A self-indulgent (mostly) self-insert where canon takes a backseat to satirizing my recently concluded, six-year career in security.

(Minor manga spoilers.)

"Hey, can you stay an extra four hours today?" the manager asks.

"Sure, that's fine. Whatever you need," I reply automatically.

"Great, cos I may need you the full eight. In fact, count on it."

"A double? I can do that. What's the concern?"

"I think Leo is going to no-show."

"Again?"

"Of course. I don't know why. This is the easiest job in the world." The manager always says that as if everyone agrees with him. "Oh, I'm leaving at 8 to have my wisdom teeth taken out. You're in charge. Call me if you need anything."

"But you'll be unconscious!"

"Call me anyway."

"What if there's trouble?"

"Zeke's here, and Kenji will show at 2. You'll be fine. Oh, there's a trainee coming at 10. Show him the ropes."

"I'll do my best. But seriously, what were you going to do if I didn't agree to stay?"

"I knew you would," he shrugs and waddles away to do...whatever it is he does in the office.

Oh, well. It can't be helped. Days like this happen, and I won't decline the overtime. It's only 6 a.m., so there's a nice lull yet before the morning rush.

And then I spy my first customer, uncharacteristically early, signing peace suavely with that dopey grin of his.

"Good morning, Mr. Jin. What brings you in so early?"

Yuichi Jin throws his cell phone, keys, wallet, trigger, and assorted metal knickknacks on the counter, breezes through the metal detector that remains comfortably silent, and scoops the items back up, his easy grin undisturbed the whole time.

"Let's just say I have a feeling you're going to get slammed today, so I thought I'd come in before the rush."

The entry procedure is criminally simple. Methodical even. You show your Border badge. You put your metal items on the counter. You walk through the metal detector. You go to work.

The morning rush builds slowly. The leadership know to get here promptly. Only Mr. Kinuta and Mr. Shinoda end up stuck in the later shuffle of agents and staff. The early birds are cooperative and make it a breeze. As soon as their shadows darken the doorway, I'm on my feet to greet each employee of Border. That's how it should be.

They show their badge, they empty their pockets, they slip through the machine like it's any other doorway, they go on their way.

Until…

"Your badge, Mr. Ikoma?" I efficiently ask. He's here earlier than usual but acts like he's always this punctual.

"Why? You know me." His glare pierces, daring me not to recognize him.

"I must see everyone's badge on the way in," I explain. It's exhaustingly routine. Especially with certain individuals. Mr. Ikoma is one of them.

He scoffs as if his pride needs it.

"I forgot it today."

"OK, let me print you a temp." My face brightens. I love these breaks from the monotony of work. "What's your employee number?" I say at the computer, my voice already with more spring.

"Just print the dang thing." He crosses his arms. It's easy to look up by name, if more time-consuming. Zeke doesn't notice. He's laughing at a YouTube video.

The paper badge printer sputters, then has a hacking fit, and finally spits out nothing. The little window at the top of the machine offers a vivid view of the train wreck of jammed paper.

"Give me one second, Mr. Ikoma," I say when I open the top of the printer.

"Um, am I good to go?" asks a placid voice that is definitely not Ikoma's. I peek at the counter again. The next person in line, Sasamori poses mid-step in front of the magnetometer, his hand hovering unsurely over his belongings on the counter, awaiting the signal to walk through the machine.

Ikoma is gone.

A brief gap in activity, and I start to daydream. Zeke chats up the girls on night crew leaving on outbound. (Everyone likes Zeke for some unknown reason.) These breathers will become few and far between when the C-rankers surge in. The influx of applicants has swelled the rush to levels not manageable for one person.

(The manager is supposed to help at times like those; he hasn't left his office since going in there.)

The clang of keys, a phone, and a trigger alerts me back to the counter. My mechanical greeting begins as soon as a petit person hits my peripherals.

"Good morning, sir." My eyes fall on Yukari Obishima. She chuckles nervously.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I screech.

"No, no, it's fine," she politely waves. It's certainly not fine, but I appreciate the sentiment.

