Sunday, 11/6

"What'd you and Ryuji do last night?"

"You know, the usual. A bit of this, bit of that, then a riveting discussion on the health benefits of low sodium soy sauce."

"What'd you contribute to that?"

"Did I say discussion? I meant lecture."

"Ah… I'm surprised you let Ryuji educate you on anything."

"He's very knowledgeable about his… passions." Ren cleared his throat; the disgusted faces from Penguin Sniper and the subway ride home were still staring at him, even with the change in scenery, company, and conversation. "But that was my boring night. How was laser tag?"

He knew the answer. Makoto's face in the Shujinstagram post was not one of hard-fought victory with fun along the way—it was relief. Ren only asked to take the pressure off him and so he could zone out in his surroundings.

"Laser tag was many things, definitely not boring. When we first got…" were the last words Ren heard when he locked in on the menu that was painted high on a far wall.

…They serve soda in Tiki cups? Impressive.

The diner booth they occupied sat in the corner of the restaurant, only two of its seats taken because they expected more. GRAVY's remaining members had an issue with timeliness that Ren would have to address at the next meeting, or at the dinner they were supposed to arrive to at seven.

Don't do that. It casts a mood over the whole dinner if you chastise them as soon as they sit down. Maybe ask how Ryuji's day was, then hit him with a table-flipping "Why the fuck are you late?!" That's proper etiquette.

His gaze shifted beneath the menu to the unfortunately placed kitchen, which, like Leblanc, was on the other side of a bar countertop, meaning the kitchen staff had to deal with nosy customers who thought their food was taking too long. The diner wasn't crowded, but there was plenty for the staff to do.

Ren heard a question forming in Makoto's tone, so he tuned in. "...They brought miniguns. Can you believe that?"

"Nope." Like that, she got back to her story and he got back to the inspection. A distant TV caught his eye because it played something other than Tokyo's favorite news anchor: on-scene footage of a rally. Crowds held signs with text too small to read (or too censored) and some arrogant fist-pumper stood on a height-hiding podium above the crowd.

Is going into politics a wise choice for the bald population in this day and age? Not saying anything, just saying… There may or may not be a bias against them. I know I have one—the only bald guy I know is a prick. Actually…

"Then Yusuke's talking to us while Haru mercilessly guns down—"

"Makoto, you know that guy on TV?"

She hitched her breath and glanced across the room. "Masayoshi Shido?"

"Huh…" The name didn't ring any bells as Ren hoped. After all, the man he reminded Ren of was never named in any of Ren's court proceedings, paperwork, or the incident itself. Maybe if the TV wasn't so far away… "He's a politician, right?"

"Uh, yeah." From her tone, she expected him to already know that. "He's a candidate for Prime Minister. He won't win, but he and his supporters are vocal, to say the least."

"What do you think of him?"

"He's not who I'm voting for. Doesn't talk about the right issues, too obsessed with our past, too—"

"Bald?"

"Not quite, but it is a factor." Makoto laughed at the joke but got serious too quickly for Ren's taste because it meant more questions. However, it was only fair. "Why are you so interested?"

"I think he—"

"Damn, the delinquent's going out with the student council president!" Ryuji slid into the booth and squished Ren into the wooden wall. Across the booth, Haru and Ann did the same, though with the delicacy that Ryuji lacked. They and Makoto had a friendly, wordless hello with some smiles—Ryuji pressed harder into Ren. "Who woulda thought?"

Ren reasserted his distance from the wall and got Ryuji off him. "Happy Sunday to you, too. Hey, Ann. Hi, Haru."

Ann nodded. "Ren."

"How's your Sunday been?" Haru asked.

"Sleepy. Did a bit of homework, wrote up a new club policy; the usual."

"Ooh, interesting."

"Very," Ann agreed without any of the interest. She sat up straight to look around the diner. "No Futaba or Yusuke?"

Makoto jumped to explain it, thankfully. Yusuke's excuse for lateness infuriated Ren to the point of enunciation-less babbling, frothing at the mouth if he wasn't careful. "Yusuke was so hungry that he made Futaba stop on the way here to buy some food."

"But…" Ann didn't get it. That was fine; Ren didn't either. Nobody really got it because, well, it was a stupid excuse. "We're literally meeting for dinner."

"That's what we said."

"Jeez…" Ryuji muttered.

"They'll be here soon, though." Makoto didn't let their absence affect her as much as Ren did. He sat in the corner of the booth scratching the paint of the table and grinding the soles of his shoes into the floor. "What have you three done today?"

