Chương 154: 58. Reconnaissance 1

When I walked into the cafeteria with my tray, the squad had already claimed the long table at the back. Jess was seated like a black-market information broker—legs sprawled under the table, straw between her teeth, expression broadcasting that she was fully prepared to treat other people's lives as tonight's entertainment. Maki sat beside her, tablet already open to Aida's two property briefs. D was upright as always, like someone had accidentally reincarnated a ground-assault mech into a human body.

Akari was leaning back with her dead-fish eyes half-open, as if she'd used up her entire quota of expectations for the world yesterday. Harvey was opening a pack of military crackers from an unknown source. Roy had paper documents spread out. Lan had her notebook open to a blank page, looking ready to collect everyone's remains—no, minutes. I'd barely sat down before Jess produced a smile of deeply questionable omen.

"Oh, the lead's here. Can we start dividing the spoils?"

"If you keep describing a housing meeting like postwar territorial division, I'm assigning you to live in the rooftop laundry room."

"Rooftop has views, moonlight, and the possibility of romantic laundry encounters. I'm not losing, Shimo." She used my name easily. I hesitated for a fraction of a second. I still had no idea when exactly these people had started collectively peeling off Hoshino like it was outer packaging and decided the thing underneath was easier to handle. … Fine. If I started policing every form of address, I'd die of exhaustion. And I had bigger problems—like housing eleven people without ending civilization.

Maki nudged the tablet toward the center.

"Aida sent a second message," she said.

"Two options on Platinum Bridge. A and B. Clarification: we're not picking an address tonight. We're defining requirements and preferences. Otherwise we won't even know what we're asking for."

"In translation," Jess cut in, "tonight we need to find war-prep-sounding excuses for 'who we actually want to live with.'""If your mouth could just briefly resemble human speech, I'd be grateful," I said.

"I'll try my worst," she said, not remotely apologetic. Maki brought up the first brief.

"Option A: standard officer housing. Regular floor layout, decent common area, full kitchen and dining room, sufficient bathrooms, two parking spaces. Clear zoning, easier management. Downside: more small single rooms. If we keep men's and women's floors separate and reserve a full common floor, we'll waste a lot of usable space." Harvey shot his hand up immediately.

"Hold on. Since when is 'more single rooms' a downside?" Roy adjusted his glasses, looking at him like he was watching someone volunteer for bankruptcy.

"For the budget, it is."

"For my mental health, it's a plus," Harvey said firmly.

"For Squad 144," Akari added lazily, "if you scatter too far, morning assembly will turn into a ghost hunt." D nodded.

"Agreed. From a unit-movement standpoint, fully independent rooms are inefficient."

"You hear that?" Jess patted Harvey's shoulder with mock solemnity.

"The organization does not permit your right to solitude."

"The organization had also better not permit you within a three-meter radius of my bed."

"Drawing boundaries this early? That hurts my feelings."

"There is nothing between us qualifying as feelings."

"Ah, right. You label it trauma." The left half of the table dissolved into laughter. Harvey's expression went black; Jess looked delighted. I took a sip of soup—something the kitchen had coerced into a state where it technically counted as food but tasted like it had other applications. Maki reached over and nudged my most suspicious-looking side dish out of immediate reach. The movement was so natural it might have been her own plate.

Her level of intrusion into my daily life was climbing at an impressively unhealthy, disturbingly useful pace. I decided not to notice. Maki scrolled down.

"Option B: converted higher-grade residence," she said.

"Larger footprint, more continuous horizontal space. Floor plan is less regular than A, but with redistribution we can make it one men's floor, one women's floor, one common floor, rooftop laundry, elevator. Dining area large enough for meetings, study sessions, and basic gear work all on the same level."

"So basically taking a perfectly respectable house and turning it into a base for a pack of problem children," I said.

"Accurate," Lan said, and wrote it down.

"Hold up," Roy frowned.

"I'm fine with problem child. Why is it a pack? Surely at least a couple of us qualify as functionally normal."

"You're optimistic," Akari said.

"I think the only fully functional component here is the elevator," Jess added. D didn't laugh. He just hauled us back to the point.

"Baseline first," he said.

"Men's floor, women's floor, common floor, rooftop laundry, elevator. Everyone on board?"

"Yes," Lan nodded.

"If all eleven of us live on the same floor, it'll be daily traffic warfare."

"And we have actual adults," Roy added.