The next person in line stomps. Takuma Yuba is taller than me, especially when he's indignant over the treatment of his teammate.

"How dare you insult Obishima like that?!" His voice shakes the walls so much even Zeke takes out one earbud to catch the action. "Apologize now!"

Obishima looks as scared for me as I am for myself. "Uh, I did apologize, and I'm very sorry." I haven't a clue what I'm apologizing to Yuba for now. The line starts to snake out the front door. It's too early to allow such backup.

Yuba clasps my shirt and shakes me like a ragdoll. Zeke is more interested in this than he is in his livestream for once. The manager finally peeks out the door, his probably unauthorized pre-surgery meal interrupted.

Obishima helplessly begs her boss to stop.

"Yuba! Put him down!" is the firm directive from inside the security line. Shinoda communicates his displeasure. Yuba obediently fixes his glasses and releases his prey.

He steps through the machine, pockets unemptied. The machine lights up, but nobody makes a move to stop him. Shinoda departs with him as if assuming the role of escort. My manager makes a point to stand outside his door until Shinoda is out of sight.

"Thank you for your service," Obishima bows to me and trots away. Yuba would be proud of her politeness.

The melodically rising jingle of the metal detector might be pleasant if not for the Pavlovian cue to do more work.

Izuho arrives early for a C-ranker, drawn by Chika's friendly company. She hops through the machine like the kid she is.

"Yes!" she pumps as if the magnetometer's silence were somehow a triumph.

Chika puts her items on the counter and wears her soothing smile through the arch. That ambiguously gentle tune of the machine makes me stretch.

The little Amatori blushes widely, her whole face consumed in red.

"Do you have anything else on you?"

She shakes her head stiffly, out of embarrassment and not deception. But the machine doesn't lie. (It does sometimes, but that's not the point.)

The young girl pats her pockets gently. It's painful to treat a girl barely 14 this way.

"Excuse me, Mr. Guard," commands a voice behind Chika. "Why are you harassing that little girl?" A man whose lack of a neck comes to the height of the counter folds his arms disapprovingly. It makes Motokichi Kinuta look like a defense attorney. "Don't you know I am over your boss?" Mr. Kinuta has no influence over the security division under Mr. Karasawa, but it makes him feel good to think he does.

"What would you have me do?"

Mr. Kinuta throws up his nose in contempt. He probably thinks he's too good to entertain the question that has no answer.

"It's OK, Mr. Kinuta!" Amatori squeals. "But thank you." She feels around some more and hits the jackpot. A phone in her back pocket. She displays the device, proud of herself for finding the metal culprit. Then she hops back to the start through the machine and passes through again tensely.

It's silent. You can see the air escaping her like a balloon when she sighs in relief.

Mr. Kinuta clicks his tongue. "When I was a kid, we didn't have to worry about this," he grumbles. The machine lights up. I want to smirk with revenge.

"Please place all your items on the counter."

"Stupid machine," he grumbles and throws a can of spit tobacco that rolls onto the floor. I make a move to catch it and am not disappointed when I miss.

"Here you go," I say, hoping my glasses hide my satisfaction. I ignore the fact that Kinuta has never been known to chew.

Later that day, Kinuta shows off the pocket knife hidden in the chew can to Kido, smuggled as an unsanctioned test of security.

Thank goodness the people who matter in this place don't care.

It's begun: the rush. The single-file line weaves into the parking lot through the now perpetually open doors, introducing a bitter chill to the lobby. Zeke snuggles into his company issued jacket; I don't have the chance to grab mine.

At this moment, my manager waves farewell, 45 minutes sooner than he said he would. "Call me," he adds and expects not to be called.

It's still mostly A- and B-rank agents and Border staff now. (The C-rankers start training later.) Zeke has actually done "work," standing monolithically watching people place their items on the counter and depart, his earbuds never coming out.

Ema arrives late today. He's coming in with the C-rankers. Sometimes I see him with Amatori, and he's circumspect without her. Yuzuru Ema puts his items on the counter as he addresses me. I distractedly spot Kikuchihara down the way.

