Chương 163: 61.Even a Monkey Could Get This License 2

By the time I got back to my room, the third-floor corridor had finally gone quiet. It didn't last. Not long after, I heard the door next to mine open and close. A little later, footsteps from further down the hall, and someone's voice—low, but not low enough to hide the fact that they were laughing. I lay on my back and looked at the ceiling, and for the first time felt it clearly— We were actually living together. Not a group chat. Not a meeting. Not a floor plan that had nearly sparked a diplomatic incident.

This was through-the-wall, shared-bathroom, your-milk-and-someone-else's-pudding-in-the-same-refrigerator, the-basement-might-have-a-tactical-holotable-by-tomorrow living together. Loud. Chaotic. Not good for anyone's long-term health. But when I actually closed my eyes, I found I didn't mind as much as I should have.... Terrible. I was woken the next morning by sound from downstairs. Not an alarm. Not Maki knocking. Something more composite—the noise of at least three people already in motion in the same building.

Running water, footsteps, dishes, a distant voice saying that's not your cup, and from the kitchen, what was probably something being fried. I opened my eyes and checked the time. 05: 47 Motherfucker. This wasn't waking up early. This was a military incursion. I lay there for two seconds considering whether I could plausibly not exist today, and then there was a quiet knock at the door.

"Shimo." Her. Of course.

"... What."

"If you don't get up, there won't be any hot water left." I sat up. My hair looked like it had survived a localized airstrike.

"What time is it?" A brief pause outside the door.

"Almost six."

"Why is someone showering at six?" Maki answered in the same tone she would use to read a weather forecast: "Because D was up at 0520." I stared at the wall.

"What for?"

"Walk the building. Morning PT." Right. Someone had already turned day one of off-campus housing into a duty rotation. I dragged myself to the door. Maki was already dressed, holding two folders.

"You haven't showered yet?"

"Not yet." She glanced at me.

"I was waiting for you."

"Why?"

"So you wouldn't go back to sleep." She'd been getting less polite about saying things like that lately. The worse part was that she wasn't wrong. If she hadn't come to get me, I probably would have gone back under. Yesterday's three small wars had left half my soul at the basement door. By the time I'd washed up and come downstairs, the common area was already running. D was up first, as expected.

He sat at the long table with his terminal and a coffee so black it looked capable of dissolving personality—clean, alert, and upright in the way of something that had been in service since 0600. Roy must have been second. The evidence was already on the table: an updated household supplies list, itemized with the precision of someone who had secretly convened an administrative meeting while everyone slept.

Ash was third down the stairs, yawning over the morning news, posture loose but carrying that infuriating ease—the kind that made him look like he was on a bridge deck even when he'd just woken up. As for who had taken over the bathroom— It wasn't Jess. It was Evelyn. For reasons that were entirely, quintessentially Evelyn. I'd barely sat down when Jess's voice came wailing from the third floor.

"Evelyn! You've been in there for twenty-five minutes!" From upstairs, very calmly: "I'm testing water pressure stability." Two seconds of silence throughout the building. Then Harvey laughed.

"Is she serious?" I pressed one hand to my forehead and accepted the hot drink Maki set in front of me with the other.

"If she's not serious, that's actually more alarming." Maki put the cup down beside me and said, without ceremony: "Drink that first."

"... Are you getting more like my legal guardian lately?"

"If you could remember to eat breakfast on your own, I'd consider retiring."

"She won't," Jess's voice floated down from the staircase—her irritation arriving before she did.

"She almost forgot where she put her socks yesterday."

"Why were you looking at my socks?"

"I wasn't looking, they were in the middle of the hallway." She dropped into a chair, hair still half-damp—she'd clearly managed to claim some hot water in the gap left by Evelyn's pressure testing. The mystery of the missing bacon resolved itself shortly after, when Lan came out of the kitchen holding a spatula, brow furrowed in a very orderly way.

