Chương 374: 164.Parking Dispute

I'd barely turned the bike onto the road leading up to the main gate when I saw D's bus parked right there. The sight was absurd. Not ordinary absurd — the kind that makes you wonder if today isn't the first day of term at a Federal military academy, but a spring field trip for some mediocre private school, complete with a teacher standing by with a clipboard counting heads. The massive chassis sat sideways in the morning light, the windshield throwing back white glare.

The automated gate barrier had stopped halfway up, as if it had lost all sense of its own dignity as a piece of public infrastructure and simply couldn't decide whether this thing legally qualified as a student commuter vehicle. My first reaction: fuck, he actually drove it here. My second: fuck, he actually parked it at the gate. My third was worse than both. Jess was already going head-to-head with Freya Nikaido on the curb.

"I'll say it again." Jess stood by the road, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at the bus. She wore the kind of smile you find on the last discounted pudding in a convenience store — cheap, dangerous, clearly out to ruin someone's day.

"This is a shuttle. Not an illegal mod. If you can't tell the difference, I can write the word BUS in big letters and tape it to the front." Nikaido stood by the gate, her silver-white hair barely moving in the morning wind, the Disciplinary Committee armband on her left sleeve more awake than the sun itself. Her face was as cold as a Federal winter-issue iron cot. When she spoke, the air seemed to snap to attention.

"And I'll say it again." Nikaido's voice was flat in a genuinely unsettling way.

"Vehicles operating on campus must conform to registered specifications. Height, width, external attachments, glass reflectivity, unremoved welding marks, and any non-essential entertainment equipment left installed — all fall within Disciplinary inspection parameters." Jess blinked.

"Wow. Non-essential entertainment equipment." She turned and patted the bus door, like consoling a large animal with a bruised ego.

"Hear that? You've been classified as entertainment equipment. That's worse than an insult." The window cracked open. Harvey leaned half his face out, eyes carrying the specific deadness of a coroner just woken up.

"Strictly speaking, the water heater inside is essential equipment," he said.

"If someone collapses from low blood sugar before noon, is the Chair prepared to carry them personally?"

"Harvey." Nikaido didn't even glance at the window.

"If you wish to submit a statement, exit the vehicle and speak in proper form."

"Never mind, then." Harvey pulled the window shut.

"I've suddenly decided silence is better for my health." D stood beside the bus, one hand resting on the driver's door, tall enough that he looked like the school had installed an extra blast shield at the gate. He didn't speak — just looked down at Nikaido, then at the bus, then at the sky. That look was almost certainly calculating how much faster it would be to physically relocate her, rulebook and all, than to argue. I eased off the throttle. Maki was on the seat behind me. She hadn't spoken.

Then her fingers tapped once, lightly, against my shoulder. Just once. Very light. I understood immediately. Not because I wanted to. Because when Maki Kushima — someone who normally files every emotion neatly away — actually reaches out and taps you, it means something's ahead, and pretending you didn't notice is not an option.

"Pull up beside them," she said, close to my ear. I tilted my head.

"Beside them, where? Right at the Chair's feet, to demonstrate my deep respect for institutional order?"

"Beside them," Maki repeated, level.

"This is a campus access road. Temporary stops are tolerated for three minutes. Any later, the patrol log opens, and I'm not writing your explanation." Thank god it was a campus road. Given the Academy's pathological enthusiasm for traffic order, I'd probably have caught a demerit for obstruction of transit before I even made it through the gate. This is a place that files the report before the fight, fills out the form before the funeral. A parking violation might get processed faster than a live-fire accident.

I let the bike drift to a stop, boots down, pulling off my helmet — and the whole scene immediately felt a shade closer to a public execution. The second Jess saw me, she found new fuel.

"Oh, Shimo's here." She lifted her chin, wearing a grin that deserved a formal complaint.

"Perfect timing. You be the judge — does this bus look like a violation, or like the school finally admitting students are human beings who need mass transit?"

"All I can tell is it's about to blast a terrible, bass-heavy song any second." I hung the helmet on the bar.

"And leave me out of whatever morning ritual you two have going."

"That's rude," Jess said.

"That's the politest thing I'll say all day." Nikaido's gaze moved to me. Not the way normal people look at you. Not Hoshino Shimo — more like additional workload. As if I hadn't ridden in on a bike, but simply spilled out of a crack in the system as extra paperwork.

"Lieutenant Hoshino." Her voice was flat.

"Is this vehicle directly connected to you?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Good." She nodded.

"Then you should be aware—""Chair Nikaido." Maki cut in. She stepped forward twice — unhurried, perfectly timed — and slotted herself between me and Nikaido. Strange feeling. She hadn't touched me, but I caught my breath anyway. Maki was in full uniform, shoulder line clean, cap straight, the new Student Council insignia catching the morning light like an order more effective than a shout.

Honestly, if the Federation ever classified good looks as a tactical resource, Maki standing here would save the school half its PR budget. Unfortunately, the Federation prefers using resources like that to make people suffer.

"Under Article 9, Section 3 of the Provisional Guidelines for Campus Transit and Cadet Duty Assignments," Maki said, tone so level it sounded carved into her bones, "a registered cadet mass-transit vehicle may enter campus on the first day of term, accompanied by a commissioned officer, provided the stop doesn't obstruct main traffic and the interior has passed a safety inspection. This vehicle satisfies both conditions."

Jess added immediately, "See — she even translated vehicle into something that doesn't sting as much." Nikaido didn't spare her a fraction of attention.

"The Provisional Guidelines do not supersede the Campus Gate Traffic and Disciplinary Inspection Regulations." Her tone stayed glacial.