"Minimum two parking spaces. Day-to-day transit is one thing. Pre-finals practicum—gear, documents, emergency lifts. Vehicles can't be an afterthought."

"Two enough?" Harvey asked.

"Enough," D said.

"Any more and someone will start using them for late-night joyrides." The table went very quiet for a second, then several sets of eyes drifted toward Jess. She raised both hands.

"Hey, my defects are real, but I am not at 'stealing officer parking for dates' level."

"There are multiple issues with that sentence," I said.

"Starting with the part where you agreed with the defects clause."

"The key part is 'for dates,' Shimo." She grinned.

"What's bothering you more, the stolen parking or the date?" Before I could answer, Maki slid my soup closer and cut cleanly in.

"You should worry about your own housing eligibility first, Jess," she said.

"If we rank by quiet, you'll be sleeping in a parking spot."

"Kushima, that level of profanity-free savagery is very on-brand for your family."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't praise."

"I know." Sometimes the way those two spoke made me feel like I'd been dropped between high-level predators negotiating territory. Worse, one of them had developed an inconveniently stable sense of possession over my belongings—textbooks, seat, sandwiches—even my sleep schedule. I shoved that thought down and focused on the bigger problem.

"Room types," I said.

"Open dorm, singles, doubles—a direction, at least." That was when the meeting really entered the war zone. Harvey went first.

"I support singles. Human civilization did not come this far just for strangers' feet to end up near my bed."

"We're not strangers," Jess protested.

"I can start treating you like one. There's time."

"Too late, Harvey," Akari said, chin in her hand.

"You're stuck with us. Like gum on the underside of a boot. No going back."

"Thank you, that metaphor really completes the flavor of this meal." Roy flipped a page. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Singles are too expensive," he said.

"And they do our application no favors. The Academy doesn't want to see 'these students want to live like nobility.' It wants 'this unit has a coherent shared-living and readiness structure.'""In human language," Jess said.

"In human language," Lan translated, "we need to sound like a provisional combat unit prepping for finals, not a bunch of victims fleeing a shitty dorm."

"But we are the second thing," I said.

"Right. Which is why we have to perform the first one," Lan said. D added the last blow, voice flat.

"I favor doubles with limited singles," he said.

"Balance between rest and flexibility. Easier to pair different temperaments as buffers.""'Buffers' makes it sound like you're packing explosives and blast-mitigation foam in the same crate," I said.

"If it works, it works," D replied, expression unchanged. Jess perked up.

"Excellent. I propose I room with Shimo—""Denied," Maki said. She didn't even let the sentence land. It was like that proposal had already been intercepted and shot down several times in her head. Jess's smile sharpened.

"I hadn't even finished."

"You'd be denied either way," Maki said calmly.

"You're not proposing it for functional reasons. You're proposing it for your own entertainment."

"And you?" Jess rested her chin on her hand, smile all teeth.

"If you propose rooming with Shimo, is that for tactical readiness?" The air at the table went quiet for one hard second. The soup suddenly felt too hot in my mouth. Maki didn't answer immediately. She turned her head and looked at me. The look was brief. Brief and deeply unsafe. Like some unofficial confirmation step that had never been written into any regulation but was already in effect. If I say it, are you going to stop me. If you don't stop me, I'm going to take that as yes.

I looked away and studied the pattern on my napkin like it had tactical value. It obviously didn't, but it was safer than looking at her. In the end, Maki said, evenly:"If Shimo wakes up from nightmares, falls asleep over her work, or ends up with tomorrow's documents under her face, I'm currently the one most familiar with her habits. From a management-cost perspective, I am objectively a better fit than you." Jess blinked—then burst out laughing.

"Management cost? Kushima, that is more dangerous than an actual confession."

"I'm stating facts."

"All the scariest confessions start that way."

"Then you'd better learn to tell the difference." I pushed my fork into the suspect meat patty. It didn't react. Neither did I. Harvey was wearing the expression of a man who regretted every decision that had led him to this seat. Roy had decided his notes were very urgent. Lan, to her credit, was actually taking minutes—she was probably going to immortalize this as an official record of a psychological mass casualty event. Akari looked at me once and said, slowly:"Your ears are red."

"The cafeteria is hot."

"Oh." That oh carried a full audit of my excuse and found it wanting. I went on the offensive and kicked the topic elsewhere.

"Either way, it's not room assignments tonight," I said.

