Chương 384: 173.Running My Legs Off 1

Once the morning meeting ended, the Representative Team Selection hell officially opened for business. I'm struggling to describe the feeling in anything resembling civilized language. If I had to try — it was like an invisible blunt blade had been pressing against me since morning, cutting slowly. Not the kind that drops you in a spray of blood. The patient kind. The systematic kind, the very-much-in-the-school's-style kind, that keeps reminding you: You don't have to die today.

You just have to start losing your freedom, a little at a time. I sat through first period still able to convince myself: it's fine, class time is still class time. By second period, third period, and especially the stretch after lunch that was theoretically called independent study, I understood I'd been naive. Even prisoners get yard time. Right now, I couldn't even breathe without feeling like I needed to file an application first.

From the end of lunch through to the final bell, I was spinning like a top being whipped by an invisible hand. Not the sharp, elite-cadet kind of running. The I'm sprinting and simultaneously asking the universe whether the United Interstellar Military Academy is secretly also a licensed labor exploitation facility kind. First wave: collecting registration forms.

It's called a representative team selection, which makes it sound like you pick a handful of the strongest people, send them out to compete, and everyone claps or writes a reflection depending on the outcome. But the thing schools do best is take anything that could be said in three sentences and inflate it into a full institutional monster capable of sustaining ten administrative offices indefinitely. So I started with the clubs.

Marksmanship Club, Tactical Studies Association, Simulated Bridge Enthusiast Group, Close Combat Training Unit, Electronic Warfare Research Society, Ground Mobility Squad — and two joint clubs whose names were long enough that I genuinely suspected they were compensating for capability gaps through sheer nominative ambition — each handing me their team registration sheets one by one. Papers of varying thickness. Handwriting of varying legibility — some ugly, some uglier.

Some people had been thorough: events, members, substitutes, contact information, all filled in cleanly. Others had treated the form like a final testament, leaving me staring at something that read less like a competition application and more like a test of whether the Vice President could interpret a fever dream through sheer willpower. And that was only layer one. Layer two: individual and ad-hoc group registrations through the online system.

Standing in the temporary classroom the Council had borrowed, cross-referencing the digital list against the paper copies, I almost considered registering myself too, with the notes field reading: status uncertain, suspected long-term institutional erosion. When the count came in, I looked at the number and nearly sat down on the floor. Thirty-something clubs. Seventy-plus groups of varying sizes. And this was only the first wave of preliminary registrations.

I stared at that list and understood, with sudden clarity, what people mean when they talk about the world's malice. Maki's line from this morning surfaced, at exactly the wrong time. Registration closes before the New Year, so it's going to be busy. She'd said it with the calm of someone discussing the weather. In retrospect, that hadn't been a heads-up. It had been a declaration.

I carried the growing stack of registration forms back to the Seitokai office, feeling less like a Vice President and more like a battlefield courier delivering disaster to headquarters, one form at a time. I pushed open the door to find Maki still behind the document mountain. She was running at the same near-frightening steady state she'd been in all morning — pen still moving, three empty coffee cups added to the landscape. I dropped the stack onto the desk.

"First wave." She looked up, checked the thickness, didn't even blink.

"More than expected."

"You said that like you're reviewing migratory bird statistics." She pulled the top few sheets over and flipped through them.

"This is still just the beginning."

"Please don't say that in that tone. I'm in a fragile state right now."

"Your fragile state usually lasts about three seconds."

"That's because you never give it any room." She finally laughed — briefly, barely, just a shift at the corner of her mouth. I caught it. Then, one second later, she pushed me back into hell with practiced ease.

"Once you're done collecting forms, start contacting the other units."

"... I knew it." I'd barely reached for the chair back when a sheet of paper appeared from the side. The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. I turned. Hedwig stood at the desk, holding a cleanly organized list. Even the way she was handing someone a descent into administrative suffering managed to look like she was presenting a tea-party invitation. She gave me a small smile.

"Vice President. These are the committees you'll need to contact." I took the sheet and looked down. Disciplinary Committee. Health Committee. Broadcasting Committee. Equipment Management Committee. Facility Maintenance Team. Security Cooperation Unit. Logistics Rotation. Transportation Coordination. Internal Communications Liaison... I kept reading. Each line felt like a polite burial. Hedwig, while I was still reading, added, helpfully:"Everything except the Library Committee."

I looked up at her face — perfectly composed, perfectly innocent — and arrived at one conclusion. She's a demon. A demon who makes nine-compartment breakfasts and hands you execution orders in an educated tone.

"... You know," I said, holding the sheet, voice very sincere, "that sentence sounded more alarming than please assist the Vice President in completing the following tasks." Hedwig blinked.

"Did it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Because you were smiling when you said it."

"I just didn't want you to give up reading at the first line because there were too many items."

"That kind of consideration makes me want to call the authorities." She seemed like she wanted to laugh, but kept the expression flat, leaving only a very faint, almost ceremonial softness. This type is the worst. All that composed precision in public, every sentence sounding like it could go directly into a diplomatic memo — and then the moment someone needs to be pushed toward a task, she does it more naturally than anyone.

I was about to negotiate myself two minutes of basic human rights when Maki's voice came from behind the document mountain.

"Hedwig."

"Yes."

