Chương 149: 56. Living Off-Campus 1

The next morning I didn't wake up to my alarm, and I didn't wake up to Jess's mouth. I woke up to my terminal buzzing. It was vibrating against my pillow like it knew that if it didn't drag me out of bed, Squad 144 was going to stage a minor coup before breakfast. Half my face was still buried in the pillow. I groped around, found the terminal, and dragged the screen up without fully opening my eyes.

Then I saw: Squad 144 / Temporary We-Don't-Want-to-Die Alliance (Group Admin: Jess) Unread messages: 57 I stared at that number for three seconds and genuinely concluded that one of civilization's greatest mistakes was giving students access to group chats.

"…Holding meetings at this hour. Do these people not sleep." My voice came out wrecked, like I'd swallowed sandpaper in my dreams. A page turned beside me. I looked over. Maki was already up, sitting at her desk with a thin blanket over her legs, holding the fleet operations manual I'd refused to look at again last night. She glanced up at me.

"You slept seven hours and twelve minutes."

"How do you know?"

"You stopped turning over at 0114," she said.

"First message buzz made you frown at 0626. You actually woke up at 0631." I looked at her for two seconds. …She really wasn't pretending anymore.

"This isn't observation. This is domestic surveillance."

"If you kept regular hours, I could reduce the logging frequency."

"Who authorized you to log—""Morning, you two." Jess's voice drifted down from the top bunk, thick with sleep but completely unimpaired in its ability to be obnoxious.

"Shimo, you know what that 'who authorized you' just sounded like? A spouse who's been married three years and just discovered their partner has been secretly tracking their cycle. Tragic and relatable."

"Shut up."

"Nope." She rolled over and half her face appeared upside down over the edge, grinning like a fox that still had energy to hunt at dawn.

"Check the messages first. Harvey's already doing financial analysis, D is expressing six hundred kilos of realism in three sentences, and Akari has destroyed all romanticism with two words." I looked back down at the terminal. Perfect. The dorm had barely woken up, and the outside world was already on round two of live fire. I opened the group chat. Messages flooded up. D: First practical question. How much does rent cost. Harvey: Finally someone speaking human. Jess: Wow, D is hot today. D: Don't call me that.

Akari: Gross. Jess: See? Two words. She destroys everything. Harvey: Focus. Off-campus housing with Academy subsidy stacked on Federal Youth Citizen Housing Allowance, calculated against top-team status—split eleven ways, it might actually cost less than this dump. Lan: Wait, when did we start discussing eleven people living together? Roy: I'm not awake yet. Someone tell me this is a dream. Harvey: Not a dream. You're just as broke conscious, so face it now. I pressed my forehead into my hand.

Half my brain was still soaking in sleep; the other half had been dragged into a budget meeting by these people.

"Why are they doing financial analysis before seven a. m.?" I muttered. Maki calmly turned a page.

"Because that's the correct order."

"What order?"

"Money first, then ideals," she said.

"People who skip straight to talking about housing freedom usually end up back in the system dorms." … Annoyingly logical. I sat up, scrubbed a hand through my hair, and scrolled up. Harvey had already posted summary tables—the kind that made it obvious he'd prepped the data before bed. Harvey: Known conditions: Off-campus housing application is a top-team privilege, not a backdoor violation. Academy provides external housing stipends. Federal Citizen Housing Allowance can stack on top.

Jess: The phrase "Federal Citizen" makes me want to laugh every time. Harvey: Done laughing? Good. Moving on. Harvey: If eleven people apply together under mission-unit designation, after Academy and government subsidies, individual out-of-pocket could theoretically be lower than our current deposit plus miscellaneous fees for this building. Roy: … Seriously? D: If that's true, not taking it would be stupid. Akari: Assuming it's habitable. Harvey: Which is why we need conditions.

I stared at individual out-of-pocket could be lower than this dump and felt something surreal settle over me. What was this? Yesterday we were first-years debating whether off-campus housing was even reachable. This morning, before 0700, we were calculating how to legally extract maximum benefit from Federal subsidy structures. It sounded like corruption. What made it worse—it wasn't even a violation. It was compliant corruption.

The kind with documentation, regulatory clauses, approval workflows, and the ability to be written up as an Elite Cadet Combat Readiness Housing Support Initiative. I laughed under my breath.

"What?" Jess peered down.

"Nothing." I looked at the screen.

"Just suddenly realized the Federation's real first lesson isn't how to fight. It's how to strip-mine the rulebook." Maki closed her manual and added, evenly:"Correct. Plenty of people can fight. People who know how to use the system are worth more."

"Is that a Kushima family bedtime story?"

"No." She looked at me.

