Chương 153: 57. House Hunting Is Serious Business 3

Aida's second message came in twenty-seven minutes after dinner. I remembered exactly because I was sitting at my desk, pen in hand, staring at Harvey's conditions summary and trying to convince myself that men's and women's floors, common space floor, rooftop laundry, elevator, minimum two parking spaces appearing in a first-year housing application was not, in fact, absurd. Then my terminal buzzed.

Not the group chat's frenzied vibration—the kind that suggested an agitated hamster colony holding a rave inside the device. A single message. Clean. Restrained. Elegant. Obviously not Jess, who could pack three exclamation marks and a passive-aggressive undertone into a single line. I looked down. Aida Rosen … Here we go. I opened it. Not long. Every line with real weight. Aida Rosen: Preliminary comparison complete. Aida Rosen: Two viable options on Platinum Bridge. Sharing for your internal review.

Option A: Platinum Bridge Sector 17 / Mid-Grade Officer Residential, Converted Pros: Close to campus, established security, stable daily access, elevator included, men/women floor separation straightforward. Cons: Common space is small, kitchen and dining area on the tight side, parking at exactly the two-space minimum.

Option B: Platinum Bridge Third Outer Ring / Former Senior Officer Residential, Converted Pros: Large common space, complete kitchen and dining facilities, more bathrooms, three parking spaces, better rooftop laundry setup. Cons: Slightly farther from campus, higher security grade but the atmosphere is more genuinely military residential—once you're in, you'll feel more clearly that you are not ordinary students. Aida Rosen: Short version: A is safer. B is better. Aida Rosen: Work out your own conclusion first.

I finished reading, and was quiet for three seconds. Then delivered my honest assessment:"… This woman really knows how to write in plain language."

"Who?" Jess had been lying on my bed reading a light novel with a title long enough to constitute a dispute with the publisher. She looked up immediately, with the speed of a fox that had caught a rumor.

"Aida." I turned the terminal toward her. Jess read it, let out a long whistle, hugged my pillow, fell backward, and laughed like she'd won something significant.

"A is safer, B is better. I love her. This is exactly the upperclassman version of 'I know you can't parse official language, so I translated it directly into the version you'll argue about.'" Maki came over from her desk and read it. Her reaction was considerably calmer than Jess's. One quiet sentence:"B is better." Jess and I both looked at her.

"You didn't even think about it?" I asked.

"I thought about it," Maki said.

"Eleven people, pre-finals, unit study, gear maintenance, and daily rhythm all need to coexist. If the common space is too small, someone dies."

"Is that a metaphor or a forecast?" Jess asked.

"Currently a metaphor," Maki said. … She even added currently. I looked at the message again. Option A: close, stable, established security, easy floor separation, elevator. Option B: spacious, functional, complete kitchen and dining, more bathrooms, three parking spaces, better laundry.

Listed out like that, B looked like the kind of option you knew was calorically catastrophic, nutritionally bankrupt, and would turn your willpower to mush—but you'd still end up staring at it three times during a late-night craving. Except one line in B was sharper than anything else. Once you're in, you'll feel more clearly that you are not ordinary students. That hit harder than any bathroom count or parking space. Because it was true. Moving into that kind of place wasn't just a quality-of-life upgrade.

It was physically relocating the entire unit from students in a school dormitory into the range of people that officers and institutional resources will actually look at. In other words: The corruption wasn't just useful. It came with a background change.

"Send it to the group," Jess said, already sitting up, eyes dangerously bright.

"I want to watch Harvey's soul do shuttle runs between A and B until he becomes a property consultant." I didn't bother responding to that, just pasted Aida's summary into the chat. The moment it sent, the group exploded like someone had poured a pot of hot oil into it. Shimo: Aida responded. Shimo: Two options on Platinum Bridge. Shimo: A is close, stable, established security, but small common space. Shimo: B is farther, but common space, kitchen, dining, bathrooms, and parking are all more complete.

Shimo: Her summary: A is safer. B is better. Jess replied first. No surprise. Jess: I vote B. Simple reason: I refuse to have eleven people crammed into a common space where we'd have to queue to argue. D was second. D: How much farther is it. Always the one to drag romance back to earth. Harvey followed quickly. Harvey: If it's only "slightly farther," B first. Common space and kitchen/dining aren't extras—they're the infrastructure that keeps eleven people from hating each other.