"Who already ate two strips of bacon?" Silence around the table. Akari sat in the corner, slowly working through a piece of toast, gaze perfectly level. D drank his coffee. Roy read his list. Ash turned a page. I had just gotten out of bed and lacked the operational capability. Maki was cutting fruit. Jess was still processing her bathroom grievances.

Every eye in the room drifted, with complete naturalness, toward Harvey, who had just emerged from the direction of the basement holding half a bread roll of unknown origin.

"... Why's everyone looking at me?"

"You have bacon grease on your mouth," Akari said.

"Oh." He wiped it, honestly.

"That was probably me then."

"Probably?" Lan said, without expression.

"Okay, it was me."

"Why?"

"I came down at 0430 to get something and I was hungry." I stared at him.

"Why the fuck were you down at 0430?"

"Checking whether the basement took on any moisture overnight."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Professional diligence."

"No," Roy said, finally looking up.

"That's a medical condition." Breakfast unfolded in the particular atmosphere of a group that had been cohabitating for less than forty-eight hours and had already produced its first refrigerator criminal. I sat at the long table and watched these people snap into their positions and habits with remarkable speed, and felt something strange settle over me. D would always be up first. Roy would always have a list. Lan would hold the kitchen to account.

Evelyn would occupy the bathroom with technically defensible justifications. Harvey would raid the refrigerator at ungodly hours and produce a hundred absurd explanations. Jess would generate noise. Akari would lie there like a sun-warmed fish and see through everything without moving. Ash looked the most normal, but I suspected that was temporary. Aida hadn't fully revealed her domestic habits yet, and I was maintaining a high level of vigilance.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. And Maki— I glanced at her. She was pushing the cut fruit toward me, and pressing two handouts flat on the table in front of me at the same time.

"Read these when you're done eating." Right. The one thing that had intensified since Maki moved in was her administrative jurisdiction over me. Packaged beautifully. Impossible to find fault with. Just steadily, quietly expanding. I took a bite of toast and thought: compared to the Snowwind front line, daily life at 22 Platinum Bridge Street might actually break me first.

I'd assumed that after move-in, the main priorities would be settling in, exam prep, and monitoring when exactly Harvey would convert the basement into a tactical space of legally ambiguous status. What I hadn't expected was that Group 144's first collective project would be getting Hoshino Shimo a motorcycle license. It started one morning after breakfast. I was still chewing my last bite of egg when Maki set a clear folder on the table in front of me.

"What's this?"

"Your motorcycle licensing process." I nearly choked.

"What do you mean my licensing process?"

"Exactly what it says." She sat across from me, expression perfectly composed.

"I've compiled the theory material. Simulation practice starts this afternoon. Exam tomorrow." I looked at the folder. Inside: exam venue map, system interface diagram, handwritten summary notes. The feeling that came over me was genuinely absurd. This wasn't a licensing process. This was a small military operation. Jess leaned over from the side, took one look, and started laughing.

"Maki, this isn't tutoring. This is an escort mission."

"She'd drag her feet otherwise," Maki said.

"You say that like I'm unreliable." The entire table looked up at me simultaneously. That silence said everything. I gritted my teeth.

"... I hate it when you all do that."

"It's effective, though," Aida said from the far end of the table. She had the nerve to add: "Besides, if you're going to be operating off-campus, having a license is genuinely practical."

"Are you helping Group 144, or conducting a census of the Federation's ground mobility capacity?"

"Those aren't mutually exclusive." I hated that phrase. It was showing up more and more often. The motorcycle theory course had less human decency than I'd anticipated. Not because it was hard. Because it was so simple that getting anything wrong would mean losing all dignity as an intelligent life form in front of witnesses. Maki opened the household projector and put the licensing system's practice question bank up on the living room wall.

The first question appeared: When a pedestrian is crossing the road ahead, what is the correct response? A. Slow down and yield B. Accelerate through C. Sound horn as warning D. Decide based on mood I stared at the four options for three seconds.

"This is an exam?"

"Yes," Maki said.

"This isn't just common sense?"

"The Federal Transportation Authority apparently believes many people lack it," Aida said. Harvey laughed beside me.

"Honestly, fair."