"Principles first. Floors by function, large common space, dining that seats eleven, a kitchen big enough to actually cook in, not a confessional booth, enough bathrooms that we don't start a civil war in the morning."

"And the laundry area can't be built like a romance-comedy set," Roy added, perfectly serious.

"Why is that your first concern?" Lan asked him.

"Because I've seen the dorm laundry rooms," Roy said, deadpan.

"They're a daily theater of youth, misunderstanding, and hygiene disasters."

"That image is way too vivid. Stop," I said. D summarized.

"Rooming direction: no open dorm, no full singles," he said.

"Doubles as baseline with flexible space. Actual pairings wait until we see the floorplans."

"In other words," Jess said cheerfully, "principles tonight, relationship arguments tomorrow."

"Who's arguing relationships with you," I said.

"Then why are you blushing?"

"Circulation."

"That's worse than 'the cafeteria is hot.'" I was seriously considering whether to throw my soup when Maki leaned slightly toward me, voice low.

"If you really don't want to room with anyone," she said quietly, "I can take the hit for you." She said it very calmly. Calm enough it was hard to look directly at. Because that wasn't just kindness. There was protection in there, and staking a claim, and a slice of something she probably wouldn't name out loud. Like dissolving sugar into hot tea—no visible change, but the taste is different as soon as you try it. My throat tightened.

"… I know," I said. She watched my face for a beat, checking it wasn't a brush-off, then sat back. Jess had watched that entire exchange, smile turning into the exact expression of someone who had just acquired a box of blackmail material. I decided she didn't exist. In the end, after an impressive amount of allegedly rational argument shot through with personal agendas, we reached a temporary conclusion. We leaned toward the larger property. Not because anyone wanted to "live better." At least, not on paper.

The official line was: an eleven-person unit required more complete floor separation, more stable common areas, more sensible traffic flow, adequate bathroom and kitchen configuration, and the infrastructure for gear prep, finals readiness, group study, and transport. In human: too many people, too much shit to do. Stuff us back into the current canned dorm situation and something's going to explode.

"All right," D said, capping his pen.

"That's tonight. Maki and Lan clean up the conditions into proper language. Roy runs numbers. Harvey drafts the equipment and infrastructure needs. Akari and I add use-cases for the parking. Shimo—" He looked at me.

"You handle Aida." I was silent for two seconds.

"…Why me again?" Jess didn't miss a beat.

"Because you're the one best suited to conducting morally ambiguous negotiations with higher authority."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Depends how you feel about dangerous women."

"The last thing I need more of is that category." I regretted saying it immediately. Maki looked up. Jess let out a low whistle. Akari half-closed her eyes like a fish that had seen too much and was now mentally drafting my epitaph.

"Meeting adjourned," I said, standing too quickly.

"If we stay any longer, someone's actually going to start drawing up a bed-sharing chart."

"How do you know that wasn't next on the agenda?" Jess called after me.

"Because I'm not dead yet."

"Then stay alive, Shimo. This topic has potential." I ignored her, grabbed my tray, and walked. The air outside was more normal than anything in the cafeteria. At least it wasn't actively using your embarrassment as entertainment. The lights along the path drew pale blocks along the ground, like someone had tried to lay a thin sheet of civilization over the bones of the Academy. I'd made it only a few steps when I heard my name.

"Hoshino." I turned. Aida Rosen was standing by the cafeteria side door, as if she'd known I'd be the first to bolt. She'd skipped the propaganda-poster-level neatness today—uniform jacket draped open, golden hair moving slightly in the night breeze. Her posture was correct. Her eyes were not the eyes of someone who was only correct. Too awake. Too precise. The kind of person who, if she went into politics, would sell you off with a smile and leave you convinced you'd gotten a dignified deal.

"Waiting for me?" I asked.

"In a sense." She came closer.

"I figured you'd be meeting tonight. So—how did it go?"

"Our conclusion is that power is indeed corrupt," I said.

"But if the corrupt power belongs to someone else, it starts feeling oddly comforting." Aida actually laughed. Not the social smile. A real laugh—short, edged with the satisfaction of someone who's been waiting for you to say exactly that.

"You're adapting faster than I expected."

"I'm not adapting. I've just noticed that people who talk the most about morals usually live in worse housing."

"That's a dangerous line."

