was less muscle definition than before, given that years had passed since attaining that physical peak. But it was hard to tell from this distance, although it frightened her how much she wanted to go over there and find out. I know it's been a while, Hiruma-kun, but in the purpose of scientific interest, if you could just lift up your shirt... No. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea.

But she couldn't stop looking.

She'd supposed at some point he would have stopped bleaching his hair and dyeing it blond, taken the piercings out and let the holes grow in. Or update his look at least to stay current with the times. But he hadn't. Mamori wasn't certain whether this made her glad, or slightly disappointed. He hadn't noticed her yet which was good, because she couldn't help but gape over the fact that Hiruma hadn't grown up.

Of course, maybe that was because the man had done all of the growing-up he'd had to do back while the rest of them were just beginning the process. Immaturely mature, that enigmatic team captain of theirs. Control in the guise of having none at all. A necessary evil to bind the rest of the school together in a pact of common fear and awe. It had worked for him back then and Mamori supposed that from the looks of things, the same practices were equally as effective, even now.

He was talking to someone she hadn't realized was there, but who she guessed from that quality was probably Ishimaru. The former track star was looking well, grey hair in a jaunty buzz-cut that she guessed nobody ever commented on, and dressed in a plain but not necessarily inexpensive charcoal suit. He and Hiruma seemed to be discussing something with moderate animation. Mamori felt a quiet pain in her chest. It was strange to see how even decades after graduation, those actions were still preserved: the trademarked gestures, the sliding eye movement, the tilt of the chin, the way he held and bit into a biscuit, pensive, almost coquettish-- (Men shouldn't be allowed to look that coquettish! --but in Hiruma, it fit.) What should have looked almost too delicate or arguably effeminate on anyone else had a dangerous sharpness in him. His features were still as striking as they had been all those years ago. Even the black turtleneck was the same. And there he sat in a long leather coat dyed a deep blood red and crosshatched with slashes and occasional stitches. Mamori had to bite back a sigh when, (oblivious?) to being watched, Hiruma eased back in his seat, propping his legs up on the table. She bet he still walked with his hands in his pockets, still kicked doors open with the cocky indifference of a boy of seventeen years. She turned her head and tried to block the rush of images that came to her, but it was all coming back with the memory of the scent of sweat and dirt and cheap beer...

Mamori looked up at the red and black tissue streamers and handmade paper mâché stars and planets that hung from knotted pieces of translucent fishing wire, wobbling precariously as people danced below. She narrowed her eyes at the strings and hoped a certain someone didn't let loose with the gunfire indoors because that would just be a number of accidents waiting to happen. But she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the so-called demon for the past two weeks, so it would be strange, she supposed, to see last years' quarterback show up here tonight. The boy had barely spoken a word to her—or anyone—for the past three semesters, since winning the Christmas Bowl. She wouldn't even be sure if Hiruma was graduating along with the rest of them if she hadn't given in to her insecurities and abused her friendships with some of the teachers to sneak into the staff room during a free period, find a computer someone hadn't logged out of, and taken a look at his marks. (That had been embarrassment in itself, because it was only when she'd found what she wanted that Mamori realized she was stuck. She wasn't good with computers, and had ended up unplugging the thing in a panic when logging out of the program proved impossible. Later she'd found out that Yamaha-sensei was in a foul mood because someone had erased all of his marks after he'd spent a full hour putting them in. Thankfully, she hadn't been caught.)

Mamori straightened her skirt and sidled up to the punch bowl. She poured a small amount into a plastic cup and tasted it carefully for alchohol content. As part of the disciplinary committee, working undercover to keep this party within regulations was basically the final duty of her third year. She wondered frankly if she would have time for these sorts of things when she started college in a few months. Did they have disciplinary committees in America? She would have to find out.

Well, the punch didn't taste spiked, but she supposed she'd have to try a bit more to be sure. This was her second cup, and she felt fine, so she supposed that was what counted. Mamori ran a hand in front of her eyes. Okay, so maybe her vision was a tad blurry, but she'd been up late gossiping with her friend Ako and it was probably just sleep that was doing this. Most alchohol had a strong and bitter taste and could be detected right away, didn't it?