"Ryuji and I went to the park. It was very ro—"

"A dog bit her."

Haru met Ren's eyes, smiling because she knew what was about to happen. The bickering of the couple caught fire at the table to nobody's surprise and much to their delight because it allowed them to sit back and enjoy the show.

"First of all, it was not a dog, it was a rat-dog and you know how those things are. Second of all, the owner said she was friendly and all I did was pet it!"

"A bite's a bite. Don't ya remember Bite Club?"

"That's a movie, Ryuji! This is reality."

"Yet you're the delusional one."

"You're such a pain in the ass."

"Do I hurt less than the dog did?"

As they continued their back and forth, Ren grew bored. He poked his head out of their booth again, looking for one specific item this time. The TV still showed the rally, though not close enough that he could truly see Masayoshi Shido.

Know what? Fuck table etiquette.

Ren drew his phone out of his pocket. Nobody noticed because Ann and Haru were livid with Ryuji for saying he would punt any rat-dog that bit him. One quick internet search later, Ren confirmed his suspicion.

So I was this close to ending this guy's political campaign before it even started? If my parents were a little richer and more loving, I'd be national news. Maybe that anchor would talk about me on TV. What a fun thought. Honestly, I wish I didn't see this guy on TV and look him up. The fuck do I do with this information? Leak it to a news station? Send it to Ohya? Doubt it would do anything. His name's left out of everything and that brings national news coverage to me without guaranteeing any change. The only thing I can do is hate this guy and encourage my two voter friends to pick someone else on their ballot. That said, I'm praying on this man's downfall and that his punishment in Hell is sucking my ba—

"Ren?"

"Hm?"

"You gonna say hi to your friends?"

"Who?" Makoto nodded her head to the end of the table where Futaba had slid into the booth and Yusuke pulled up a chair to sit at the head of the table. "Oh… Right. Hey, how's it going?"

"Your ears must be flooded with wax if you did not hear me greet you."

Futaba smirked. "What he said."

"As I ripped paper from Ren's unwilling wallet to compensate for my time last night, a thought occurred to me."

Good one. Yusuke doesn't know that I'm one missed shift away from being as broke as him. Bread is expensive, Morgana is fat, and the new First Reality game is out. Life is hard.

Ren let Yusuke carry on with the delusional statement. A few glances shot in his direction, namely from a concerned Makoto, but they quickly returned to Yusuke. "The artistic spring is boiling. The time to paint you, Ann, draws near."

Ann's fork dropped to her plate of half-eaten food—someone was frustrated. "Could you not say it like that?" Ren kept eating, as did everyone else, but watched carefully.

"Like what?"

"Like the way you say everything else. Just go with, 'Ann, we should work together.' See how simple, easy, and not uncomfortable it is?"

"Hm… No. I don't. But what do you think of this opportunity?"

"I already agreed to it and I don't have a lot going on. It's on you to pick a day."

"Then I'll surprise you."

"No, don't do that because—"

"Enough of this." Ann attempted a counter-interruption, but no sound came when her mouth moved—Yusuke robbed her of her voice. "Futaba, pick a discussion topic," he said.

"Uh… Drugs?"

"Yes, perfect! I knew you had important substance for the table, no pun intended."

"Yeah, so uh…"

"Go on, Futaba. Tell us your thoughts on Ren and Ryuji's drug-induced hallucinations. That is what you referred to, correct?"

"Oh, right!" The pressure vanished and a smile popped on Futaba's face. "When's the next one, and who's doing it? I volunteer myself as—"

Nope. No no no, never, nay, neither/nor, not, (n)et cetera… But how do I justify that to the rest of the group? I'll oppose it with all the bullshit I can, but if I can't get a concrete reason for it to not be Futaba, then my objection doesn't matter. Hm… What to say, what to say…

"Oh, shoot. Forgot to tell you guys about the height requirement. You have to be at least five feet tall to consume hallucinogens, or else the ants beneath your eyes get active." Those who the new requirement did not apply to smiled and hid their laughs. Those who were passed over because they didn't meet the requirement (which was a stupid social construct meant to discriminate) were the most vocal.

"Fuck you, that's not true!"

"I'll call Takemi right now and confirm it."

"There's no need," Makoto said. When she got everyone's attention, their laughs and smiles vanished—Ren's rule was no longer a joke when Makoto validated it. "I'll back him up on it. Ryuji?"

"Me three."

