Chương 135: 51. Hoshino's Day Off 1

When the return transport finally touched down, I thought I could at last enter the phase called "collapse and play dead until someone drags me back to the dorm." Turns out Federation protocol will always be more thorough than human fantasy. The hatch opened, and what greeted us wasn't applause, or flowers, or even a basic "good work, kids" that at least sounded vaguely human.

It was a line of cold-white medical staff, scan frames, disinfectant mist, wristband printers—and one sentence:"Those who can walk on their own to the left. If you need support, to the right. If your consciousness is unstable, sit where you are." For a second I honestly felt less like I was returning from an assessment and more like livestock being reclaimed from a high-risk auction.

"This welcome ceremony is so heartwarming," Harvey muttered behind me.

"Sure," Jess shot back instantly.

"The disinfectant mist is warm."

"That's not warmth. That's an insult."

"You're alive. Stop being picky." The moment our eight set foot in the medical bay antechamber, we were sorted by a swarm of medics and Academic Affairs staff. Me, Jess, Roy, and Harvey went into the "ambulatory but needs immediate triage" lane. D, Linde, and Kushima were redirected to a detailed exam area because of visible braces, muscle tears, and follow-up treatment requirements.

Akari was the most ridiculous of all—walking steady as if nothing had ever happened, and still got flagged by a nurse because of "suspected deep thermal damage in the left forearm." She listened and answered, completely deadpan:"You remembered the term 'thermal damage' now?" The nurse actually stalled for half a beat. I nearly laughed out loud. That was Akari Flak for you. Usually speaks as often as a frozen lake moves in winter, but when she does, she can freeze your ego along with everything else.

When my wristband clicked shut, the terminal in front of me lit up. The medic didn't look up.

"ID number." I frowned slightly.

"Frost Zero-One."

"Name." I hesitated half a second, then said:"Hoshino Shimo." It felt strange. For two weeks we'd been using numbers, callsigns, or just "hey you." Being formally asked to state my name after extraction felt jarringly like, right, I technically have a civil identity. Jess was filling out her own form beside me. When she heard me give my name, she immediately turned her head.

"So you really are Hoshino? I thought you made that up to sound intimidating."

"What do I look like, an idol trainee picking a stage name for a live-fire exam?"

"You say that, but you talk like one sometimes."

"Shut up and fill your form." She snorted, but still reported her details.

"Jess. Just put Jess." The medic finally looked up at her.

"Full name."

"Don't want to give it."

"Required for medical records."

"You can just write 'the ill-tempered one with the hard-to-kill constitution.'" In the end she grudgingly gave her full name. I didn't laugh at her, because honestly, I wanted to pull the same stunt. On the other side, Harvey was suddenly taking his full introduction very seriously. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"Harvey. Harvey is fine, unless you really need the full—""We need the full," the medic cut in, expressionless.

"... You people really don't know romance."

"Next." Roy was the most cooperative. Name, number, past two weeks' dehydration episodes, approximate water intake—he rattled them off so thoroughly the medic actually stopped to look at him.

"Are you always like this?" Roy was honest.

"... I'm afraid of missing data." Standing nearby, I thought: No. You're not afraid of missing data. You were born to have a clipboard grafted to your hand. The actual triage was more of a process than I expected. Scan, vitals, consultation, unwrap every bandage to redo it properly, then documentation photos. Like you'd just been scraped off the front and still had to go through a full "please prove you're sufficiently messed up" administrative procedure.

The moment my right shoulder wrap came off, the nurse assigned to me inhaled sharply.

"Who did this?" Before I could answer, Kushima spoke up calmly from the next bed.

"I did." The nurse glanced over, then back down at my shoulder.

"... Angle's not bad." I'd been bracing for criticism, so hearing that almost made me clap on her behalf. Kushima reacted like—well, like Kushima.

"Thank you. If I'd done it badly, she'd be even more trouble."

"Hey."

"That wasn't an insult. That was a medical evaluation."

"You always say it's not an insult and then it always sounds like one." Jess, on the next bed over, laughed with zero conscience.

"Medical evaluation, hah. Captain, you've been officially certified as a walking complication."

"I still haven't forgotten you biting my arm when your leg cramped."

"That's called battlefield bonding."

