Chapter 3 / Non-Newtonian Roundabout

Relationships, for the most part, are like non-Newtonian fluids.

Approach them head-on in a blunt and honest fashion, and they turn into impregnable solids that no determination can breach. You can be assured that the rest of your days will be spent in despair and solitude, burdened by the oh-so-confusing fact that nobody wishes to hold a conversation with you for more than five minutes.

Employing such a primitive method, according to society, is an utterly laughable display of folly.

Instead, you are expected to revel in the roundabout pleasure of the slow approach - far superior, by the way, to the humble yet logical designs of the commoner. As tar pitch takes its sweet time over many years to form even a single drop of significance, so you also must slog through trite talk and false conviviality before anything at all is to progress in a relationship.

But the best part?

When you inevitably pull away (and believe me, you will pull away), regardless of whether you have chosen to do it straightforward-and-frowned-upon or socially-acceptable-yet-idiotic, you will always end up with nothing but the lukewarm crust that remains when cornstarch and water dries. For this reason alone I have avoided all non-Komachi relationships since my middle school days like the plague. I can never forget the feeling of futility that once caked my fingers.

So why am I, a shitty teenager who utterly despises relationships, now being dragged back into this sticky abomination?

Two words: Service Club.

Service Club, an extracurricular activity in which I sit at the far end of a folding table and read while attempting to ignore the only other members at the opposite end.

Service Club, a chore that I have undertaken because I do not particularly care for death at the hands of a certain martial arts-employing teacher.

Service Club, a living contradiction in both name and purpose - clubs by definition are selfish, existing primarily for the benefit of a homogeneous few.

Come to think of it, "Service Club" might actually suggest a degree of self-awareness by implying that we exist solely in "service" of ourselves. If that is the case, then I take it back: Not a bad name at all.

In fact, call me a fan.

"Hikki! Did you hear what Yukinon just said? Isn't that just hilarious?"

Duty calls.

"Oh. What did she say again?"

I make no effort to look up from the book balanced between my fingers. It is technically a rude gesture, but between my lingering disdain for small talk and this incredibly intriguing development in my light novel chapter (he's about to return to the Beta World Line, damn it), I manage to convince myself that there is no room to consider such pointless formalities. What good comes out of engaging in a conversation that bears no fruit? You can prune its branches all you want and water it with every new inside joke or hot gossip, but come harvest season and you'll be left to starve. Our generation of youths, however, is intent on ignoring basic arithmetic. Ten million times zero is still – you guessed it – zero. Nada. Zilch.

Idiotic. It's all so idiotic.

And besides, it's not as if there are any real repercussions involved at the moment. Yuigahama will certainly let my offense slide, given her non-confrontational nature. Yukinoshita, on the other hand -

"I suppose frogs do only have an attention span of less than ten seconds."

Not quite the insult that I expected, but close enough.

"Frogs can't afford to have patience," I rebut. "They need to eat a relatively large amount of insects to meet daily dietary requirements."

"So a short attention span enables them to conserve energy, since they don't waste time focusing on one prey?" The words leave her mouth with a signature air of disdain and mild amusement. Whatever transfiguring spell that was cast on her during our moment in the hallway has long since met its expiration date. The clock has struck midnight; daybreak is upon us. Goodbye, fair princess!

What a relief.

"Yep," I nod lifelessly before turning another page.

Yukinoshita shivers. "Gross. But I suppose that it would not be out of the realm of possibility for you to consume insects."

"Believe what you want. That factoid, however, is indisputably correct. And energy conservation is a perfectly reasonable philosophy to abide by."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out where this discussion is headed. I've sparred one-on-one with Yukinoshita before during Service Club, although the results are outstandingly not in my favor. The average duel ends with me being verbally guillotined in some form or fashion by a ruthless jab at my intelligence. Or my shitty grades in math. Or my eyesight. Or my intelligence. The best I can manage is to put on the Chainmail of Sheer Apathy, grab the clutch +100 boost in defense that it provides, and survive the otherwise fatal blow to my ego. That, combined with a few experienced parries from my Dagger of No Fucks Given, is usually enough to end the match at a draw.

George Santayana famously said that those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.

In my defense, it's difficult to avoid decapitation when Hiratsuka-sensei orders you by divine mandate to willingly seek out your executioner after class.

"What told you that? Certainly not page 112 of Steins Gate." Yukinoshita gestures at my light novel with a fleeting smirk.