Futaba pouted, sliding her frame down in the booth so only her head poked above the table. Yusuke had to be annoyed by the encroachment on his legroom but, as they all knew, Futaba was less than five feet tall—there wasn't much legroom she could take up. "Fuck you all."

"Give it a year of steak dinners, then we'll see if you can explore psychedelia. Deal?"

Futaba said nothing, but her hand extended across the table and shook Ren's hand. He hadn't expected to veto her self-nomination so easily because of her stubbornness and his reasoning being bullshit.

I underestimate my own skills.

Ann raised the all-important question. "If it isn't Futaba, who is it?"

"Why not me?" Everyone looked at Ryuji, who shrugged as if they were stupid for not already agreeing with him. "I did the last one, got some good info, and I'm an eager test subject."

Ryuji is willing and over five feet tall, which sets him apart from everyone else. However, my problems with the process came from repeated clinical trials. Ryuji's already done two—that's enough for Bob Ross Yusuke to learn how to manipulate him, right? I don't have an answer for that, I just know that I need a better name for this guy than Bob Ross Yusuke. 'Pirate Captain'? 'Evil-Bill'? Something simple, like 'Villain'? Nothing is catchy enough; I'll come back to this later.

"We should avoid repeating who undergoes the trials," Makoto said, concluding Ren's thoughts and giving him some satisfaction that he thought it before she spoke it. "It keeps our perspective fresh, controlled, and unpredictable. We'll understand things perfectly while any other presences will be confused."

"Agreed," Ann said. Quickly, she raised her hand. "Not it."

Ryuji cupped his hands around his mouth. "Booooo. Booo, Ann. Booo."

"Boo yourself. Not sure about the rest of you guys, but leave me out of existential hallucinations. No thanks, not for me." Already four members down—Ren, Futaba, Ryuji, and Ann—GRAVY looked between its three remaining options for volunteers, and to pressure one into breaking first.

Haru cracked, but not entirely. "I'll do it, but… Not at this moment. Too much has happened, and—"

"Say no more," Yusuke interrupted. Someone needed to give him a stern talking to about cutting his friends off, but Ren wouldn't dare do it by interrupting an important conversation. Perhaps he'd lure Yusuke to lunch, then hit him with a double lecture about being on time and the rude interruptions.

God, I'm getting old. Fuck.

Of the two remaining options, the well-adjusted one kept her eyes down and didn't spark any conversation. Yusuke, on the other hand, was a bit too confrontational with his eye contact. "How 'bout you, Yusuke?" Ryuji asked after a prolonged silence supported by them staring across the booth at each other.

"Pass."

Ann frowned across the table. Maybe she held on to their confrontation about the painting, maybe she didn't want Makoto to be chosen. "This isn't really passable."

"Skip."

"This isn't really synonym-of-pass-able."

"How do they say in Shibuya?" Yusuke's hand came to his chin while his other offered a suggestion to the ceiling. "...I'm a dad?"

Hearing a slogan he'd trademarked at the inception of the universe, Ren jumped back into the conversation to shoot down Yusuke's hopes. "Uh-huh. Nice try, but–" He looked forward to Yusuke getting a taste of Bob Ross Yusuke's medicine and to surely handling the vision without any hitches. Ren already planned the day when he would buy Yusuke a last meal, then escort him to the clinic for his psychedelic sentencing. However, an unexpected objection obliterated any potential for smug satisfaction.

"I'll do it," Makoto said. "I'll do the trial."

Something, maybe common sense, is telling me that Makoto tripping balls is not a good idea. I wonder why…

Ren dismissed the offer; they already had a perfectly willing volunteer who wasn't his girlfriend. "Nah, I think Yusuke is happy to do it right?"

"Do not lie, Amamiya-san. You are above it."

"Uh… Why the honorific?"

"Because if you insist on my forming of a drug habit, then we are friends no longer."

"It's not a drug habit, it's a one-tim—"

"No."

"Also, you gotta let people finish say—"

"I refuse to let you force-feed me hallucinogens. Your substances will not pass my lips, Amamiya-san!"

"I'm not trying to—"

"Holy shit, shut up!" Ryuji half-stood, half-sat, in the booth while leaning over the table, blocking Yusuke from Ren's sight. His hands narrowly missed a few plates of food and brought the encroachment of the floor to the table's surface, but nobody in GRAVY dared interrupt him. "Makoto said she'll do it, so she can do it. And don't say no, Ren. You're biased."

...Is that a bad thing?