"That's called canine behavior." Over at D's bed, things were heating up too. They'd finally fully unwrapped his leg to reassess it. The doctor pressed along the muscle and frowned.

"With this condition, you walked all the way to the extraction point?" D was calm.

"I could."

"Did your whole squad spend that day running on the standard of 'if you're not dead, you're fine'?" Harvey raised his hand from across the room.

"Yes, sir. That standard was widely appreciated." Every medic in the bay looked like they wanted him restrained first. Akari's corner was much quieter. They were debriding her forearm burn when I was wheeled past. I happened to look over and caught her eyes. No screaming. No sharp intakes of breath. No "I'm in pain" expression. She just sat there, face so flat it looked like she was supervising someone else's arm. People like her are genuinely unnerving.

You never know whether they don't feel pain, or just file it away as background noise not worth comment. Back in the seating area, freshly repackaged, I realized this was the first time I'd heard all eight of us called by name in one go. Not numbers. Not "hey you." Not "that one." But—"Dwight 'D' Barkley, sign here."

"Akari Flak, avoid high-tension movement for the next twenty-four hours."

"Maki Kushima, your field medical interventions need to be logged."

"Hoshino Shimo, do not remove the shoulder brace for three days."

"Jess, no more stomping the ground."

"Harvey, keep machine oil out of your palm wounds."

"Roy, continue hydration monitoring after you return."

"Linde, report shoulder mobility daily." For a moment, I had the bizarre feeling that— We'd nearly died in that rainforest together. Dug trenches together. Dodged Jäger (Hunter) units together. Got driven into that bunker by the firestorm together. But only now, under medical lights, being processed and rewrapped, were we really being introduced to each other for the first time. Ridiculous. Jess clearly felt the same way. While they rewound her leg, she glanced over at me.

"Seriously, Hoshino Shimo, your name sounds more like a novel protagonist than you do."

"And yours sounds like the problem case who decks the male lead in chapter three."

"Wow. High praise."

"That wasn't praise."

"I know. I'm keeping it anyway." Roy chimed in, completely serious.

"But it's true—we only really exchanged full names now." Harvey jumped on it.

"Right? Normal people swap names before they share meals. We did it after running for our lives, dragging casualties, and digging trenches. That social order is peak Federation." D actually let out a quiet laugh.

"Efficient."

"This isn't efficiency," Jess said.

"This is tossing people into a meat grinder and handing out name tags afterward."

"Makes sense," Akari said suddenly. We all turned to her. She smoothed her sleeve down, voice as even as ever.

"If you make it to the end, your name stays. Simple." Silence for a beat. Then Harvey gave a long "oooh."

"That one's good."

"Don't you dare adopt that as a life motto," I said.

"Too late. Memorized."

"The things you memorize are never helpful," Kushima added. After treatment, they herded us into a small debriefing room. A couple of Academic Affairs staff. One psych evaluator. And one instructor whose job was clearly to deliver polished speeches. He started with praise for the fourteen qualified squads. Outlined make-up and remedial channels. Emphasized that all assessment data would be folded into our comprehensive individual evaluations.

Then, very courteously, noted that the survivors could return after the four-day break for follow-up interviews and commendation proceedings. I sat there, eyelids twitching. Comprehensive evaluation. Translation: how you broke, how you held, how you chose, how you survived in that forest—every bit of it was going into the file that decided who went up and who got filed elsewhere. The instructor added, still smiling:"There's no need to overreact emotionally to the make-up system.

Every cadet has a path suited to them." I almost went off again. Didn't get the chance. Kushima spoke first, with that clinical calm of hers.

"Meaning, those who couldn't hold have somewhere to go too. Just not the path you let them think they were on from the start." His smile froze for half a second.

"Kushima, the system's design has broader considerations—""I know," she said.

"That's why I'm not questioning it. I'm translating it for you." Harvey folded in half, shoulders shaking from suppressed laughter. Jess looked like she wanted to applaud. Sitting beside them, I decided this deserved a slot in best therapeutic interventions of the day: Maki Kushima, one sentence, clinically effective against institutional bullshit. The session ended under a temporary ceasefire: the school wanted a dignified wrap-up; the students wanted their beds. Everyone pretended to be civil until dismissal.

Walking out of the medical bay, one thought stuck in my head like a splinter. We'd survived. We were being commended. We were officially "qualified." But the label survivor did not feel light.