"How can you even see the page number from your seat at the window? Are you some omniscient demon?"

"Please. My eyes are not rotten to the core like yours."

Now, that response is becoming far too predictable. She used it yesterday already. And the day before yesterday. Not that keen on defense then, are we? Time to utilize one of my 108 skills: cheaply capitalizing on past generosity to invoke a sense of indebtedness and guilt in the present!

"Or maybe you are simply wearing the PC glasses I gave to you on your birthday," I counter, trying my hardest to be nonchalant about this admittedly petty attempt at guilt-tripping. Call it underhanded or sleazy, but it typically works extremely well. A false sense of unfulfilled social obligation is a real force to be reckoned with for most people.

Of course, it occurs to me much later that we both do not fall under the umbrella of "most people."

"Your twisted tactics will not work on me. And regardless, the augmentation of my vision does not change the fact that you are reading such juvenile material." Yukinoshita's steely voice does not give even an inch of ground. What appeared to be a crack in the hull was merely a distant mirage.

"Really, Hikifroggy-kun. I knew you could stoop low, but I did not expect your literary tastes to follow suit."

"Au contraire. Steins Gate is an excellent work of contemporary fiction," I state with a pinch of feigned pride, trying to recover from the near-deadly swing at my sole shred of talent. It is time to steer this exchange in a more auspicious direction. If unscrupulous methods won't work, then I will be forced to decimate this stone cold fortress using my equivalent of a nuclear onslaught.

Heh. Playing against Gandhi has taught me well.

"What is it about?"

"The psychological consequences of time travel."

I hold my breath, anticipating what I believe will be her response. It all depends on this one moment of precognition. Can I stay one step ahead of my enemy?

Rom-com gods, sovereigns of all well-timed clichés and stupid coincidences - have mercy on my humble existence. Please let this next retort be what I think it will be.

Almost in direct response to my plea, Yukinoshita gives a cold sigh before taking the bait I have laid out with nothing more than a scoff.

"Excellent literature indeed."

…

Hah! You've just activated my trap card!

"I do suppose that it pales in comparison to the masterpiece that is Pan-san's Happy Frolic in Bamboo Land, but you, of course, would know best." Not even my book can hide my satisfaction as I finally douse my opponent with oil and incinerate her with this meticulously crafted burn.

Yukinoshita immediately turns an expected shade of pink (from being toasted to a glowing crisp) and begins to stare absently out the window. Yuigahama watches the smoldering aftermath from afar with a few nervous chuckles. I simply smirk. Ever since I discovered that Pan-san could potentially be used as potent ammunition against Yukinoshita, I have been awaiting the golden opportunity to fire him into one of my verbal skirmishes with her. The apparent result?

Total annihilation of the enemy. Beautiful.

Who says that war never changes?

Looking back at my novel, I make sure to give the gods above a subtle thumbs up under the table in order to communicate my sincerest feelings of gratitude and adoration.

Thank you for finally letting me nuke that bitch.

Don't get ahead of yourself, you little shit.

My prayers to the annoyi- I mean, loving and nurturing deities are suddenly interrupted by the loud crash of the club door swinging open.

This crash is followed by a heavy thud, which is then followed by a chorus of nasty creaks in the floorboards - the kind that can only be produced by someone who is nearing developmental maturity performing a crouching roll before jumping upright with excessive flair. A dark shadow is cast upon my book below, and a large figure looms before me. It could be a lost sumo wrestler. It could be an overweight Naruto.

It's Zaimokuza.

Not the area within the Kamakura, Kanazawa Prefecture in Japan, but the eccentric and wide-framed student that the Service Club helped shortly after I joined. Not the gently sloping beach that serves as a decently attractive tourist destination, but the aspiring light novel writer suffering from eighth-grader syndrome so bad that it manages to degrade the terrible quality of his manuscripts even further. Seriously, though. If there is one single thing in existence that is capable of uniting Yukinoshita and I, it is the outstandingly poor quality of Zaimokuza's prose - if it can even be considered as such.

Find tranquility and meditation in the sands of Zaimokuza beach.

Find grammatical murder and overused tropes in Zaimokuza.

"HIKIgaya HACHIman!" Zaimokuza booms, adding unnecessary emphasis on the preceding syllables of my first and last name. "My brother-in-arms, my partner in crime, and, dare I say it, my fellow otaku-"

I quickly interject before he can finish his predictably long-winded opening statements.