Ren didn't say anything. It was easier to nod and relax in his chair, demonstrating that he gave up any arguments he could have had. His peripheral vision saw Makoto watching him; he didn't look her way.

The mood picked up quickly. A brief argument between Ryuji and Ann over who got what condiment first reminded the group that they were there for a fun evening, not tense discussions on who did the difficult tasks. They ate with laughter, slaps on the back, and enough table manners to not sour Ren's mood any further.

So, when they left the diner, they parted on good terms. Smiles—hugs for the more affectionate members—sent them in their separate directions unless they shared an apartment building. Ren and Makoto got on the subway hand-in-hand and managed two seats to themselves.

Sitting next to a loudmouth Ryuji on the subway is the purest form of embarrassment. Sitting next to Makoto… It's more like content. Everyone on this train could be watching me and I wouldn't care.

"You want to talk about dinner?"

Ren turned his head to see Makoto's eyes invested in him. They still held hands, but she squeezed a little tighter when the train started moving. "I know, I know. I barely ate the fries."

"Not what I had in mind, but yeah…" She looked at the floor of the subway, as she could stare through the ground into Hell to see whoever fried those potatoes. "Those were bad. I mean, that's not why I asked. You got pretty heated when we discussed the trials."

Ren did not want to deny, nor defend what wasn't a bad thing. He knew those trials better than anyone—his opinion outweighed anyone else's, right? "You shouldn't do the clinical trial."

"Why not?"

There's too much that could happen. She could see a completely useless vision that makes her reconsider me and everything that's happened. She could see something as bad—or worse—than what I saw of Yoshiro. Nothing about these trips is predictable; that's scary as Hell. And I can't articulate that as easily as I can think through it, so… Fuck it.

"Too many possibilities."

"For me, or for you?"

"Either. Nothing's guaranteed about what you or anyone sees. After learning that the hard way… I don't think others should go through it." Makoto's mouth opened to bring up the obvious. "And yeah, Ryuji did go through with it, but that was a stupid choice from both of us. I guess… I just didn't care enough at the time. We shouldn't risk anyone going in there and seeing something so fucking awful that they'll remember it until they die."

"I'm comfortable with the risks."

"You are because you haven't done it."

"Then how are we supposed to keep you safe?" Ren looked around the train. Eyes were not on them, but ears were always open. Even thinking of the calling card in his name felt risky.

"If you're just doing this for me, I'd rather just do the trial myself."

"Sorry, Ren, but you don't have a decent point this time." They both knew what happened in his last trip to Takemi's—the kind of nap where one wakes up and feels worse than before they fell asleep. "You're not able to."

"Yeah... Alright."

"I'll be safe. And you'll be there to keep an eye on me, okay?"

Ren squeezed her hand. "Okay."

Monday, 11/7

"Bottom of the ninth. Two men on, two men out. Kazuo Ushimaru's presence on the mound is a sure sign of victory, but a one run game makes any man nervous."

"Sensei, could you please go over the homework for tonight? I'm still anxious about the complexity of—"

"Oh, what's this? A heckler!" Ushimaru spun around from the blackboard and silenced the 'heckler' with his usual pinpoint accuracy. The victim fell out of their desk and their papers went with them, floating around the immediate area. "Good ol' Ushimaru keeping the crowd honest!" More terrifying than his accuracy was his tendency to talk in third-person.

And what's scarier than that is that he's tenured! The eff was Kobayakawa thinking?! Ryuji made it through the day without chalk denting his skull, but the year of learning from Ushimaru taught him many things, none of them used on his exams; all of them were survival skills.

"Sakamoto!" It seemed he'd have to deploy some of the skills. Ushimaru crossed his arms in front of the blackboard, a thin strip of chalk protected in his elbow. Ryuji knew the scenario because he'd seen it so many times before: answer the question correctly or die. "In professional baseball leagues, what stat is most useful to measure a hitter's capabilities?"

What class is this? It can't be History of Baseball, that's too fun of a subject for Shujin. I'm sure we've gone so far from the curriculum that Ushimaru can't remember either, Ryuji thought.

"Batting average."

"No, you stupid imbecile!" The chalk moved quickly, but Ryuji was faster. He ducked his head to his desk and heard the wall behind him explode a millisecond after. Ushimaru's anger usually ended with the act of throwing the chalk, not the impact. "Batting average became outdated the moment Kazuo Ushimaru reached the big leagues! On-base percentage is far more useful because it accounts for the rare occasion where Kazuo chooses violence and hits a batter!"