"Shut up." The questions got progressively more insulting. When a smart intersection shifts to amber alert, what action should be taken— On a wet surface with reduced coefficient of friction, if the two-wheel stability assist system fails, the priority should be— The later questions were slightly more respectable, but the overall range remained firmly within "if you fail too many of these, please reconsider your place in civilized society."

Maki sat beside me and worked through them one by one, like someone helping a child with homework.

"On this type, look for the keyword first."

"Don't memorize the regulation on this one. Follow the logic."

"Watch for this system prompt. It comes up constantly." She spoke at an even pace, voice steady, close enough that I could catch the scent of her shampoo and something faint and clean from her collar. Every time she leaned over to point at an answer field, I was acutely aware of how little distance there was between her elbow and mine. The thing about that kind of situation is that it could have been completely ordinary. Just tutoring.

But when the person is Maki Kushima, things have a way of quietly becoming something less ordinary without announcing themselves.

"This one?" she asked.

"A."

"Correct. Why?"

"Because I'd like to keep living and not get reported to the Federal Transportation Authority by a pedestrian." She laughed, very softly.

"That works as a mnemonic." Jess was draped over the back of the sofa watching us with the expression of someone watching premium content.

"Maki, you look exactly like a star tutor right now."

"She's more like a proctor," I said.

"No," Akari said, slowly eating a cracker.

"She's like the kind of person who straightens your pen even when you already know the answer." I turned and glared at her.

"Could you all stop making me sound like I can't function independently." The table went into one of its collective silences. The kind that was designed to wound. Great. This was Group 144's version of affection. That afternoon, Maki took me to the Federal Civil Transportation Simulation Center. The name was formal. The exterior was formal. The equipment inside was even more formal.

Silver-grey simulation pods arranged in clean rows, transparent interfaces floating overhead, dynamic guide strips embedded in the floor. Every training bike came equipped with a balance assist frame, pressure-sensitive grips, attitude correction module, and full holographic road projection. In other words: unless you were actively trying to crash, this thing would not let you fall. That didn't mean it couldn't humiliate you. I nearly missed my turn signal at the first simulated intersection.

The system immediately displayed, in very large letters directly in my field of vision: Please complete basic driving etiquette before proceeding. I came close to ripping the visor off and throwing it on the floor.

"Does this thing have to sound exactly like a disappointed teacher?" Maki stood outside the training area, arms crossed, tone undisturbed.

"Because you actually forgot."

"Is that comfort or a knife?"

"Observation." And the most infuriating part was that most of Group 144 had shown up for no apparent reason. Jess was outside banging on the glass.

"Shimo! Turn signal! Turn signal! You ride like that in public and you'll become a news story!"

"Shut the fuck up!" D stood to one side, arms folded, watching like he was evaluating a recruit.

"Eyes up." Ash added, with genuine seriousness: "Don't stare at the front wheel in a turn. Look at the exit." Roy's contribution was more practical.

"Is there a fee if she damages the simulator?" Harvey was crouched by the training bike examining the wheel hub.

"This balance module is actually pretty well-built. With a few modifications you could probably—""Don't touch it," Maki and I said at the same time. We both paused. Jess lost it completely.

"That was such a couple thing to say."

"Jess," I said, through my teeth.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop." She didn't stop. She just turned the volume down and kept laughing. The simulation was considerably more useful than the theory section, but future technology had no sense of sportsmanship. It wouldn't let you fall. It would simply note, in the most civilized and objective manner available, every single mistake you made the moment you made it.

By the third time the system gently informed me that my braking was too abrupt and passenger comfort rating had declined, I was beginning to suspect it had been specifically engineered to dismantle exam candidates' self-worth. Maki showed no impatience whatsoever. If anything, she was more focused than usual.

"Loosen your grip."

"Stop fighting the bike."

"You're not suppressing a target. You're turning."

"Was that last one necessary?"

"Yes." She reached over and adjusted my gear strap as she said it. The distance closed suddenly—close enough that I could see the shadow her lashes made under the training lights. The movement was completely natural, like it hadn't occurred to her that it was anything. I went rigid for a second, entirely against my will. She looked up.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing." I looked away immediately.