Roy, as always, spoke for his civilian soul first. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Roy: I know this isn't the moment to ask, but is B more expensive? Jess replied instantly: Jess: You sound like the only person in our household who still remembers money is a finite resource. Very moving. Lan steered it back. Lan: Don't just look at "better." Look at traffic flow.

Lan: If A's common space is too small, the moment eleven people come home simultaneously, living, discussion, studying, and gear maintenance all collide. Lan: B actually allows separate functional zones. Akari dropped a line a few seconds later. Akari: A is survivable. B is livable. I stared at that for two seconds. … Damn it. That was the problem with dead-eyed people. Usually economical to the point of rudeness, but when they landed something, it stuck.

Maki had come to sit on the edge of my bed by then, leaning in naturally to look at the screen with me. The back of her hand brushed my knee. Very lightly. A while ago I would have shifted away half an inch and covered it with some excuse—it's warm, it's crowded, you're blocking my view. Now I just went still for half a second, then pretended nothing had happened. This habit was genuinely dangerous. The debate in the group kept rolling. D: I asked about the distance.

D: How much farther determines daily commute pressure. Harvey: Third Outer Ring adds roughly twelve to fifteen minutes over A. Harvey: Assuming normal traffic. Roy: Fifteen minutes sounds manageable. Jess: Are you sure? In this Academy, fifteen extra minutes of sleep could trigger a coup. Lan: But a complete common space and larger dining area doesn't buy back fifteen minutes. It buys back overall stability. Akari: And bathrooms. Jess: I'm speaking for civilization again. I smiled at that.

"What?" Jess asked.

"Nothing." I scrolled down.

"Just thinking—we really don't sound like normal students."

"Normal students don't hold eleven-person officer housing performance comparison meetings at nine-thirty at night," Jess said, without a trace of doubt.

"Normal students are probably still arguing about whether to order fried chicken or noodles for their midnight snack. We're debating whether the common space has enough room to spread out materials and run tactical briefings."

"You sound almost proud of that."

"Obviously I'm proud." She grinned.

"It's progress. From Lower House delinquents to Lower House delinquents who make requirements tables." Maki added quietly:"Technically, it's a quasi-military unit learning to use subsidies and institutional resources to secure better tactical positioning." I turned to look at her.

"The way you phrase that makes the whole thing sound like a textbook example of legitimized state-level corruption."

"Isn't it?" she said. … Damn it. I couldn't argue with that either. The terminal buzzed again. This time a private message from Aida, two additional lines: Aida Rosen: Addendum. Option A reads more like "acceptable student off-campus housing." Aida Rosen: Option B reads more like "someone has already started treating you as a future shipboard unit." I read it, and my finger stopped on the screen for a long moment. That was brutal. It cut straight to what actually separated A from B. A was a benefit.

B was a designation. A was good students can live somewhere nicer. B was these people are being permitted to start living like something that's going to be deployed forward. I pasted it into the group. This time, even Jess—who was usually first to say something within seconds—went quiet for a moment. Harvey spoke first, in the end. Harvey: … I'm leaning toward B. Roy: That ellipsis from you is unusual. Harvey: Shut up.

What I mean is—if we're already being pushed in that direction, we might as well move in and get familiar with the space first. Harvey: Kitchen, dining, common floor, parking—those all become real operational resources later. D: Agreed. Lan: Agreed. If we're going to function as a pre-formed unit, don't pick a shell that can't support the function. Akari: A is conservative. B is accepting reality. I stared at that line—B is accepting reality—and felt something uncomfortable settle in my chest.

Not because I disagreed. Exactly the opposite—I was uncomfortable because it was too accurate. Because we all knew this probably wasn't a question of whether we'd get pushed forward anymore. It was: since we're going to get pushed, should we at least pick a landing spot where we won't immediately shatter. Not idealism. Survival. And survival was something this group had always taken seriously. Then Jess dropped a line into the chat: Jess: I have a very serious question.

Jess: If we pick B, does the women's floor have enough room configurations to allow certain people to conduct higher-efficiency cohabitation experiments? My eye twitched.