"I need a temp badge," he promptly states. I slide over to the computer again, keeping a careful eye to prevent a repeat of Ikoma's escape. Ema slides his items down the counter on his own and processes through the machine without issues before taking position by the computer, his wallet, trigger, phone, and keys left in the open. I flag the following C-ranker to go through the motions.

"Did you forget your badge or lose it?"

Ema admits to losing it, but he's a good kid. I give him a pass on filling out the new badge request form until it's less hectic. The badge printer complies this time, and I coolly hand off the fluttering sticker. Ema shoves it in his pocket and collects his trigger, phone and keys. I trot over to the counter, blissfully ignorant of Ema's lingering consternation.

"Hey. Where's my wallet?"

Like everyone else who verbalizes such things, he'll find it in his pocket in 6 seconds, I tell myself.

"Dude, seriously. Where's my wallet?"

Now my head snaps to the angry customer.

This never happens, and I'm not even joking. I freeze trying to think what to do.

The line snakes uncontrollably at an incorrigible standstill, a thousand impatient eyes who couldn't care less about someone else's misfortune. I must move things along. I start the next person. I'll call the security chief when the opportunity arises.

"I'm just supposed to leave without my money and ID?!" Ema irately yells.

"I'll call security shortly." A pithy excuse. The phone is just out of hand's reach. I ask Zeke to do it. He declines because he says he doesn't know the phone number that's posted on the wall right above the phone.

I sigh and tell the next in line to wait one second, and they reply with a look that bespeaks both confusion and indignation (the standard reaction to the cattle being told to do anything but act like a robot).

I dial the phone that takes me to a full voicemail. This says something about Border, and I choose not to parse it out.

"I'll call him back."

The unhinged victim stalks me optically. There will be paperwork after this. Regardless, the assumption is if you place it on the counter, it's your responsibility. The fact of the matter is, it's not my fault.

The next person in line doesn't even balk when a man appears physically carrying a C-ranker by his collar 3 inches off the ground.

"Is someone missing a wallet?" Kikuchihara asks with classic nonchalance. Ema snatches the leather billfold.

"I overheard this guy bragging to his friend he took someone's wallet off the counter," Shiro finishes. "I'll take him to Mr. Shinoda."

He hoists the hostage away. Ema ensures our farewell includes a dagger stare of disapproval.

All's well that ends well. I still have to write a report.

There they come, fashionably late as usual: Tamakoma Branch's darlings. Amatori was one; rumor is she blew the hole in the side of the building. (The ensuing earthquake resulted in a binder dropping on my head.) And now come the others: Yuma Kuga…and that other kid.

And today, they have a newcomer with them.

The boy whose potential I can't gauge in passing—Osamu Mikumo, his badge reminds me—is as unremarkable as any. He enters first and politely bows in gratitude for my "service." He's a good kid at least.

The person I've not seen before approaches next.

"Good morning," I say to the newcomer to no acknowledgement. He comes off colder than most. Yuma whispers something in his ear, and then the man presents a badge. "Hyuse Khronin," it says. I wonder if he might be related to Michael Khronin.

Pretending like this is his first rodeo (aren't they always pretending?), young Mr. Khronin then marches right through the machine which lights up. He tries to storm forward. I lock the turnstile.

"Sir, I need you to put everything on the counter," I shout irritably.

"Why? What is the purpose?"

That...is a question I am not prepared to answer.

"Because...it's policy. I need to ensure you have nothing metal on you."

"I have plenty of metal on me. Why is that of your concern?" His tone couldn't be more taciturn, and if it could be, I'd fear for my life. I don't like being treated like an idiot though. This is my lane right now. I am in control. They talk about security guards having power trips. This isn't a power trip though; this is a power struggle.

Mikumo benevolently intervenes on my behalf, encouraging Hyuse to comply as if this weren't some elaborate prank on the newbie's part. I resist the urge to sarcastically ask if he's visiting from another planet.