Dodging the chalk bolstered Ryuji's ego. "Well, Ushimaru-sensei, on-base percentage is a useful stat, but there're other ways to measure the usefulness of a hitter. Pitches per at-bat, batting average on balls-in-play, and hard-hit percentage are all winning metrics that—"

"Oh, your generation and their stupid advanced stats! They give you made-up numbers that don't even help managers, you stupid idiot. Don't you know that?!"

"No, I don't know that. The successful teams of today are built with those stats and other modern metrics. Just because Kazuo Ushimaru struck out three-hundred plumbers fifty years ago doesn't mean he knows modern baseball."

"You, you…" Ushimaru grabbed another piece of chalk from the blackboard tray. He began his windup, bringing the chalk all the way back to tap the blackboard. Ryuji knew what was coming and could've dodged it if he wanted; his inflated ego wanted him to do more.

"Balk!"

"Imbecile!" Ushimaru dropped the chalk and slapped his pitching hand on the blackboard. The stunned silence of the class gave Ryuji joyous seconds to soak in the moment and feel the awe of his peers. Ushimaru couldn't speak, couldn't face his students, but he gave the blackboard as much emotion as a soulless chalk-thrower could muster: stifled tears that sounded like they came from a World Series choker.

Ryuji would've taken a photo for framing on his nightstand, but his phone buzzed with a text message.

Futaba Sakura:

-Wanna skip class with Yusuke and me?

Ryuji Sakamoto:

-What class are you skipping?

Futaba Sakura:

-Nintendo Direct.

Ryuji Sakamoto:

-What do I get out of it?

Futaba Sakura:

-The company of Tokyo's finest while we hit the batting cages in Yongen.

Ryuji Sakamoto:

-Gimme half an hour and I'll be there.

Ryuji pocketed his phone and looked to the front of the class to find the same sight from before he planned on leaving. His ego had long outgrown his survival skills, so he spoke up and invaded Ushimaru's pained contemplation of his baseball career. "Sensei, may I use the bathroom?"

"No!" Ushimaru turned around and stormed down the aisle of chairs. He had no chalk in hand, so Ryuji knew one thing: he was safe. A tenured teacher could get away with zipping chalk into the foreheads of students, but hitting them was crossing a line. "You may not use the bathroom because you are an imbecile; a moron who believes in advanced stats and—"

Ryuji shot out of his chair, his bag already over his shoulder and packed—his ego had outgrown his patience and became something he didn't know to be possible: classic-literature-quoting.

"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will."

The room froze in time; Ryuji spoke a Latin curse into existence and doomed every student in the class into an eternal silence of the stunned, literature-sedated mind. Even Ushimaru, eagerly abusive as he was, couldn't reload his chalk-hurling hand; only watch Ryuji with beady eyes. Perhaps he knew that his student's intellect outgrew his own.

Ryuji's own reaction, though, said otherwise. For real, he thought, agreeing with the words he said yet felt like somebody else spoke for him. He astral-projected for a moment, high-fived God, then reunited with his corporeal form to sprint away whatever chalky punishment Ushimaru had for him when time resumed.

Man, Yusuke's gonna love this one. Maybe he did it? Cast a spell, puppeteered me from across the city, and said some truly beautiful shit. Eff it, that's my headcanon for the day, he thought as he kept pace down the long hallway.

"I don't know why I invited him, honestly."

Futaba's words hurt, though not as much as the sound of the pitch hitting the padded fence behind Ryuji once again. Nine straight pitches down the middle, nine straight swings, nine straight whiffs. Ryuji hadn't played baseball since early middle school, but he could at least hit off sixty kph, right?

Three strikeouts said otherwise. The machine wasn't baiting or tempting him with pitches out of the zone. It gave him nothing but meatballs meant for kids to hit over the fence. None were hit, nor were they tipped off his bat.

Get your shit together, Ryuji. This is effin' embarrassing, he thought. That feeling of embarrassment concerned him. Why did he care what Yusuke and Futaba thought of his baseball skills when he didn't care about his own baseball skills? Because every pitch cost a bit of money?

At least Yusuke was nicer than Futaba about it. "Keep your eyes on the ball and success will find you, friend."

"Whaddya think I'm doing?!" Ryuji said through gritted teeth as he watched the pitch come in, then took what he thought was a perfect hack at it, only to swing so hard that he spun himself around in the batter's box. "Whiffing on purpose?!"

"It seems that way. Try bunting?"

"I'm not gonna bunt at a fucking batting cage."

