Chương 155: 58. Reconnaissance 2

I woke up before my alarm. That's rarely a good sign. There are three reasons humans wake up naturally before their scheduled time: they went to bed too early; their hormones are misfiring; or trouble has come knocking. Given the recent trajectory of my life, the first two were far too healthy to apply. I rolled over, groped for the terminal by my pillow, and the screen lit up with Aida's name at the top. Immediate bad feeling.

Early-morning messages from people in positions of power, delivered in calm tones at suspiciously efficient hours, are almost never the good morning, have a wonderful day variety. They're more like civilized society's version of incoming artillery notifications. I opened it. Just a few lines. Option A—the multi-story layout—fell through. Only the single property remains. If you're free this afternoon, want to see it in person? I stared at those lines for three seconds. Then replied with two words, expression flat.

Skip class? It went to read almost instantly. Her response came back fast enough to make me wonder if she spent her mornings processing borderline-legal administrative violations. You can apply for official leave. Student Council can issue a temporary exemption plus off-campus authorization. But not too many people. Two others at most. Including you and me, four total. I stared at that and felt my mouth twitch. Perfect.

This was exactly what I'd been getting increasingly familiar with lately—and increasingly tempted to spit on—the useful face of institutional corruption. I'd been condemning the whole apparatus last night. And now here it was, first thing in the morning, showing up in a perfectly pressed uniform asking: Need some privilege today, cadet? Disgusting. Also extremely convenient. I dropped the terminal face-down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for two seconds.

"… Shit." The sun hadn't fully risen yet. The dorm ceiling was still that cheap institutional white that made the place feel like a discount psychiatric facility. I closed my eyes briefly, then finished the sentence honestly in my head. But I'm still going. By the time I'd washed up, changed into my uniform, and walked out wearing the face of someone not yet prepared to confront the national system, Jess was already at the desk drinking instant coffee the color of industrial fuel.

She looked up and produced a smile of maximum irritation.

"You look like someone just dropped a career opportunity on your head at dawn and you're trying to pretend you're too principled to pick it up."

"Have you been dedicating all your observational skills to evil lately?"

"That's too vague to constitute an accusation." I pulled out a chair and dropped the terminal on the table. Jess glanced down and whistled.

"Oh—Aida clearing the path personally. Official leave, off-campus authorization, site visit. Shimo, you're rapidly learning that standing next to the right people has more tactical value than effort alone."

"Coming from your mouth, that has zero educational merit."

"I'm not an educational institution. I'm a private consultant."

"You sound more like an unlicensed broker." Maki came out of the back room just then, hair still slightly loose, carrying a neat stack of handouts. Her gaze swept the terminal screen, absorbing most of the situation in one glance.

"The multi-story option fell through?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Only the single building left. We can see it this afternoon. Student Council will issue official leave." Maki was quiet for a beat.

"…They can actually issue that?"

"Apparently." Her eyes looked at me—not surprised, just carrying that very Kushima-family quality: calm, practiced understanding of how to navigate institutional gaps.

"I see."

"That 'I see' makes it sound like you're not surprised at all."

"I'm not." She set her handouts on the table, tone unhurried.

"I'm just noting that for someone who was so righteously condemning all this last night, you'll probably fold that leave form very neatly and slip it into your uniform pocket by noon." I looked at her. She looked back. Jess nearly spilled her coffee laughing.

"Maki, why are you stabbing her in the lungs first thing in the morning?"

"I'm making a prediction."

"Your prediction is very accurate," I said, keeping my face neutral.

"If I actually get that form, I won't just fold it neatly. I'll be worried about it wrinkling." Maki laughed quietly. Not loud, very brief, almost soundless—but more dangerous than most people's full laughter. Because you suddenly realized she wasn't laughing at the system, or at someone else. She was laughing at you. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The I knew you'd end up here kind. Honestly, infuriating. Also, somehow, a little charming. …

I was definitely too tired. My survival instincts were developing dangerous judgment errors. Morning classes were terrible as usual. Not entirely the curriculum's fault. No matter how worthwhile the content might have been, it couldn't compete with the mental stimulation of will that leave form actually come through running on background loop since first period. The most dangerous thing about military academy wasn't the pressure, the rankings, or the instructors who might publicly flay you alive.