Hyuse proceeds to empty his pockets. He steps through the machine again. It buzzes brightly. It's more than a belt buckle.

"Do I get these items back?" Hyuse pointedly asks, his brow knitted in frustration. Mikumo resounds "yes" before I even comprehend the ridiculous query.

"Sorry, he's from Canada," Mikumo chuckles unsurely, and I'm expected to believe metal detectors don't exist in Canada. His blush suggests he knows the irrationality of his answer too.

"Are we done?" Hyuse steps through for a fifth time, ringing the machine once more. The queue is back to the door. I'm not letting this showoff go without a proper search.

After all this, the machine is still lighting up. I peer at the display.

"That's odd. It seems to be going off around your head."

So focused I am on the light brown hair that Mikumo's very much unsubtle jolt escapes notice. Kuga casts his teammate a glare.

"Well, I'm not taking off my head," Hyuse retorts.

The machine's been known to misread. It's probably something in the breast pockets. I grab the hand wand—our last line of defense—and trot around the counter.

"Please put your hands out."

"I will not be humiliated anymore."

"Oh, yes, you will," is what I want to say. I am the security guard; I will win this fight. Now this is a matter of pride.

"Put your hands out."

"Hey," the next-in-line, the diminutive Kuga, calls, probably in advance of an ill-placed demand to speed it up. "Why are you harassing him so much?"

Not the words I care to hear from a short-statured 15-year-old. I refuse to be bossed around today anymore.

"Why? For one reason only: because it is my job to ensure this facility is protected." My manifesto, meticulously polished, the boast of my industry, impossible to impeach.

There's nothing but self-assured accusation in the boy's subsequent words, magnified by a deconstructing gaze.

"You're lying."

With that simple statement, there it is. Called out by a kid who looks 11.

The entire line of people watches like this is the climax of a movie.

I trot back behind the counter, slide Kuga's items over, and hawkishly track him through the screener while avoiding eye contact.

"You three have a good day," I say with concealed contempt.

"Thank you," Kuga says with the most :3 face ever. Hyuse Khronin never takes me out of his sight, glaring all the way until he disappears around the corner.

I address the next person like nothing has happened. "Welcome to Border."

The rush is over, and the over-sleepers, uncombed and uncouth, trickle in. A couple of C-rankers I always see together banter loudly as they bang through the front door. Their noise—raucous cackling at a joke nobody told—abates only when they are gratefully segregated one by one through the screening device.

The last one throws his belongings haphazardly on the counter, a small tin rolling almost to the floor. Saving it from certain demise, I catch sight of the little red triangle with the microscopic text: "THC."

Uh-oh.

"Excuse me. Why do you have a container of marijuana?"

"It's empty, bro."

I pop the corner of the lid and wonder when the definition of "empty" changed to "filled with green flaky, cloud-shaped globules."

"Come on, dude. it's legal."

"Legal or not now, Border's policy is no drug use."

"Just give it back, bro. I'll take it to my car."

"I cannot do that," I say, stashing the evidence and flipping the switch to lock the turnstile.

Now he throws a tantrum, pouts and gets out of line while I phone the security chief. For the first blessing this morning, Mr. Shinoda shows up within five minutes. (If only he were this prompt when collecting visitors.) Nosy curiosity can't be dispelled. Zeke takes a five-second interest in the episode. Eventually Mr. Shinoda says they will escort the culprit inside, undoubtedly to talk in private. The little victories instill pride in my career. So what for the earlier mishaps? One out of five isn't bad.

Now I feel depressed.

"Excuse me," asks a short boy barely out of high school. He's dressed in a hoodie and slacks. He's either a new C-ranker, a visitor off the streets, or a relative of Takumi Rindo.

"Hi, I'm the new security guard."

My eyes glitter. At last, someone to mold in my image.

Mr. Shinoda squeezes past with the guilty party.

"What happened there?" The curious trainee asks.

"What happened there? Why, your new job!"

In case it wasn't clear, the machine was detecting Hyuse's horns.