"'Twas only a suggestion."

Ryuji stepped up to the plate again. He made sure his feet were perfectly aligned, bent his knees, and cocked his right arm in the air. The bat swayed behind his head as he stared down the barrel of the pitching machine. "I didn't see either of you making much contact either."

"But we invited you because we thought you could teach us!" Futaba said. "AndMaybeBecauseWeDidn'tHaveEnoughCash, but whatever!"

"You got Yusuke to skip class because you thought I'd teach you to hit a ball?" The realization that Ryuji may have been suckered into skipping class, and earned himself some disciplinary action, dawned on him as the next pitch shot out of the machine. Once again, a swing, a miss, and the thump of the ball hitting the pad. "Fuck!"

"I am not skipping class."

This time, Ryuji didn't step back up to the plate. He turned his back on the machine and pressed himself against the fence that separated him and the spectating bench his friends sat on. His fingers hooked themselves between the links as he narrowed his eyes on Yusuke. "Then what are ya doing?"

"Taking a sick day."

Immediately, Ryuji backed off. "Dude, what the eff! I don't need you bringing the germs to me!"

"There are no germs to transport; I am not sick."

"And how, exactly, do sick days work if you ain't sick?"

"Everyone at Kosei has fallen ill. I figured I would avoid them by taking a day off due to their illness—a sick day."

"That is just not—"

"You needn't worry about my health. I have been impervious to disease since birth."

"Bullshit."

"Believe what you will. I, for one, have never met the common cold, and flu season is still a stranger to me. If you doubt this—"

"If I doubt it?! Dude, you're telling me that you don't catch diseases. What's next? You don't shit?"

"On occasion."

"Get the eff outta here."

"If you continue to doubt what I've told you, suffer."

"Uh… Pardon?" Ryuji got close to the fence so he could see if Yusuke wanted to say it again to his face. "Suffer?"

Yusuke crossed one leg over the other, interlocked his fingers, and hugged them around his top leg. "Suffer."

"Suffer in what way?"

"Baseball."

"Eff you mea— ow!" Ryuji's shoulders jutted back and he dropped the bat to the ground, letting out a metallic clanging that drew looks from everyone else in the batting cages. The stinging pain in Ryuji's back was no accident—Yusuke must've prayed for the pitching machine to lose its accuracy. "Agh, this hurts like a bitch!"

"Has the pain erased your doubts?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Ryuji got as far away from the plate as he could. He didn't believe that Yusuke telekinetically influenced the pitching machine, but he didn't want to test it. He bent over and focused on the stretch of his lower back, momentarily alleviating the stinging pain. "You don't get sick. Very believable."

"Thank you."

Tuesday, 11/8

Ren's fingers pinched the rim of his glass of soda. It was a habit he picked up as soon as he entered the door of Kichijoji's jazz club because that was when he became mature; an adult, far away from his childhood, with his eyes darkened by the seven hours of office programs he'd worked with every day for the past twenty years.

Despite how old he wanted to be, Ren's appearance kept his beverage non-alcoholic.

I do feel significantly less cool drinking Spite out of a wine glass. Hope my date doesn't notice…

Ren's date came on a whim: an afterschool text message that prompted a "Fuck it, why not?" and a subsequent subway trip to Kichijoji. He did little preparation because he and his date were so far past caring about appearances.

Interesting spot to pick for a date, but it's nice. I'll have to take Makoto here sometime.

The jazz club's owner's favorite color was obvious: a deep brown that pervaded everything in the building—the brick walls, the stage, the shelves of records. All of it blended together and made Ren feel the slightest bit color-blind. Lucky for him, the singer's blood-red dress reminded him of reality.

"Apologies for my lateness," a voice said from behind Ren. Soon his date was pulling out the opposing chair and sitting across the table. "But a month of silence for both of us means you could wait a little longer, right?"

Akechi... Oh, how I did not miss you.

"I think I enjoyed the waiting more than I'll enjoy the rest of the evening."

"Why? Club not up to your standards?"

"Well, you are not Makoto Niijima. That's enough to ruin my first trip here."

"Allow me a bit of arrogance when I say you'll find what I have to say far more interesting than anything your girlfriend has ever told you."

"We should bet on that."

"I'm above gambling. Do I have your attention?"

"Only when the singer isn't mid-verse."

"Then I will keep things brief. I reached out to you because the death of Kunikazu Okumura does not bode well for you or your group, aside from the obvious paternal connection. There are implications reaching up the ladder."