It was how it slowly conditioned previously normal people to feel genuine anticipation at the prospect of legitimate backdoor access. I attempted brief self-examination at the end of third period, concluded that introspection had no measurable impact on reality, and abandoned it decisively. At noon, I walked to the Student Council's temporary administrative window carrying the energy of all right, show me how you're going to humiliate me today, Federation. The clerk handed me the documents in under three minutes.

All stamps present. Format perfect. The official reason for leave was written in language so proper it could chair a committee: Approved short-term off-campus departure for pre-finals unit housing and operational readiness assessment. There was even a temporary off-campus movement authorization attached. I stood at the window holding both forms and went quiet for two full seconds. Then said something deeply undignified, internally: … Damn, this is good.

Yesterday's version of me would have scolded today's version, then taken the forms anyway. I folded the leave slip and tucked it into my inner uniform pocket with the care of handling classified material. The Student Council member behind the window didn't even look up. Clearly, within this institution, the truly rare thing wasn't privilege—it was people who still felt shame about using it. Maki was waiting in the corridor.

"Got it?" I patted my inner pocket. She saw it and the corner of her mouth lifted.

"Called it."

"You look like someone watching a stray cat finish cursing its owner and then walk back for the food anyway."

"If it were you, you'd glare while eating."

"Is that an insult or character analysis?"

"Both." Jess was leaning against the wall, already laughing like someone who'd just made a killing on insider information.

"All right, now that the paperwork's official—are you really going back to class to perform normalcy?"

"No." I pocketed the forms.

"We've gotten this corrupt. Going back to lectures would be disrespectful to the institution."

"Beautiful," Jess applauded.

"You're developing so fast, Shimo."

"Shut up." In the end, only Aida and I went. Not because no one else wanted to come. The limit was real, and beyond that—a first property viewing wasn't the moment to show up in a group, like a school trip to inspect confiscated official assets. Squad 144 might not act like normal students most of the time, but we at least knew when to keep the embarrassment radius contained. The air outside the main gate was drier than inside. Aida was already there when I walked out.

No formal jacket today—just a thin folder, standing at the roadside with the natural ease of someone who wasn't about to take me to view property that had possibly exited its previous owner's hands via corruption proceedings, but had simply arranged an afternoon appointment. That was what made people like her genuinely unsettling. Whatever they did at the edge of regulations, they made it look like the regulations had been written with them in mind.

"Got the paperwork?" she asked. I patted my inner pocket.

"Got it. Federation administrative efficiency is always remarkably touching in situations like this." Aida smiled at the sarcasm without taking it, and raised her hand to flag a taxi. Honestly, the moment she did that, my first thought wasn't that was fast. It was: I should probably get a motorcycle license. An aggressively practical, depressingly honest thought.

Because I'd just realized—if Squad 144 actually moved off-campus, a group that averaged three daily emergencies, two logistics crises, and one inexplicable interpersonal disaster could not function without personal transportation. Cars were adult territory. Motorcycles were a broke student's last scrap of dignity. Right now I didn't even have that.

"Get in," Aida said. I slid into the back seat. The door closed. Campus disappeared behind glass. After confirming the address, the car pulled smoothly out, and the afternoon city started scrolling past the window. From the Academy to Platinum Bridge was a real distance. The further we got from the school zone, the less the buildings looked like places designed to compress young people into usable components, and the more they resembled places where people actually lived their lives. Streets widened.

Trees thickened. The walls and house numbers along the way started carrying a certain quiet price tag—not flashy, just the kind where you knew at a glance that even the silence here cost more. I leaned against the window and watched, not saying much. Aida didn't force conversation. I had to give her credit for that—she knew how to manage distance. She wasn't the type to aggressively close gaps, but she didn't make silence awkward either.