"Is she trying to get herself killed?" I said. Maki, sitting beside me, responded in the tone of someone assessing equipment failure rates.

"She's just voicing the question that was going to come up eventually—in her characteristically punchable way."

"Don't make it sound reasonable."

"It is reasonable." She turned to look at me, eyes very still.

"Room configuration has always been a core issue." … That sentence, taken alone, was completely normal. But combined with our current proximity, and the way she didn't immediately look away after saying it—it became anything but normal. My throat went slightly dry. I forced my attention back to the terminal. The chat had, predictably, already started losing structural integrity. Roy: For the record, I support functional separate rooms. I do not support terror experiments.

Jess: Don't worry, the real terror experiments won't be prioritized on your floor. D: Stay on topic. Harvey: Agreed with D. Let's establish room priority order. Harvey: First choice: separate rooms. Harvey: Second choice: doubles as baseline, limited singles. Harvey: Off the table: open dormitory. Lan: I support this order. Akari: Agreed. Akari: Also—if the women's floor ends up needing doubles, please don't pair the loudest people with those who need quiet.

Jess: That sounds like you're calling me out specifically. Akari: I am. I couldn't hold it in—I laughed out loud. Maki glanced at me, and the corner of her mouth moved just slightly. A very faint curve. Faint enough that if I hadn't been sitting this close, I might have convinced myself I'd imagined it. … Damn it. The problem was that when she let even the smallest trace of human expression show, it had a way of generating entirely unnecessary reactions in people's brains.

I pushed my attention firmly back to the terminal.

"So we're broadly leaning toward B?" I asked.

"Looks that way," Maki said.

"Unless someone produces an argument that outweighs B's functional advantages." I nodded, preparing to type a summary, when D beat me to it. D: Cafeteria tonight. D: Everyone there. D: We settle A vs. B and finalize the conditions list. No if you're free. No does this work for you. Just dragging the meeting from online to in-person, with the energy of someone who'd decided we were all going to face reality eventually—might as well be now. Jess replied instantly: Jess: Copy. I'll bring my mouth.

Harvey: I'll bring the data. Roy: I'll bring my reverence for high-end housing. Akari: Just bring your brain. Lan: I'll bring a pen. Looking at that chain of responses, I wanted to laugh and sigh at the same time. Because the picture was absurd in a very complete way.

A group of first-years, plus a few people barely old enough to qualify as adults, conducting a two-option senior officer housing comparison via school dormitory group chat, with a division of labor that looked like a real planning meeting: someone bringing data, someone bringing arguments, someone bringing notes, someone responsible for keeping everyone on track. The Federation really was remarkable.

It had managed to pressure students into evolving into small creatures extremely good at making camp in the cracks of the system. I set the terminal down and leaned back against the wall. Jess leaned over and bumped my shoulder.

"So, Shimo?" Her smile reached maximum toxicity.

"Feeling that warm, fuzzy sensation of being gently embraced by institutional corruption?"

"Yes."

"Oh?"

"So warm and fuzzy I want to throw up," I said honestly. Jess collapsed onto my bed laughing. Maki, meanwhile, calmly retrieved the terminal that had nearly slid off the desk and set it back within reach.

"But you'll still go," she said. I looked down at the terminal, thinking again of Aida's last line— Option B reads more like someone has already started treating you as a future shipboard unit. I was quiet for two seconds. Then let out a slow breath.

"… Yeah," I said. I'd go. I'd argue for the best terms we could get. I'd negotiate the conditions down to the bone. Because once things had come this far, pretending to be ordinary students was starting to feel like a joke. Better to step inside and strip everything the system was offering. At least that way, when we actually got thrown onto Yukikaze, we'd have more cards in hand. Maybe slightly better odds of coming back alive. This wasn't corruption. This was just being realistic.

And realism was something we'd already learned on a planet where the wind burned at nineteen hundred degrees. The evening meeting was unavoidable, as expected. And I already knew the real difficulty tonight wouldn't be deciding whether A or B was "better." It would be what happened once everyone started treating B as somewhere we might actually live— Certain things that had been getting by on jokes would have to be said out loud. Like who lives with whom. Like who can't stand whom.

Like which distances, once you move into the same building, will stop being kind of close and become something else entirely.