"Go with Vice President Hoshino." I looked up. Maki was still writing, head down, tone perfectly level, like this was a minor logistical detail that had always been obvious.

"She should get to know the school. We were supposed to give you a tour. Too busy lately — nearly forgot." Nearly forgot. I made a quiet sound in my head. If she'd actually nearly forgotten, I'd write my name backwards. This arrangement had too many birds in it to count as a single stone. One: the Secretary should know the campus units. Two: I was going around anyway.

Three — the suspicious one: she probably knew that leaving Hedwig alone in the Council office would make her own day harder, while handing her to me meant the tour, the liaison work, and some kind of observation only Maki herself fully understood all got handled at once. I looked at her. She turned another page without looking up. The picture of someone just making sensible use of available resources. I knew her too well.

The more she looked like she wasn't doing anything, the more certain I was she'd already drawn the grid. Hedwig turned to me, very seriously.

"I'll be in your care, Vice President Hoshino." She said it too properly. Properly enough that for a second I felt like refusing would be less laziness and more diplomatic breach. I looked at the list in my hand, then at her, then sideways at Maki, still running steadily behind the document mountain.... Fine. These two together were a highly sophisticated institutional assassination.

"Alright," I said, folding the list into the folder.

"Let's go, Secretary. Before I lose the last of my humanity, we're doing a full tour of every committee in this school." Hedwig nodded.

"Thank you."

"One condition," I said, already heading for the door.

"What you're about to see isn't a campus tour. It's a guided tour of the administrative hell of the United Interstellar Military Academy. I can only guarantee accuracy, not a pleasant experience."

"I'll try to appreciate it."

"If you can actually appreciate it, I'm going to start suspecting the Imperial family's curriculum includes a mandatory pain-tolerance module." I'd said it offhandedly. She actually thought about it for a second.

"Strictly speaking, it isn't called that." I stopped. Turned.

"Wait. Is that answer slightly off?" She looked at me, expression still entirely composed, but something in her eyes had shifted — almost invisible, almost not there.... Done for. She was learning bad habits. And learning them fast. I had a sudden premonition. This errand run wasn't going to be just legwork. It might come with a live demonstration of an Imperial princess is considerably better at using polite language to back people into corners than you expected. At the door, I glanced back at Maki.

She finally looked up.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Just confirming — you assigned the Secretary to me purely for the campus tour?" She looked at me. Expression perfectly even. Practically innocent.

"What else would it be?"

"Every time you say what else, I know there's something else."

"Vice President."

"Yes, President." She set her pen down, tone still annoyingly calm.

"If you have time to speculate, you're not busy enough yet." Right. Reasonable. Too reasonable to bother arguing against. I resigned myself and pushed the door open, signaling Hedwig to follow. The corridor outside was still winter, the light through the windows cold and white. Whatever brief, soft illusion of rest the world had offered after lunch had long been stamped flat by the workload. I walked with my folder pressed to my chest, one clear thought in my head.

The Representative Team Selection hell had just opened its first door. And I, as Vice President, had been assigned to test the temperature out front. Hedwig fell into step beside me, pace unhurried, quiet in a way that was almost too well-suited to this kind of corridor. That suitability was inconvenient. Because once she went quiet, the person next to her started thinking too much. After a few steps, she spoke.

"You're very busy."

"A little late to ask that, isn't it?"

"Fair point."

"Though if you're willing to go back and tell the President that the Vice President is in poor condition today and needs to be released to her room to recover, I'd be very grateful."

"I could relay that." My step faltered.

"Really?" She looked at me, calm.

"But the President probably won't approve it."

"... You've already got a complete understanding of this Council's particular brand of evil."

"I just learn quickly."

"That sentence is also alarming coming from you." She didn't reply, just lowered her eyes slightly. Not a smile, but her expression made it clear her mood wasn't bad. Unbelievable. An hour ago she'd been more like an Imperial crest mounted on a wall. By afternoon, she was carrying a list, running administrative hell with me through the school, and had apparently learned how to deliver a cut with a level tone. I was starting to understand Maki's arrangement. This wasn't a tour.

This was dropping two people who cause trouble in completely different ways into the same corridor to see which part of the school broke first. I sighed. Hedwig turned her head.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing." I held up the list.

"I was just thinking — everything except the Library Committee is genuinely the most cursed sentence I've heard all day." She looked at it, quiet for half a beat, then said, very seriously:"If you'd like, I can help you split the work." I paused. That sentence was too normal. Normal enough that I didn't know how to respond for a second. Then I noticed her eyes resting on the stack in my hands — no condescension, no performed generosity, just a quiet, plain offer sitting there.

In that moment, the winter afternoon corridor felt slightly less cold than it had before. I couldn't let that feeling stay too long, of course. That way lay danger. So I pulled the corner of my mouth up immediately.

"Sure," I said.

"Then we start with the hardest one first. Let me show you how the Federation's committee culture turns normal students into administrative ghosts." She nodded.

"I'll learn."

"Please don't say that in such a serious tone." I turned toward the stairs.

"It makes me feel like the first one to get turned into a ghost might be me." The afternoon bell had long since rung. Down the far end of the corridor, students were moving, talking, crossing each other with armfuls of files. The school had resumed its usual shape — orderly on the surface, every gear grinding against every other gear underneath. I walked with my folder. Hedwig kept pace at my side. We headed toward the first committee on the list.