"Oh, hi there, Zaimokuza. Can I help you?"

"But Hachiman! Why so distant? Why so glum, chum? Aren't you happy to see your…"

He uncharacteristically halts for a moment, as if scrutinizing something inquisitively beneath his rectangular glasses. It is already too late when I realize that he is fixated upon the cover of my light novel, left upon my lap during what now appears to be a lapse of proper foresight.

"Steins Gate?! Ah, Hachiman! If only I knew that you were a fan! I'd have invited you over for 'Sci-Fi Analysis Night' at my house! We could have stayed up all night-"

"Zaimokuza." Judging from the subject matter and from past experience, this rabbit hole won't be leading to Wonderland.

"-binging the whole first 5 seasons of Mobile Suit Gundam while eating nothing but snacks and instant ramen-"

"Zaimokuza!" I try again, in a half-desperate effort to derail this tangent before it drives his already shabby reputation further down the gutter.

In the corner of my eye, Yukinoshita visibly flinches with disgust.

I need to end this now.

"-and going over my totally massive collection of doujinshi-"

"Zaimokuza."

He stops.

I do not bother turning towards the source of the voice - the hilt of the vorpal sword that, in one stroke, kills the jabberwocky.

I know who it is, and I know it too well.

Zaimokuza recoils - first in shock, then in horrible defeat. His shoulders slump, and the nonstop enthusiasm that possessed him when he barreled in is completely vaporized. I feel as if I have just witnessed an exorcism of the cruelest caliber.

First my Japanese teacher, and now Yukinoshita.

Terrifying women seem to follow me wherever I go.

"I'm sorry, yeah?… I'm a loser, I know. D-didn't mean to creep you all out…" Zaimokuza turns a little towards Yukinoshita, head lowered and eyes quivering, before quickly backing away towards the door.

"I'll get out of your hair now, promise…"

"W-wait!" Yuigahama starts, wide-eyed and stammering. "Yukinon didn't mean that! I… I'm sure…" As her words tie themselves into the tight knot of a whisper, she glances over at Yukinoshita, who stiffens but retains her trademark composure.

Zaimokuza shuffles further towards the door. I decide to speak up.

"She's right, Zaimokuza. Sorry about Yukinoshita. She's really having a bad day."

This statement has only just slipped past my tongue, but I already recognize it as a lie. Something isn't right.

Now, however, is not the hour for truth.

Walking over, I place my hand on his shoulder and guide him back towards a seat at the table.

"We got sidetracked. You came here for a reason, I assume. Let's hear your request…"

I clear my throat.

"…buddy."

A cathartic silence permeates the air. It evidently does Zaimokuza some good, because he finally speaks with a pinch of the runaway energy that the Ice Queen vanquished.

"Alright, man. Thanks."

Looking sheepishly at everyone present, save for Yukinoshita, Zaimokuza shifts his weight around in his chair before finally settling down, gripping the ends of his brown trench coat with what appears to be trepidation. One deep breath. Two deep breaths. He tilts his head down and allows a shaggy mop of white hair to cover his glasses.

Yuigahama notices his uneasiness. "Could it actually be something serious?"

"Possibly," I whisper back. What could it be? Did his childishness finally catch up to him in an unspeakably horrible manner? It was bound to happen eventually, but never this early. Is he being beaten up after school? Has somebody been stealing his lunch money?

Or, heaven forbid, is it yet another request to proofread a manuscript?

Curse my curiosity.

Turning back towards our client, I decide to speed things along.

"Don't worry. We'll listen, no matter how concerning this matter of yours is."

Zaimokuza answers me with a tone that walks the line between sheer nervousness and wanton excitement.

"Honestly, I'm really scared to be sharing this, especially with… others around." His bespectacled eyes reveal themselves for a moment and dart towards Yuigahama and Yukinoshita.

"But if it's you, Hachiman, my bro, my guy, I feel alright. Only a true pal like you would be able to understand this strange turmoil that now stirs - no, boils - within my innermost psyche."

Ignoring his dramatic embellishments, I can see where he is coming from, with us being gym partners and all. It takes an outcast to know an outcast.

"Let's hear it then." He nods weakly in response.

The three of us lean in towards Zaimokuza's direction, straining our ears to catch the mumbling that proceeds out of his mouth. We instinctively brace ourselves for the worst.

.

.

.

"Uh, so there's this girl…"

Were I not mired so deeply inside this mess, I'd gladly throw myself out the open window.