Chương 168: 63. Motorbike 2

The next morning at twenty-two felt less like day two of new communal living and more like a small disaster management center that had already been running for a while. D was up first as usual—before full light, he'd already walked the door locks, window latches, and parking situation, and straightened the previous day's simulation materials on the living room table while he was at it.

Roy came down second, holding a new supply list, looking like his pre-sleep thoughts had been budget projections rather than counting sheep. Lan was in the kitchen, using the kind of movements that communicated to the entire world exactly where pots belonged and how knives should be arranged in a civilized society. And I sat at the long table—increasingly resembling a fleet briefing surface—looking at a fleet management handout with the expression of someone reading their own future death certificate.

Spread open in front of me: port-district rotation and resupply procedures, intra-ship duty handover forms, temporary berth reassignment regulations, and priority sequencing for supply vessels in combat zones. In short, a complete system for reminding me that I'd wanted to simply stay alive, and now apparently also needed to understand how the system itself stayed alive. The person sitting beside me was the architect of this particular psychological torment. Maki Kushima.

Hair tied back neatly, sleeves rolled to just above the wrist, pen in hand—her posture so composed she didn't look like she was studying with me but quietly disassembling an imminent accident.

"This section isn't asking you to memorize," she said, tapping a line on the handout with her pen.

"It's asking you to understand what breaks first on the ship when port-district coordination fails."

"My will to live," I said, without expression. She didn't look up.

"Wrong."

"Then what?"

"Personnel flow." She pushed the handout slightly toward me, tone steady in a way that was genuinely irritating.

"When a supply vessel is delayed, it's not just cargo arriving late. Rotation schedules, cargo handling, watch assignments, communications confirmation, deck access sequencing—everything starts stepping on everything else. If you're only seeing the supplies, you're still thinking about the ship in two dimensions." I looked at her for two seconds.

"Do you know you're starting to sound like the kind of person who makes people cry on the bridge?"

"I'm not criticizing you," she said.

"You're not. You're just making me feel like my brain is decorative, very calmly." This time she actually laughed—barely, just a slight movement at the corner of her mouth. But that brief kind of laugh was the worst kind, because it made entirely clear that she was amused, and that she was finding it quite satisfying. I looked back down at the flow chart. Three lines in, I could feel my soul beginning to slowly evaporate out the back of my skull.

"Can people actually memorize this from reading it?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Me."

"... That answer is deeply annoying."

"But accurate." I took a breath and decided to abandon the self-destructive project of comparing brain architecture with someone gifted, and think in a more instinctively human way instead.

"The real problem isn't that I can't memorize it." I dropped my pen and leaned back.

"It's that none of this means anything on paper. Port districts, berth positions, access routes, dock numbers—on a page, it's all dead text." Maki looked up at me.

"So?" I looked at the formal notification on the table, then at the berth location diagram that had come with yesterday's delivery, and finally said what had actually been stuck in my chest.

"So it would be a lot easier if I actually had a bike." Maki didn't respond immediately. She just watched me, quietly, as if she was determining whether that was simple venting or the early sign of something that would generate new complications. I paused myself. Because it had come out too naturally—so naturally that I only realized after saying it that I'd spoken aloud something that had just been drifting around in my head.

"... What I mean is," I tried to recover, "not right now or anything. Just that if we're going to be confirming actual locations at the port district later, plus handling supply runs and errands back and forth from twenty-two, relying on walking and calling cars the whole time is fucking stupid." Maki made a very soft sound of acknowledgment. The dangerous kind. Not the absent mm of someone half-listening, but the one that meant she was officially filing this away for processing.

"You want to buy a bike?" she asked. I scratched the back of my head.

"It's not like I absolutely have to..." She looked at me. Half a second of silence. Then I gave up and told the truth.

"Fine. I've thought about it."

"Motorcycle?"

"What else? A tank?"

"If you actually drove a tank, the parking situation would drive Lan insane first."

"Good. Now I'm even more certain about the no-tank policy." Maki set her pen down. Her posture barely shifted, but something in her tone changed.

"Just for getting around, or do you need to carry things too?" I stared at her.

"... You're starting already?"

"Starting what?"

"Starting to sound like you're drafting a procurement specification."

"I'm just clarifying," she said, perfectly level.

