Author's Note: It is recommended that you read up to chapter 62 before reading this for full context.
Happy New Year!
That's it, Riker thinks to himself while storming out of the Detective Club's designated clubroom. If it'll make that fat bastard feel better, I'll get him the info he needs.
Still, he has to wonder: Why? Why go through all this trouble just for information? Why join his stupid club? Why him? It's not just because they're teammates—if that were the case, he would have run himself ragged doing favors for everyone, and hell knows he would never do that. So what about Keenan, of all people, makes him so special? He's not romantically involved, as some might automatically assume, but clearly, he's special somehow. Could it be that friendship thing so highly praised by society? As if. Thinking back on it, though, Keenan did treat him rather nicely, and not in the weird, flirty way Janeway does it. Probably because he could see right through him: Sharp knew of his insecurities, yet not once did he ever tease him or exploit them for his own benefit. There was no good reason for him to give him the time of day, yet he does it, anyway, and then some.
As soon as he leaves the school campus, he calls up an old friend and arranges a meeting at a library in Inazuma Town. A couple of days later, Riker arrives, a couple of minutes later than scheduled, but as close to "on time" as he is ever going to get. He scans the area and spots a familiar figure sitting at a table off to the side, as far away from the crowd as humanly possible. A slightly tan boy with long, messy hair the color of buttercream, he stands out with his military-style uniform, a symbol of Royal Academy status. What Riker finds truly astounding, however, is how huge he is. While only a couple of inches shorter than him, the Royal student is quite plump, his gargantuan belly resting upon his lap and stretching his clothes to their limits. But unlike the Milky Way student, he seems unfazed by his massive size, even strutting it with pride. (If Janeway saw him now, he would be swooning.)
As he approaches the table, the Royal student puts down the book he was reading and looks up at him with contempt. "It's about time you got here. I was getting tired of waiting. Anyway, I brought what you asked for, and then some." He sifts through his bag and hands over a stack of papers, stapled together like a handmade book. "Say what you will about me, but you can't say I lack work ethic."
Riker flips through the pages, skimming through the lengthy descriptions of Fighting Spirits, Summoners, and various tactics and uses. Towards the end, after skipping through instructions on how to Armorfy, he comes across an intriguing article, marked with highlighter ink. The essay theorizes the possibility of Spirit fusion, combining two or more Spirits to create a newer, more powerful form. However, due to various factors, it is considered impossible to properly test the theory without risking a breach of ethics. It concludes that Spirit Bonding-the use of many individuals' energy to temporarily evolve a Spirit-may be the closest substitute, unless a miracle comes along to make true fusion occur. "What a joke," he says while scoffing at the article. "You mean to tell me that those things we saw in the last match were some scientific breakthrough? Yale, you really are off your rocker!"
"It's not entirely unfounded. There isn't any information on file for those Spirits we saw, and absolutely no records of the Great Old Ones, so unless there happens to be some mysterious new team with undiscovered Spirits, the possibility still stands. There's also this." He digs out some Polaroids and slides them across the table. In one photo is a figure, obscured by a dark aura, summoning a four-winged bird-like Spirit. In the other is the same Spirit, accompanied by a red-haired figure sporting Raimon's uniform. "These were taken before and during the Almighty Faith match. As you can see, the Spirit summoned in the forest is the same one used then. I've made comparisons to other Spirits accounted for in the database, with small luck. The closest I have is that it might be in the same family as Roc or Thunderbird. Then we have these."
More photos, this time featuring the inhuman abominations from the Great Old Ones match, along with a few of the players themselves, most notably Cthulhu. "I wouldn't look at them too long—seeing those ugly mugs could drive one to madness."
Riker inspects the pictures, noticing one odd detail. "Wait a minute. This player..." He picks up one of the photos from the Almighty match, then another. "Have you run any searches on this Summoner? I think they might be the one Keenan's after."
"I can try, but only so much. Tell you what: if you can get me a name, it'll make my job a whole lot easier."
"So now you're telling me to do your job for you? As if!"
Losing his cool, Yale gets off his seat and slams his hand against the table. "It took me hours, if not days just to get even half of this stuff. Now you're telling me it's for nothing? You ungrateful little—"
A shush cuts him off, the sound sending an odd chill through the air. Standing beside them is a tall, willowy man with long, lavender hair. "Please lower your volume. You're disturbing the patrons and scaring my assistant."
Realizing the repercussions of his reaction, he backs down. "My apologies. We'll be out shortly."
Once the librarian is out of sight, Riker bursts out laughing. "Drake got in trouble," he teases in a singsong manner.
"You don't have to rub it in," Yale grumbles, all the while hiding a bashful smile. "But back to the subject. I'll check around and see if anyone knows about them. In the meantime, you and your friend go look for a name. The more we can dig up about this guy, the better."
"Deal! But what about these guys?" He fans out the photos of the Great Old Ones, ugly mugs in full display. Riker gets a short laugh in as Yale grimaces from the sight.
"I tried to look them up, but they're not listed in any database. No age, school, or even where they're from. It's like they just appeared from thin air." A moment's pause, then a lightbulb goes off in Yale's head. "Have you heard of the 'Garshield Project'?"
"Yeah, everyone knows about it. I even applied for it, but got turned down. Can you believe it?"
"I'm not surprised—a lot of strong players were rejected, myself included." Yale's violet eyes shift away in a failed attempt to hide his disappointment.
Some part of Riker wants to reassure him, but the glare shot back at him tells him otherwise. "So what does Garshield have to do with all this?"
"It's possible that the Great Old Ones might be connected to the program, perhaps as part of an elite team or something. But that's just a theory."
"A lame theory," Riker says with a scoff. "How can we confirm whether it's real or not? It's not like we can access their databases or anything."
"We can't, but I know someone who might help. He's a friend of mine who was recently accepted into the Garshield Project. Tell him Big Yale sent him." He winks and smiles in a manner unlike his usual smug self.
Yale jots down something in a scrap of paper and hands it to Riker before parting ways. Riker inspects the note, which reads, "Bradford Ash (Li'l Brad), Kirkwood Jr. High," along with a phone number and some directions on how to reach the town. Calculating the time and costs spent on traveling, all he can do is sigh. The things I do for that idiot Keenan.