"That was obvious, too. Kunikazu gets ousted from the party that pushed him so hard all year, then, you know…" Ren put up his air quotes in advance. "'Kills himself' at the end of the month, right before election season really hits."

"So you are paying attention."

"Are these the interesting things you promised to say? If they aren't, Akechi-san, you may need to put more effort into your job of being a—"

A useless prick who continuously teases me with information that I desperately need and threatens my livelihood.

"—a friend of mine."

"Do not question my effort; I know your situation better than you do. Your friend, Yoshizawa?" The mention of the name muted the hushed jazz and sent Ren's superiority at the door. He was at the mercy of Akechi's information and his regrets over Yoshizawa. "She is no longer a Shujin student."

I fixed things as best I could when we talked a month ago… Not sure if we became friends again (if we ever were), but I thought I left it on good terms. I told her to reach out to talk at the very least. She couldn't tell me she was transferring?

Akechi liked the silence his reveal brought; he had to know what went on in Ren's head with how wide his smile grew. A server brought him a drink that he never ordered: a wine glass with something a bit more adult than what Ren had. With reality on his mind, Ren did not care at all.

Well, of course she can't tell me. Her actions aren't up to her anymore. It's all Maruki—it's been that way for months. Futaba's the same way: nothing about her is genuine. She's a person injected with life and thoughts that aren't hers. Treating feelings and personalities like they're conditions fit for a doctor's care… Ugh.

"What school?"

"A private school with a gymnastics team small enough that she'll easily be their star." Ren knew nothing of her capabilities, but he knew she was settling. "I visited—she seems happy."

Of course she does.

"Good for her."

"You don't want to hear more about her?"

Akechi read him like a book and Ren did not want to admit it. "If I did, I would text her. Her number's always been at the bottom of my contact list."

"Then I hope you've remembered your place in our arrangement."

"What happened to being friends?"

"Friends don't stall murder cases for one another."

Correct. Best friends stall murder cases for one another.

"Stall? What happened to erasing it entirely?" They upheld both ends of their agreement. Ren hadn't personally fucked around with any of the trials, and Akechi kept Ren's name at the bottom of the list of suspects in the Takata case. Still, Ren wanted more. Erasure was different from stalling.

"I've kept it around to keep you honest. You've done what I've told you to do, but can you continue?"

"I might not just because you didn't do shit for me. You didn't stall a thing—the system does that on its own."

Akechi tipped his head, admitting that Ren had an advantage. "You have a point. However, who controls the system?" The only people that were as delighted to ask questions were teachers. Akechi's smugness rubbed Ren the wrong way, so much so that he conceded whatever advantage he had.

"The government."

"And who makes up the government?"

"Politicians."

"So, in theory, who could accelerate the pace at which you are investigated for murder?" When Ren stayed silent, Akechi pointed a finger. "Yes, a politician! Know any politicians who possess personal biases against you?"

I'm not surprised how much he knows about my assault case—maybe this is a trick to get a name out of me? Maybe he already knows the name and is stringing me along for something more? I'm not cut out for these conversations where each word means more beneath the surface. Just let me swear a bit and think I'm clever, then I'll fuck off. Simple as that.

"I may…"

"Their name?"

"What's it to you?"

"Well, Ren, if you are a good dog that does as he's told, I will do what I can to gauge the possibility of your revenge against this politician."

"As in… The courtroom kinda revenge where the whole thing is drawn out for years and there's nothing cathartic about it or the violent brakes-cutting kind that leads to a widely publicized car crash?

"Revenge that helps you sleep at night."

So the unachievable kind? There's a reason so many damn movies make a point about revenge relieving the anger or the pain. I don't harbor much against Shido. There'd be no catharsis to revenge, no feeling that comes of it besides "Okay, that's cool. What's for dinner tonight?"

"I'll pass."

"This isn't the kind of opportunity you pass on, Ren. Corrupt politicians ruin lives every day—this is a chance to flip the system on its head."

"The system that's so lovingly embraced you with its talk shows and fangirls?"

"There's more to life than your own feelings, but if you must make it about yourself…" Ren wanted to laugh. He couldn't, though, because the club's mood was too cool for overt displays of emotion unless they were from someone who could name every record on the shelf. Akechi calling out a remark that pointed out his marketability as self-centered on Ren's part was ridiculous. "I could clear your name, your record. Fine, don't think about revenge, but think about returning home knowing that you're better than everyone who doubted you."

"Thing is, Goro, I'm not too keen on going home."