Mamori looked down at what she was wearing. She was dressed in a simple pink cardigan sweater over a black skirt and top—a bit conservative for the crowd assembled here tonight, she admitted to herself, but then again, she hadn't exactly come to this thing to have fun. She was here because it made her happy to see that her friends were happy. That was all that should matter.. right?

Suzuna was flying about the dance floor dressed in a frilly white costume that made her look like a Spanish bride. She made quite a picture in Juumonji's arms, long blue hair flying. They're a cute couple, Mamori thought with a small twinge of jealousy. Suzuna was a different kind of girl... she dated a lot, and probably had done more than that. As for Mamori, she'd never even so much as kissed a boy on the mouth...

Well, that was all right. She would be going away on a scholarship to a university halfway across the world, so maybe then–

"Mamori nee-san!"

"Sena?!"

"You need to come quick..."

"What is it?"

A number of loud retorts came from outside, followed by some concussive, ground-shaking blasts that cut through the slow dance music that a number of couples were in the midst of swaying to. A rising murmur of protest ran through the crowd and grew in intensity like a hive of buzzing bees. One or two decorations fell, dangerously close to the refreshment table.

Mamori groaned. "What is he doing?"

"Uhm... I'm not sure? Shooting at pigeons, I think. Mamori..." Sena pulled on her hand and ducked in closer, eyes pleading. "I'm actually kind of worried..."

Mamori turned and saw that a line of people were moving towards her. She smiled faintly at them and started to think that spiking the punch would have been a good idea. Meanwhile, the rest of the room was crowding about the doors and staring out into the dark expanse of the football field. Occasionally there would be a flash of light, and the odd spectator would let out an appreciative ooh or ahh. Mamori caught a familiar whiff of burnt paper and gunpowder and confirmed her suspicion through the afterimage of red and blue sparks as she approached. Fireworks. Of course.

It was the president of the student council who spoke up. "Mamori, you know that boy, go out there and put a stop to this."

Mamori shrugged, shying away from the spectacle. "Well—he'll probably get tired of it eventually..." People seemed to be enjoying it at least?

Another boom shook the gym, and a tiny replica of the planet Venus plumetted southern hemisphere-first into the bowl of punch, drenching somebody's date. "It's disruptive! You have a past history with that boy and you're on duty tonight—you go out there and I don't care how you do it—you put a stop to this! You're the only one he ever listens to."

Mamori was about to contend that remark but she found her own anger flaring when she saw part of the bleachers go up in a spray of wood splinters and smoke. Now that Hiruma was damaging school property, there was no way she could let this go. She took a deep breath and released it. "Leave it to me, Fukuchou."

So Mamori left the warmth of the school gym and tiptoed gingerly across the muddy field, testing the ground as she made her way. The moment her left foot stuck in the grass all the way up to her ankle however, she gave up on the enterprise of walking softly and decided to simply run with all her might since her new shoes seemed destined to be ruined after this anyway.

She neared the bleachers at the far end of the field and found Hiruma there, nursing what looked to be from the pile at his feet the twelfth or thirteenth beer he'd consumed that evening.

"Hiruma-kun."

"Fucking manager."

"You're making a mess," she stated simply, watching the boy's face carefully, and hoping she wouldn't have to put to use the thing she'd concealed in her evening bag in premonition of this final confrontation of wills between them.

Hiruma simply laughed and fired another spray of fireworks into the air. Mamori winced and noted from the smell of singed wood that according to her suspicions the demon had very nearly set the bleachers on fire. She took a step towards him purposefully. "HIRUMA-KUN!" This was serious. She has never seen the boy demonstrate so little control. He'd always been wild, but there was before now always, always some measure of careful calculation behind it. But not tonight, apparently. Tonight Hiruma was being foolish and of all things irrational—and she couldn't just let it go. Combining inebriation with firearms was something that even the Devil shouldn't do.