"You were just suddenly very close." Maki stopped. Her fingers were still on the strap buckle. Then she made a quiet sound—something between a syllable and an acknowledgment.

"Sorry." She stepped back. Normally. Completely normally. So normally that I was, for no reason I could justify, vaguely irritated about it.... Should I be seeing a neurologist before I get a motorcycle license? The actual exam was simpler than the simulation. Simple enough to suggest that the Federal Transportation Authority had given up expecting anything of its citizens and was now only asking that they not drive into someone's living room on their first day out.

The test track was a semi-open circuit with guide strips in the floor and real-time prompt frames floating overhead. The exam bike had stability assist built in, and the road conditions were pre-marked throughout. To be direct: this wasn't testing whether you could ride. It was testing whether you were willing to behave. When I got on the bike, Jess waved at me from outside.

"Shimo, good luck! Try not to take out a streetlight!"

"First thing I do after I pass is come find you."

"Ooh, the hostility. Love it." D said only: "Ride normally." That was the most useful thing anyone said. I took a breath, settled my hands, and followed the system prompts out. Turn signal. Decelerate. Yield. Roundabout. Stop. No falling. No collision. No violations. The whole run was smooth enough that I couldn't account for what, exactly, I'd been nervous about. When it ended, the system produced one final line: Performance satisfactory. Please continue to exercise basic rationality.

I stood there staring at it and genuinely wanted to ask the Federal Transportation Authority: how many unhinged people hurt you before you started putting "basic rationality" in your passing remarks. Results posted immediately. Passed. Digital license authorization pushed to my terminal. Jess was the first one over, laughing loudly.

"Congratulations! Group 144 has officially acquired a licensed two-wheeled weapons platform!"

"Keep talking and you'll be my first passenger—straight to the nearest ditch."

"I'm open to it, but I'll need to see your technique first." Harvey was already evaluating bike models nearby.

"So can we look at a used—""Not yet," Roy cut him off.

"I'd prefer not to be drawing up a maintenance budget the day after she passes." D nodded.

"Give her a week to adjust." Akari stood with her arms folded, dead-fish eyes serenely undisturbed.

"At least now she can actually go buy breakfast."

"Is that what this whole operation was for?" I said.

"What did you think it was for?" Jess blinked.

"You thought we cared about your freedom and personal development?"

"... You're all disgusting." Maki stood beside me and glanced at the authorization on my terminal, confirming it, before saying, with very little inflection: "Good." I looked at her.

"Good?"

"Yeah." She looked back at me, eyes quiet.

"Things will be easier now." That tone again. The one that never said I was worried about you, or I wanted things to be easier for you, or I wanted you somewhere I could keep track of you. She would only ever say: easier. Infuriatingly precise.

"You sound like you're signing off on a deliverable," I said.

"In a sense."

"I'm not your project." She looked at me for a moment. Then the corner of her mouth moved—barely, just barely.

"Lately you kind of are." I had absolutely nothing to say to that. Jess saw my face and nearly collapsed.

"HAHAHA—Shimo, you've been officially inducted into General Kushima's management portfolio."

"Shut up."

"No. This is too good." I took a breath, looked down, and closed the authorization screen. Right. By the second day at 22 Platinum Bridge Street, I had learned three things: One: eleven people living together means civilization is held together entirely by shower schedules and refrigerator treaties. Two: Maki's administrative jurisdiction over me had expanded from academics to transportation. Three: Group 144 collectively considered watching me embarrass myself a form of shared recreation.

A model of communal living. Although— If I had to say it. When I tucked that new license authorization into my terminal and looked at the people around me—loud, chaotic, not one of them resembling a normal person, and yet all of them treating my business as their business without a second thought—I felt, very much against my will, something real settle in my chest. We were actually living together. Actually sharing days. Even getting a motorcycle license had turned into a Group 144 collective operation. Absurd.

Inconvenient. But somehow— Not entirely bad.