The drive back to town felt twice as long, partially because Sena was having some trouble settling into his own skin. He was nearly sure he had passed the test, because he hadn't received any sort of punishment, but it was hard to know for sure, especially after all that business with Monta. All he knew was that he had never run that hard in his entire life, not from punishments (because you weren't supposed to), not from his past owners (even when he was told to), not even from the market when he'd known with complete certainty that he would finally be put down. His entire body still felt weak and rubbery, and he found himself pooling across the seat like pancake batter.

Kurita took up most of the back seat next to him, chatting pleasantly about how fun it was to play football, games that they had already, and his hopes for some kind of tournament that was coming up. Through the haze, Sena did his best to pay attention. He was going to need to learn everything about football very quickly, he suspected, and right now he didn't even know the rules.

"Why am I even here?" said Monta abruptly. He was hunched sullenly in the passenger's seat, arms crossed, alternately glaring at Hiruma and out the window.

"Is the monkey missing the mountain already?" Hiruma laughed. "You've had enough conditioning. What you need now is to ingrain my passes into your fucking bones."

"I'm going to run away as soon as we get there!"

"Don't you like playing with us?" Kurita said sadly, and Monta gave a guilty start, like he'd forgotten Kurita and Sena were back there.

By the time they came to a stop, Sena was feeling a little more solid, and managed to leverage himself up to look out the window. They'd pulled up to a construction site, the bones of a building poking up like ribs from behind green mesh fences, which bore signs for Takekura Construction.

As Kurita climbed out of the car, one of the workers stopped hammering and came over, opening a section of the fence to let him in. Two sections. "Well, if it isn't Kurita!" he said, sticking his thumbs in his belt loops, as he waited for Kurita to pull off his football uniform, revealing work clothes underneath. "Thought you were taking the morning off. Didn't you miss the bus?"

"Hiruma gave me a ride," said Kurita sheepishly. "Sorry I'm late."

The worker slapped Kurita on the back as he walked by, but it was unclear if Kurita even felt it. "Well you missed a gentleman caller too. Monk-looking guy, had a bunch of dreadlocks? Came by looking for you, I said you weren't going to be in until later."

"D-dreadlocks?" Kurita shared a concerned look with Hiruma through the windshield, or tried to.

Hiruma just waved him off, and started to back out. "You find your own ride home, fatty."

As they rolled away, Monta said, with a snide tone that made Sena gasp, "So Kurita trains all weekend and works all week. And what do you do for a job?"

"Scheme," said Hiruma.

Sena tried to think how he could signal to Monta to be more respectful, without getting him into even more trouble, but couldn't come up with anything. He'd just been starting to think he had a chance of staying on Hiruma's good side, and avoiding punishment. He had the feeling it was going to be a lot harder with Monta around.

As they neared the house, Sena saw a gate further down the street swinging loosely in the wind. As they approached, it became apparent that it was the gate to Hiruma's house that was hanging wide open.

Hiruma didn't so much as slow at the sight, but he did say, quietly, "stay down," as he pulled in.

The intruder was obvious to spot. The promised "monk-looking guy" was a tall, menacing figure in robes, with a head of dreadlocks and a scowl on his face. He was prowling around the house like a caged lion, knocking on the exterior with his knuckles at intervals as he went, like an angry home inspector, or like he was testing how difficult it would be to punch his fist through any given spot.

As if he hadn't noticed, Hiruma calmly pulled into his normal parking position on the driveway without slowing or swerving, even when the intruder crossed right into their path. "If I open the front door," he said, without turning to Sena, or even moving his lips much, "you go grab the key from the padlock, fucking shrimp."

There could only be one key he was referring to. "Yes, master," Sena said, and braced himself to run again.

"If I don't, stay in here," Hiruma added, as he got out. As soon as he was in the open, the intruder turned on him with a predatory menace, but if Hiruma felt it, it only seemed to widen his grin.

"Here to try out for the Deimon Devilbats, you fucking dreads?" Hiruma held his phone out in front of him and snapped a picture. "If you beg nicely, we might let you wash our uniforms."

"Stop yapping, you trash, I'm here to collect. And put that thing away."

Hiruma took another couple shots, and then leaned back comfortably against the car, so he could start typing. "Collect what?"

In a flash, the intruder had descended the stairs and was right there—pinning Hiruma bodily against the car, face leaning in close, eyes promising murder. "That mongrel trash you stole from me." From inside, Sena could feel the force of the impact as the man seized Hiruma's texting wrist and slammed it against the car roof. As the entire car rocked backwards, he and Monta both hung on to the same seat back, and exchanged a shocked look over it. What was going to happen to them if Hiruma was killed right in front of them?

"Stole?" Hiruma still had that delighted, toothy grin on his face. "Fucking dreads, I won him, fair and square. Or should I say, the old man won himself. Or are those nasty dreadlocks crushing your brain so bad they're messing with your memory?"

For a moment, the intruder didn't speak, just looked down at the mouthy captive he had pinned. Then he snatched the phone out of Hiruma's hand.

Hiruma didn't even try to stop it. Maybe he knew he couldn't.

"You the kind of trash that can't even stop texting when your betters are talking to you?"

"Tweeting," said Hiruma.

"Aah?"

"Just tweeting how I spotted the dreamy Kongo Agon in this part of town. What kind of hashtags are your fangirls using these days? Take a look, fucking dreads, did I miss any?"

Kongo squinted down at the phone with a disgusted expression, and then simply crushed the entire thing in his grip. "What's that supposed to do?" As he let the crumbled bits fall, though, he did back up a step, tilting his head as if he were listening for something.

"You don't know how technology works?" Hiruma cackled. "You can't unsend the message by breaking the phone! I should shave those shitty dreads off you to help you think straight!"

Finally, Kongo released his hold. Though Hiruma looked calm, he pulled his arm back to himself with an alacrity that Sena knew well. Relieved. Defensive. Almost... afraid.

"I know I didn't leave that trash in any condition to play," said Kongo. "Try to fight if you want. Then bring him back to me when you realize it's the only thing he's good for."

Then he turned on his heel with a swish of his dreadlocks, and left.

Hiruma stayed stuck in place against the car, clutching his wrist, long enough that Sena wanted to go to him, despite his orders. Monta, who didn't seem to care about orders at the best of times, cracked his door open, and through it, they could suddenly hear a chorus of women's voices, rising in the distance.

"Go hand these out," said Hiruma, grin back on his face as he swiftly went to the trunk. "One per girl, and don't come back until you're out." Sena got out of the car too, and instantly had a huge stack of papers thrust against his chest. Without a second glance, Hiruma strode into the house, while Sena and Monta were left reading the flyer on top: "Demon Devilbats, now accepting cheerleader applications."