"Just let me help you."

"It's not help if it's in exchange for me serving some murky purpose of yours."

"Then I'm sorry to say that we will continue to operate as we have. You'll assure me of your cooperation, I'll gain that assurance through the threat of me toppling the dam that keeps you out of jail. Does that work for you and your ideals?"

Ren glared. "Yeah. It does."

"And because we are friends, I will investigate your case further. Friends do each other favors."

"Good to know that we're on the same page, 'cause I've got a few favors-in-progress coming your way."

"Oh?"

"I'm sure you'll like them." Ren stood from his seat and waved his arm toward the singer. "Thanks for telling me about this place." He walked away from the table, leaving Goro behind as the one not in the loop and as the one with the bill.

Wednesday, 11/9

"W-why don't w-we flip a coin for it?" Michiko was full of hope. Her suggestion was reasonable, given that the student council only had two parties to make decisions and take action. It became less reasonable when Makoto factored her own feelings in and what the coin would be flipped for.

"Hora-san, I'm the student council president. Intercom announcements were my duty a year ago, now they're yours. It's an obligation, not a transferable task."

"Um…" When reason failed, Michiko's hope took over for her. She stared across the student council table at Makoto with the eyes of a puppy given an empty food bowl as a prank. "P-please don't make me read the announcements."

I suppose that was the nice thing about having Tanaka-kun on the council: always eager to do the work for Hora and Taira.

"Just read the paper and it'll be over in a few minutes. It's not difficult, seriously."

"But I'm shy!"

"You had no trouble putting your face on posters to ask for votes last Spring. This is easier than that, trust me. They just hear a grainy version of your voice." Makoto remembered many of her announcements: sales on merchandise, Shujinstagram updates, and Shujin's inaugural (and final) Bread Festival. The last one brought a smile to her face—Ren would have loved it.

Both of them looked at the sad microphone in the corner of the room, all alone with nobody reading tidily written announcements into it. It begged for attention. Michiko looked away first. "Could you read them first so I can, like, hear how they should sound?" The odd request prompted a frown.

This is the closest I'll get to compliance from her. And, well, Michiko's always been agreeable and helpful when it comes to council matters. The least I can do for her is give her a tutorial and bit of a confidence in herself, Makoto thought, taking the paper of announcements and holding it up. It obscured Michiko from her view, but she got to the task anyway.

"Good morning, students. This week's announcements are as fol—"

"Could you talk a little louder, please?"

Makoto was a little taken aback. Louder? I read these documents for two whole years in that tone. What does she know about morning announcements? Staring at the paper reminded her that she was performing an act of kindness, and it wasn't difficult to speak with more volume.

She cleared her throat. "The week's announcements are as follows. Emergency student council elections open at midnight and all votes must be cast by the twenty-third, either through Shujinstagram or by submitting a form in the student council suggestion box. All students putting themselves forward as candidates are strongly advised to be in excellent academic standing and to understand Shujin Academy's core values. Please, vote wisely and promptly—votes cast after the twenty-third are invalid."

Upon finishing the first paragraph, Makoto paused for a moment. She speed-skimmed the next paragraph, then got right back to work on showing Michiko how it was done. She never misspoke, never coughed, never missed a beat when telling students what was going on that week—Michiko got to learn from the best. From informing the school about its newest club, Duck Watchers Anonymous, to detailing the final exam schedule, she perfected every letter of that document when she spoke them into existence.

"...And finally, please remember that there is no class on Friday due to a faculty training exercise. That concludes this week's announcements." She lowered the paper to the table, pleased with herself that her skills hadn't faded with time. What she saw without the paper blocking her view replaced the satisfaction with terror. "Michiko! You recorded that?!"

Michiko, in the middle of returning the microphone to its lonely corner, jumped, dropped the mic, and spun around. "I-I didn't want to do the a-announcement, s-s-so…" One hand grabbed the wrist of the other, her thumb gently rubbing the bone. "Sorry."

"Know what?" Being the smartest person on the council warranted some praise. "Good for you for being so clever."

"Th-thank you?"

"But I can't let you get away with it. The rest of the year's announcements are on your shoulders. Don't pawn that duty off on whoever is newly elected. Understand?"

"Yes, Niijima-senpai."

A/N: Kudos to Charlotte Bronte for writing 0.3% of this chapter. Couldn't have done it without her.

Feedback, constructive or whatever comes to mind, is always appreciated, especially for these last few chapters. Thanks for reading, have a great week!