She decided to go with the gentle approach at first. Not that she thought it would work, but at this point anything was worth a shot. "Hiruma-kun, the show has been very... nice, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop."

"Heeeh? And who's going to fucking make me?"

"I'm not making you do anything," Mamori stated reasonably. "I'm asking, first. Please. Give me the gun."

"Hn? Come and get it from me! Kekekekekekeke!" Hiruma darted out of reach and fired into the air directly above them. Mamori ducked, put her hands over her head, and pushed him down too before the explosions went off and the rain of flaming paper and still-fizzling gunpowder came down on them both--

Mamori bit into one of the cookies from the plate at the centre of the table.

The next speaker (if he could be called that) was Komusubi-kun. Mamori fingered the gift bag at her place setting and pulled out her complementary copy of the semi-autobiographical novel he'd written: Discovering and Deciphering the Language of Powerful Men. She couldn't imagine when she'd find a use of it. She supposed she could give it to her son, but he could potentially take it the wrong way, and that would just be awkward.

She flipped the slim volume over, and scanned the reviews on the back. Over 20 000 copies sold worldwide? Who read this kind of thing? Bodybuilders and weight-trainers?

Well, she supposed she should be glad for the little guy. If a glance towards the front table meant anything, he'd brought not just his wife and kid, but what appeared to be his entire family. Doburoku was over there too, she discovered. So that's what I've been smelling since I sat down here. She'd never figured out why that man refused to bathe or change his clothes for months at a time. In her heart of hearts she'd always hoped someone would take the older man in and help cure him of his horrible gambling problem, but who would want to inconvenience themselves that far? Besides that, it was a hard fact of life that some people liked stewing in their own vices and didn't want to be saved.

They rolled out of the way, or perhaps the word is struggled, because she was fighting with Hiruma for control over the gun. She was yelling at him and calling him stupid, and all he did was laugh and roll on top of her, and she supposed that anyone watching would immediately get the wrong idea, but she didn't care. Or rather, she was doing this because she did care.

At one point Hiruma was straddling her thighs, with the barrel just tapping the side of her head. The nozzle was planted in the dirt, and Hiruma was gloating, stroking her hair in a grim parody of the affection she'd seen between the 'eldest' Hah brother and the head cheerleader a few scant moments ago. Mamori shivered at the feel of sharp nails in her scalp. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, but—she kneed the boy in the chest and scrambled for her bag, pulling out her own piece and slamming the cartridge in place. She'd found it lying around the clubhouse the year before, and well, she'd figured Hiruma wouldn't have missed it, seeing as he had so many.

Hiruma laughed. "You gonna shoot me, fucking manager?"

"If I have to," she spat, hoping that the ex-quarterback wouldn't call her bluff.

But who was she kidding? Hiruma leaned in close and grabbed the weapon by the front end, making an obscene yanking gesture, and then aimed it at his own forehead, grinning like a maniac. Mamori gaped, stunned, and almost dropped it. "You c-can't be serious--"

"Kekekekeke! How does it feel, fucking manager? Personally, I always thought this look suited you. Reminds me of Sports Day last year, all over again. Makes me fucking hot."

Mamori hesitated. Her hands shook. "Look, just put your gun down and we can talk. There's plenty of things--"

"Hn, really?" With casual aplomb, Hiruma dropped his firearm and knocked her hand away. He pulled her close, slamming her hips into his growing erection. "You think?"

Mamori graciously followed Suzuna and Taki to the buffet table but nothing really appealed. It was an effort to get her feet to move. The crotch portion of her underwear was completely damp, she was sure of it, and her legs felt like jelly. She took some salad and a roll and hurried back to her seat with her eyes trained on the floor, but as she moved to sit, the spotlight fell on her, and Komusubi asked her to come up and say a few words. Or at least, she was reasonably sure that's what he said. It had been a while since she'd last heard Powerful-Go spoken aloud like this.