"Our bedtime stories are worse." … I believed that completely. I threw off the covers and headed for the sink, scrolling as I walked. The conversation had moved into dirtier, more practical territory. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Jess: If we're doing this, where? We can't cram eleven people into some bargain student apartment. We'll kill each other over shower rotations before we even board Yukikaze. D: Needs to be big enough. Lan: Needs to be safe.

Roy: Needs independent laundry. Please. I'm begging. Akari: Needs to be quiet. Harvey: Needs space for gear maintenance and materials work. Cold storage and tool lockers would be ideal. Jess: See? We're not looking for housing. We're looking for a small forward operating base. D: Obviously. I'd just reached the sink when the next message dropped. The morning's first real bomb. Aida Rosen: If it's just housing, there are plenty of options.

Aida Rosen: If the goal is finals practicum preparation, I can ask my father about vacant officer residences on Platinum Bridge Street. My hand froze mid-reach for the toothpaste. Toothbrush still between my teeth, foam nearly dropping from my mouth. Jess let out a sound of pure, ecstatic delight from above.

"Oh, here we go—Defense Committee Chair privilege—the sweet scent of institutional corruption!" I stood there with a mouthful of toothpaste and awkwardly turned toward the terminal. Platinum Bridge Street. Not normal residential. That was officer housing—not the decent kind, but the kind where walking past made you instinctively feel even the dust outranked you.

Senior officers, mid-tier command, families, security, full amenities—everything arranged like the Federation had remembered people could live like human beings. And someone had just casually offered it up with an oh, if you need anything, I can probably arrange it tone. This wasn't corruption. This was corruption holding the door open and asking if you wanted tea. I rinsed quickly, wiped my mouth, and grabbed the terminal. The group had exploded. Roy: Hold on—Platinum Bridge? That Platinum Bridge?

Lan: Isn't that senior officer residential? Jess: Are we finally ascending to the corrupt lifestyle of the Federal elite? I am ready. D: Location doesn't matter. Usability does. Akari: Also why she can arrange it. Harvey: Because her last name is Rosen. You're just now realizing the world isn't fair? You're late. Aida Rosen: Correction. I can't "arrange" it. Certain vacant officer residences are already designated for priority allocation to practicum-stage military units. Most students just don't know the channels.

Jess: Right, right. Not a backdoor—just "familiarity with procedure." The most disgusting kind. I stared at the screen, something complicated twisting in my gut. On one hand, this was incredibly tempting. Eleven people splitting costs, subsidies stacked, individual share potentially lower than this deteriorating dorm, and a shot at officer-grade housing—for first-years, it smelled like a scam. On the other hand, I wanted to laugh. Because this was so Federation.

Endless talk of fairness, institutional integrity, honor, youth development—and the actually useful things still required knowing which door to push, who to ask, and which rule could be flipped around. I sat back down. Maki had opened her terminal too.

"What do you think?" I asked. Maki scanned the chat, tone level as always.

"If we get Platinum Bridge, it means three things."

"Which are?"

"First, high security. Second, quality environment—good for preparation." She paused.

"Third—you'll hate yourself for it."

"Why are you so sure about the third?"

"Because you'll spend the entire time living there cursing Federal institutional corruption." She looked at me.

"But you'll still live there." …Damn it. I hated how she could write executive summaries of my internal monologue. Jess climbed down, hair a disaster, trash-talking ability completely unaffected.

"I vote we take it. Three reasons." She counted on her fingers.

"One, I want to know if officer bathrooms have more dignified hot water. Two, it's cheaper than this place, which is already a decisive victory. Three—" She glanced between me and Maki, smile reaching maximum toxicity.

"Better cohabitation environment means better relationship development space."

"Can you extract your brain from the yuri theater for five minutes?"

"No," she said without shame.

"And you were literally doing 'I'm awake but I'm playing dead' advanced romantic tension with Kushima in the library yesterday. Don't act innocent." I nearly threw my pen at her. Maki, with perfect composure, opened her water bottle and took a sip, as if Jess had just read the weather. … One sets the fire. The other warms her hands by it. That's their arrangement. I ignored both and typed into the group. Shimo: Don't rush the location choice. Shimo: List conditions first.

Almost immediately after I sent it, the group went quiet. Then Harvey jumped in first. Harvey: Finally someone talking sense. Jess: Your mouth is toxic. Did you brush your teeth? Harvey: Cleaner than yours. Continue. As I typed, I reflected on how strange my life had become. Normal first-years at this hour were probably debating whether to sneak a twenty-minute lunch nap.

We were discussing how to maximize our benefits, legally drain Academy and government subsidies, and convert housing into a pre-finals tactical advantage. This wasn't student behavior. This was a pack of juvenile predators who'd just received citizenship and immediately started learning where to bite the system. … Honestly, I was a little proud. Shimo: Conditions first, no rush on submission. Shimo: One: All eleven, same unit. No splitting.