"If you weren't just talking randomly, it means you have a real need. If you don't break the need down first, you'll buy the wrong thing." I looked at her and felt that familiar, helpless recognition settle in. This was what made Maki Kushima genuinely dangerous. She never came at you with obvious let me help you energy. She just quietly broke things into pieces, categorized them, organized them, moved them forward—and by the time you noticed, what had been I was just thinking had become alright, let's handle this.

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"... Probably both," I said finally.

"Daily runs between campus and twenty-two, supply errands, port district when needed, carrying things when necessary. As for passengers..." I stopped. Maki watched me, expression unchanged.

"What about passengers?"

"... Depends." She blinked, very slowly. Then she looked down and wrote two words in the margin of my handout. Will carry. I bristled immediately.

"Hey!"

"You hesitated."

"Hesitating isn't admitting anything."

"Hesitating means you already know the answer."

"Have you been getting more comfortable bullying people with this technique lately?"

"I'm just recording facts." She capped her pen like nothing had happened and continued: "Budget?"

"... We're already at budget discussions?"

"Of course." A brief glance.

"You don't want me to start with preferred paint colors." I had nothing for that. She was annoyingly right. I thought about it and gave her an honest, conservative range. She didn't mock me for being broke the way Jess would have, and she didn't immediately start reciting model numbers like Harvey. She just quietly wrote a few things in the margin.

Off-campus housing differential Remaining living stipend Woodland School performance award Personal savings I watched those lines appear, my brow slowly drawing together.

"... Don't tell me you're already calculating how to piece it together."

"I'm not piecing it together for you," Maki said, tone steady.

"I'm confirming whether, if you actually want to buy this, you can do it reasonably with your own money." That stopped me cold. Because she'd said your own money. Not I'll help you. The difference was massive. She clearly knew it was massive for me too.

"After moving out of the dorms, part of what the school was covering converts to an off-campus subsidy," she said, tapping through the lines with her pen.

"Plus you barely spend on anything normally, and you haven't touched the Woodland School award. If you're looking at civilian line, not high-spec, the budget works."

"How do you know I barely spend on anything?" She looked up at me, eyes unreasonably calm.

"Because the number of clothes in your closet is quite sad."

"... Don't go assessing people's wardrobes."

"Your door wasn't fully closed."

"That doesn't mean you can use it for financial analysis."

"It's effective though." I genuinely wanted to grab her pen and snap it. Unfortunately, I also knew that reaction would only confirm her assessment. I looked down at the margin she'd filled with notes, and another problem surfaced slowly.

"But if I actually buy one, being too conspicuous is also a problem, right?" This time Maki didn't answer immediately. She turned the pen once between her fingers, like she was internally confirming something that had already begun taking shape, then said: "Right."

"Right what?"

"I was thinking the same thing." She shifted the handout aside and leaned her elbow on the table, voice dropping slightly.

"Buying a bike now—you don't want to do it in any way that draws attention."

"Such as?"

"Such as: don't use the school's name, don't leave an advance application record with the Student Council, don't park it back on campus, don't pick a paint scheme that screams for attention, and don't buy something that announces my family has money and wants everyone to know it." I looked at her.

"The most ironic part of that sentence is that you're literally Student Council." Maki didn't flinch.

"Which is exactly why I know how to avoid it." Right. I had nothing for that. Almost wanted to applaud. She flipped the page over and started writing what looked considerably more like an actual operational plan. Purchase off-campus on rest day Civilian spec used/demo unit Pickup via third-party shop Registration under personal name Kept at 22, never campus parking"Wait," I said, reading through it.

"When did you actually start working this out for real?"

"About two seconds after you said it would be easier if I had a bike."

"You're genuinely terrifying."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know." She paused then, like something else had occurred to her. Her gaze drifted back to the Snowwind berth location diagram on the table, and for just a moment I caught something in her eyes that didn't look like it was only about buying a motorcycle. Something shifted in me.

"... What are you thinking about?"

"Purchase justification," she said.

"That needs thinking about?"

"Yes." She set the pen flat, voice settling back into that distinctly Kushima steadiness.

"If you just say you want to buy a bike, the reason is too loose. Easy to question, easy for people to turn into a joke."

"So how should it sound?"

"Reasonable and boring," she said.

"The more boring, the better."

"Please deliver your Student Council-grade evil." She ignored the dig and continued directly.