Mamori couldn't help but feel this whole setup was nothing short of planned out beforehand. She'd known she'd been asked to say a few words, and had a Point presentation ready just for this occasion, but she'd been given to understand that this would be happening after dessert. Although she supposed they were putting out the sweet dishes now, come to think of it... Well. Time flew when you were having flashbacks. Mamori stood and waved at everyone as the clapping and catcalls accumulated, and made her way to the stage. She paused in front of the podium, fishing in her purse for the portable disk with the pictures on it, and hoping desperately that everyone couldn't tell that she'd just been reliving her first, well...

The next thing she knew, she was on the ground in the mud tangled in a much different struggle, desperation and anxiety transformed into something else entirely--the kind of frantic, spur-of-the-moment thing she'd read about of course but had never imagined happening to her.

Maybe she should have seen this coming, she thought dimly as Hiruma's hands slipped underneath the sweater she wore and pulled down the straps of her sleeveless shirt, sharp nails passing gently overtop and undeneath the fabric, causing her to throw her neck back and mash her hair in the mud near the cigarette butts and unpicked-up bits of trash.

It wasn't the way it was in comic books, or the movies. There was no bed strewn with rosepetals or heartfelt declarations. But there was heat between them, and it was good, better than anything she'd ever felt, and damn it she'd spent too long hearing about things like this to turn back now. They lay together grinding against the damp earth in a mutual fumbling ecstasy of gasps and sighs. Mamori realized as he fiddled impatiently with the catch on her bra that she couldn't exactly say he seemed really practiced at it. That much surprised her, but she knew better than to complain. Or perhaps it was simply a measure of how much she'd secretly wanted this, although she knew how insane it was—the dirt on her dress would certainly give her away, and her reputation, her reputation--

--but what kind of stupid double-standard was it anyway, that boys could do this kind of thing, and it was joked about and encouraged, but girls couldn't? And besides, she was leaving in a few months, and this was probably the last time--

Oh. She was doing this and people would look at her and they'd know, and they'd see--butmaybe that punch had been spiked after all, loosened her up, and his hands on her felt so good, and Hiruma's voice was devilishly soft, was muttering words of vague encouragement, whispering exactly the dirty sorts of things that she'd always supposed he might say, but never to her--

"Ah!" What was he doing ...down there? It felt like nothing she'd ever imagined. Mamori had washed herself many times during in the course of her life but she'd never known about that spot, and—he was hiking up her skirt and she should stop him, but she didn't want it to stop---

"Fucking manager," Hiruma breathed roughly. He repeated himself, and shook her shoulder unexpectedly.

Mamori glanced up, slightly annoyed. Now was not the time to remind her that she was supposed to be saving herself. If that was what Hiruma was going to do, she was going to be so annoyed with him--

"I've looked at your medical records. Team policy."

More like your policy, Mamori thought bitterly. Way to invade everyone's privacy. Although she supposed if the guy had been able to get ahold of their passports for the Death March, anything was possible.

"You're on the pill, right?"

Anger almost doused the other passions in her. "You--" And then she considered the import of what he was saying and decided, well, for Hiruma, that was about as close to taking responsibility that she supposed the guy could get. "To regulate my period, yes..."

She disliked the implication that she was a loose girl, but instead of the joke she'd been expecting, Hiruma's hand entwined with hers. "Well," the look in his eyes was entirely serious. "Guess I've gotta make this fucking good then."

And it was. Together, they aimed at the sky, and pulled the trigger.

(Author's Note: This chapter has been updated to reflect some suggestions made by KittyLynne who has generously given her time towards beta-ing this fic for me. It's a bit less muddled and cluttered and a lot more readable now, something I admit I needed help with. The best thing is I didn't even beg anyone to edit this--someone just magically arose like Venus on a clamshell and offered--which I'm glad of as I have several friends in the ES21 fandom but they're mostly into slash so I didn't want to punish them by making them read my het fic, heh. I believe I'll be running future chapters by her if she's so inclined, which means you guys will be getting a better product and... she gets to read it first, I suppose? The moral of the story is that when people offer to help each other out, everybody wins. So go out there and do some fucking good deeds, the lot of you::gunfire:: YA-HA! )