Shimo: Two: Space must support group study, materials work, basic gear maintenance. Shimo: Three: Transit can't be garbage. Easy access to Academy, sim facilities, port training sector. Shimo: Four: Soundproofing and sleep quality. Sleep-deprived people on ships get others killed. Shimo: Five: Basic infrastructure. Cold storage, laundry, network access, terminal connectivity. D replied immediately. D: Add: Security. No ground floor. Minimal outside traffic. Akari: Add: Sight lines. Need to see approaches.

Harvey: Add: Tool storage. And a lockable shared cabinet. Don't let idiots shelve medkits with snacks. Jess: Add: Bathroom count. I speak for civilization. Eleven people, one bathroom—someone dies. Roy: Bathroom clause seconded. This is a red line. Lan: Two minimum. Watching the messages scroll, I felt something close to amusement. Strange picture. Yesterday we were still the kind of squad that opened with mutual insults.

Now we were running something approaching a formal meeting—listing requirements, stating demands, calculating subsidies, issuing grave strategic opinions on bathroom quantity. And the strangest part: It didn't feel bad. Not cold like Academy assignment rosters. Not forced like early field training. More like something real growing a skeleton. Not one person dictating—everyone pushing in their own non-negotiables. That's what an actual unit felt like.

Jess squeezed beside me to look at the screen, shoulder against my arm. The spectator energy in her voice had dialed down into something more genuine.

"This is actually good."

"What is?"

"Negotiating conditions instead of gratefully accepting whatever we're handed." She watched the thread.

"That's how people who survive think." I glanced at her. She kept her eyes on the screen. But the line landed with unexpected weight. Maki spoke then too.

"One more to add." I looked up.

"What?" She watched the conditions scrolling, voice steady.

"The application purpose can't just be 'more comfortable housing,'" she said.

"Frame it as 'maintaining pre-finals unit efficiency and independent management requirements.' Otherwise reviewers will crush you with institutional morality." … Right. The dirtiest, most honest part. Not whether the conditions were right—but how to write them. What language made the system swallow it whole. I looked down and added the note.

Application purpose: To maintain pre-finals unit readiness efficiency, independent scheduling, and combat-preparatory learning consistency, requesting top-team off-campus housing allocation. Perfect. We weren't first-years wanting nicer housing—we were responsible, motivated future Federation officers practically doing the institution a favor. Disgusting. Also effective. I set the terminal down and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

"That's enough for now. Get the conditions listed. Nothing submitted today." Harvey: Agreed. D: Agreed. Akari: Agreed. Jess: Agreed, but I'm holding the bathroom line. I smiled and finally stood up. Morning light slanted through the curtain gap, falling across textbooks, the terminal, and notes I'd weighted down last night.

The room was still messy—Jess's socks continuing their war against civilization, Maki's desk immaculate as a demonstration model, and me between them, holding the housing conditions we'd just drafted, feeling something I couldn't quite name. We really were changing. Not the cheap kind—sudden passion, overnight maturity. The slower, more inconvenient kind. Starting to know where to push back. Starting to know what couldn't be given away quietly.

Starting to understand that if you wanted to live like something resembling a person, you had to learn to negotiate with the system first. Very Federation. Very disgusting. But at least this time, we weren't the ones taking all the hits. I closed my notebook.

"All right, regular classes today," I said.

"I'll hold onto the conditions list. Anyone who wants to add something can do it later." Jess yawned and lazily raised her hand.

"I've got an addition."

"Go ahead."

"If we actually end up on Platinum Bridge Street," she said, smile turning predatory, "I'm formally requesting that you and Maki refrain from doing that thing in the common room at midnight—you know, the very quiet but completely impossible to ignore mutual tension theater. It affects roommate sleep quality."

"You looking to die?"

"See, she got defensive." I grabbed my pillow and launched it at her face. Maki, sitting beside me, didn't intervene. She did, however, reach over at the exact moment the pillow left my hand and nudge the water glass at the table's edge back from the brink. A small, automatic gesture. And because it was automatic, something in my chest snagged without warning. … Never mind. Not important right now.

What was important: the day had barely started, and Squad 144 had already completed a surprisingly professional rights-maximization summit before breakfast. At this rate, we might actually evolve into a pack of small, legally compliant institutional predators before finals. Honestly, I was looking forward to it. What I didn't know yet was that the truly complicated part of this conversation had nothing to do with subsidies, or Platinum Bridge Street, or how much eleven people splitting costs could actually save.

It was that once we started treating eleven people living together as a given, certain distances that had been camouflaged with jokes would suddenly close in ways that couldn't be unseen.