Being around her always produced a very specific feeling: like standing in a clean, temperate, well-mannered space while knowing there was precision machinery humming under the floor. I watched the passing streets and ran calculations in my head. If we actually moved in—eleven people. One car space, two motorcycle spaces. Men's floor, women's floor, common floor. Fridge big enough, table big enough, enough bathrooms, laundry flow that didn't turn into a war zone.

And if I actually got that motorcycle license, Jess would laugh for three days before offering to teach me. Absolutely not. That scenario had too many failure modes. I'd rather ask D. Though D's teaching style would probably feel like armored vehicle driver training, and I'd start questioning whether I was being prepped for frontline deployment within five minutes.

"What are you thinking about?" Aida asked suddenly. I didn't look at her immediately.

"Whether I should get a motorcycle license." She paused—genuinely caught off guard—then laughed. Low and quiet, like she hadn't expected my stretch of silence to produce that particular conclusion.

"Very practical."

"I'm always practical," I said.

"Ideals can't carry passengers. Motorcycles can."

"I'm keeping that line."

"Don't. It makes me sound broke."

"You're not broke." She turned back to the window, tone even.

"You're just starting to think about daily life the way a unit commander would." I frowned.

"Don't make it sound like I'm already running troops."

"You will be, eventually," she said. People like her were infuriating. Never loud, never pushy—but they'd drop one line and it would lodge in your chest like a small nail that hadn't quite detonated yet. I didn't bother responding and went back to the window. After a while, the car slowed. The driver turned into a quieter street.

The residences on either side maintained deliberate distances from each other—not flaunting wealth, not pretending accessibility, perfectly executing that ruling-class aesthetic of my property is very large, but I don't need you to know exactly how large. Then the car stopped.

"Here," the driver said. I looked up through the windshield. The address was clearly visible. Platinum Bridge Street, No. 22. My first impression wasn't luxury. It was illegitimately large. Low-key iron gate. Front yard that wasn't extravagant but was clearly designed. By the gate, faint traces of something torn away and not quite scrubbed clean—looked exactly like a Federation seizure notice had been posted there once, then violently removed by someone who very much wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.

The main building sat back from the street. Three stories, clean lines, none of the nouveau-riche excess. Instead it had that quality of something built by someone desperately wanting to appear above reproach. Surface parking to the side—one car space, two motorcycle spaces, obvious at a glance. Beyond the front yard, deeper space extending back—had to be the rear courtyard. I got out of the car and looked up.

Three floors of windows caught the afternoon light in a quiet, even gleam—like a large animal that had retracted its claws and was sitting very properly, pretending to be ordinary real estate. Nobody was buying that. This footprint, this location, this provenance—there was no reasonable explanation for how property like this ended up intersecting with something like Squad 144.

"This is it," Aida said, stopping beside me.

"Platinum Bridge, No. 22. Supposedly built as an official's retirement plan—except retirement never happened. A neighbor reported him before he could use it, so the whole thing went down together."

"Very principled neighbor."

"Or they just didn't like him."

"That still counts as justice." Aida smiled faintly and didn't argue. I stood at the gate with my hands in my pockets, looking up at the building. Something I couldn't quite name crept up my spine. Not simple anticipation. Not exactly unease. More like the moment you realized something you'd only been joking about was suddenly, physically real in front of you. Off-campus housing. Eleven people. A building that had no business falling into our hands.

And an entire apparatus of extremely practical, extremely unhealthy privilege operations, wrapped neatly in the phrase pre-finals readiness. I stared at the house number in silence. Standing here, I already had the feeling— If Squad 144 actually moved in, there wouldn't be a single quiet day in this place. That kind of premonition was usually accurate. Aida walked to the gate, drew a key from her folder, and glanced back at me.

"Ready to go in, Shimo?" I looked at her, then at the door. Then let out a very quiet breath.