"But true." She didn't argue. The night breeze carried a mix of cafeteria grease and trimmed grass between us. This place was very good at making everything look halfway between civilized and feral—even the air. Aida softened her voice a shade.

"You haven't asked why I'm willing to help this much," she said.

"I have a few theories," I replied.

"Let's hear them."

"One: you genuinely think letting a bottom-tier unit like us live somewhere functional is better for the practicum. Two: you want to invest in Squad 144, especially now that Yukikaze is on the table. Three: you enjoy moving rules around like building blocks and seeing who gets hit when they fall." She listened without interrupting, that light in her eyes getting slightly brighter.

"You missed one," she said.

"What?"

"Four: I'm interested in you." For a second, I had nothing. Not because I didn't understand. Exactly because I did—and needed a beat to confirm she'd chosen the most combustible phrasing on purpose. She saw it and added, unhurried:"Don't get the wrong idea. I mean politically, tactically, interpersonally."

"That clarification did nothing to make it safer."

"It means your instincts are working." We looked at each other. Aida wasn't like Maki. Maki was dangerous like a quiet tide—you noticed the wet hem of your pants and realized the waterline had moved long ago. Aida was more like an expensive bottle of liquor—beautiful glass, correct label, everyone swearing it's refined. Whether it burned on the way down depended on your luck.

"You're helping because I'm a worthwhile investment?" I asked.

"Partly."

"And the other part?"

"Because you hate being managed from above," she said.

"And you also know exactly how to use the people above you. People like that usually go the distance. Either they become a very inconvenient enemy or a very useful ally."

"That sounds more like recruitment than a confession."

"Which would you prefer?" I laughed once, dry.

"Do all of you from the upper levels talk like you're drafting treaties?"

"Because in most cases, treaties are more reliable than sweet talk."

"That's a miserable way to grow up."

"It is." Her smile thinned.

"But effective." When she said it, I realized what she was actually showing me. Not just privilege. Not just my father's position means I get keys—that would have been crude. It was the deeper layer: rules were never designed to protect everyone. They mostly existed to let people who knew how to walk them live more comfortably. The corruption wasn't one person's hand reaching out—it was the air itself deciding which hands were allowed on which resources, and which stayed in line outside. Disgusting? Yes. Useful?

Extremely. And right now, Aida was standing in front of me as if to ask: Do you want to learn or not. I was silent for a while before I spoke.

"What if I say I don't like owing favors?" I asked.

"Then call it an exchange," she said.

"I give you a channel. You give me outcomes. Once you move in, show me how far 144 can really go."

"You realize you sound like you're buying futures."

"At least I'm buying something with potential upside."

"You're overestimating me."

"No." She shook her head.

"I'm just quicker than most at admitting you're worth betting on." Something low in my chest jumped, just once. Damn it. Had all these people recently taken some specialized course on how to say something that sounds like business while landing it just outside the safety line—far enough that getting angry feels like a waste of effort? I looked away.

"I'll organize the housing requirements and send them to you later."

"All right."

"And," I paused, "anyone who grinds their teeth or snores—please actually try to keep them as far from me as possible." Aida blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. Not her usual controlled conference-table smile—something more private in it.

"Is that your personal requirement?"

"The only one I'm certain about right now."

"I'll look into it."

"You're actually going to look into it?"

"If we're going to be corrupt," she said, "we might as well be thorough about it." I finally laughed too. Not because it was particularly funny. Because when someone could talk about privilege that openly, they were somehow less disgusting than the people who filled their mouths with fairness and justice while grabbing more than anyone else behind the scenes. Still dangerous. But at least she wasn't pretending. Aida stepped back.

"I'll wait for your message, then. Hoshino."

"Enough people call me Shimo already. Don't join the crowd."

"Is that so?" She looked at me, something hovering in her eyes that wasn't quite a smile.

"Then I'll hold onto that privilege—for when you decide to allow it." She turned and walked away. I stood there watching her back for two seconds, then delivered a very honest internal assessment. … People who know how to work power can even make their exits feel like setting hooks. What annoyed me more was that I knew it was a hook—and I was already thinking about it anyway.

If Squad 144 actually managed to get that large property on Platinum Bridge, would we end up looking more like a functional unit, or more like a collective living disaster? Given this group's personality distribution, the answer was probably both. I looked up at the night sky, let out a long breath, and opened my terminal again. Sleep wasn't happening yet. If corruption was this useful, the least we could do was learn to use it properly.