"Reason one: off-campus housing has increased transportation needs for daily supplies and transit between campus and port district. Reason two: the practicum unit is established, and one of the junior representatives needs more reliable independent mobility. Reason three: you just got your license, and familiarizing yourself with the vehicle during the holiday is better than scrambling to learn it right before the Snowwind pre-deployment phase." Halfway through, I had to press a hand to my forehead.

"That's disgusting."

"It's reasonable."

"Which is exactly why it's disgusting."

"Then it's working." Two seconds of silence. Then I asked what was actually stuck in my chest.

"What about the Student Council?" Maki looked at me. In the morning light, her eyes were quiet and clear.

"They won't know in advance."

"You're sure?"

"I'm not using Council channels," she said simply.

"You buy under your own name, keep the bike at twenty-two, never enter campus parking. The purchase is a private off-campus transaction. As long as you don't touch academy parking allocation or transportation subsidies, it won't surface on the Student Council's desk." I looked at her and slowly worked through the logic.

"So what you're saying is..."

"Buy quietly," she said.

"Legal, reasonable, no fanfare. Make it look like something completely ordinary and boring—just there to make daily life a little more convenient." I thought about it, and found myself almost smiling.

"But if I actually get one, keeping it boring might be difficult."

"Why?" I reached over and tapped the berth location map on the table.

"Because then I'd have a perfectly legitimate reason to say: Since I already have the bike, I might as well ride out to the port district and check the Snowwind's berth in person. Easier to remember that way." Her gaze followed my finger to the spot I was touching. She didn't speak immediately. I kept going, trying to sound casual: "See the ship, then loop the outer roads.

And if there happened to be a high point somewhere with a clear view of the whole port and approach lanes—stopping there wouldn't be unreasonable either." Maki still said nothing. But her silence wasn't absence—it was the silence of someone listening completely and quietly confirming: oh. You've already thought it through this far. Her look made me slightly uncomfortable. I glanced away first.

"What."

"Nothing," she said, lightly.

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"I was just thinking that sometimes you're actually not completely hopeless at planning."

"That sentence is kind of insulting."

"It's also a compliment."

"I'll take it under protest." She watched me for another moment, then picked up her pen and added one final line at the bottom of the plan. Port district field reconnaissance → elevated vantage point for approach lane visibility I stared at that line, something twitching at the corner of my mouth.

"You actually wrote in going up the hill."

"It makes the plan complete."

"Your definition of complete is questionable."

"No it isn't." Her tone was steady to the point of being righteous.

"Observing the port and shipping lanes from elevation is objectively more effective than flat memorization."

"So you're not just casually scheduling a mountain ride?"

"No." A brief pause. Then, very lightly: "At least not on paper." I laughed despite myself. Not loudly—just a breath that fell out before I could catch it. But once it did, something in my chest felt lighter. Maybe because yesterday's formal notification had been so heavy. Maybe because the Snowwind had suddenly stopped being a story and started being a date and location. So this plan—absurd, low-key, and somehow actually doable—gave that timeline a different way of breathing. Not escape.

Just carving out one path forward that I could actually control. I looked down at the page covered in handout notes, budget figures, purchase justifications, and port district logistics, and felt like laughing at myself. I'd started with a headache over studying and an offhand complaint that it would be easier with a bike.

Now Maki Kushima, sitting beside me, had nearly finished calculating how to buy it, what money to use, how to avoid the Student Council, how to make the whole thing look completely unremarkable, and how to legitimately ride out to reconnoiter the Snowwind with a scenic route home. This woman was genuinely alarming. What was more alarming was that I'd started to think: this might actually work. Maki capped her pen like the matter was temporarily resolved and shifted back into academic mode.

"Alright. That's enough about the bike for now."

"Already?"

"Yes." She slid the fleet management handout back in front of me.

"Back to this page. Port district resupply procedures." I looked at the handout that had felt like a death certificate twenty minutes ago, then at the purchase plan beside it that had nearly become an operational document, and let out a very honest sigh.

"Kushima."

"Mm?"

"Do you realize it's getting very hard to tell whether you're helping me study or taking over my life?" She turned to look at me. Morning light fell across her profile, expression perfectly calm, like the question posed no danger whatsoever.

"Those aren't mutually exclusive." I stared at her for three seconds. Then, with complete resignation, turned back to the handout.