"Article 7 states clearly: any vehicle whose appearance risks disrupting gate order, causing misidentification, or displaying obvious undeclared modification may be held by Disciplinary personnel pending re-inspection."

"Misidentification?" I couldn't help it.

"No matter how misleading it gets, nobody's mistaking that thing for an ambulance."

"Lieutenant Hoshino." Her eyes cut to me, ice.

"Don't interrupt."

"Apologies," I said, deadpan.

"First time I've heard there's a clause for too embarrassing to enter." D muttered beside me: "That was good." I glanced at him.

"Thanks. That wasn't a compliment." Maki ignored us both. She'd clearly expected the counter-citation. Without a word, she drew a neatly folded document from her inner jacket pocket.

"I've also read Article 7 of the Campus Gate Traffic and Disciplinary Inspection Regulations," she said.

"But the same article's second section carries a note: where a vehicle is designated for cadet life-support, equipment transport, or temporary residential resupply purposes, the escorting officer may assume liability in writing, exempting it from preliminary appearance-based penalties." Jess drew a theatrical breath.

"Appearance-based penalties. D, hear that? Official acknowledgment your appearance is a legal controversy." D was quiet for two seconds, then nodded.

"Better than being called entertainment equipment." I nearly laughed and had to force it down. Not out of manners — laughing here would probably earn me a citation for disrespect toward an active inspection. Cadets at this Academy die two ways. One is actually dying. The other is staying alive while your Disciplinary record reads like a social cremation. Nikaido's brow moved. Barely. But that tiny shift told me this wasn't the kind of argument Jess could win by shouting.

This was two people who both use the system as a blade, sliding different clauses into each other's ribs.

"A guarantee?" Nikaido looked at Maki.

"Captain Kushima is willing to sign for full liability on this vehicle?"

"Already have." Maki extended the document a fraction. The gate guard nearby was clearly trying to pass as landscaping, eyes drifting toward the paper anyway. I knew that look. When your superiors start throwing rulebooks at each other, the smart move is to reclassify yourself as a decorative shrub. Nikaido didn't take it.

"Even so," she said, "I retain the authority to require a safety inspection on Disciplinary grounds—""Of course." Maki nodded.

"Which is why I printed the relevant pages. Brakes, signal lights, seat restraints, emergency exits, hazardous-material clearance — completed last night. Signatures on the back." Jess let out a low whistle. Harvey cracked the window again.

"If the Chair's interested, I can also supply a pressure report on the water heater."

"Shut up, Harvey," I said.

"Understood." Window shut. Nikaido finally took the document. The sound of the page turning was sharp. Sharp as a blade drawn across a whetstone. Standing by my bike, watching the not-quite-close distance between Maki and Nikaido, I had a strong urge to swear. The two of them were actually alike. Both cold, both steady, both allergic to wasting effort on anything without value.

The difference was that Nikaido looked grown directly from the student handbook — the rulebook given human form — while Maki was the kind of person who understood exactly how rules worked and could still use them to strangle the rules themselves. One was the blade. The other was the hand holding it. And I, as usual, was standing close enough to feel the edge move. Nikaido reached the last page. Her finger stopped.

"... A Joint Operations Command addendum?" She looked up. Maki smiled. Barely visible. Worse than drawing a weapon.

"Yes," she said.

"Added yesterday." Something clicked in my chest. There it is. No wonder she'd been so steady all morning — steady enough to have already accounted for the possibility of me saying something stupid. Nikaido closed the file. Before she could speak, Maki took one more step. Just one. But the distance collapsed. Close enough that even I, standing off to the side, instinctively looked away for half a second — then, spinelessly, looked back. Because it was strange.

And — fine, I'll admit it — a little too striking not to. Maki tilted her head, leaned toward Nikaido's ear, and dropped her voice low. Low enough no one nearby could catch a word. All I saw was Nikaido's expression — ice-flat to begin with — go still, then tighten at the mouth, then set hard along the jaw. I couldn't hear the content.

I could guess the shape of it well enough: If you hold this bus at the gate today, the Imperial Third Princess's enrollment logistics and contact list get dragged into the open right behind it — and if the Disciplinary Committee wants to make that public at the school gate, day one, someone here needs to decide whose name goes on the diplomatic and confidentiality fallout. The Federation's version of romance isn't moonlight, flowers, or a kiss.

It's: I know exactly which fire you don't want touched, and I'll set it gently right beside your ear. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Maki stepped back. Clean. Like nothing had happened. Nikaido was silent for two seconds. In those two seconds, the whole gate went still — no wind, no noise. Jess didn't speak. D didn't move. Nobody in the bus made a sound. Even the guard doing his best plant impression stood straighter than the barrier.

Then Nikaido's teeth pressed together. Very lightly. But I saw it.

"... Cleared to enter," she said. Jess lit up with the smugness of a street punk who'd just won half a pack of cigarettes off an alley bet.

"The Chair shows wisdom."

"But once inside, proceed directly to the designated lot. No intermediate stops. No noise. No unregistered passengers." Nikaido handed the document back, voice cold enough to refreeze breakfast.

"And this accommodation does not constitute precedent."

"Don't worry." Maki took it back, mild.

"We've no interest in turning something this ugly into a campus tradition." D turned to look at her slowly.

"... I heard that."

"I meant you to," Maki said, perfectly calm. I finally lost it and laughed. Short — short enough not to count as provocation. Nikaido's gaze swept over. I wiped the laugh clean and put my law-abiding Lieutenant, no trouble today face back on. Though that face probably read about as convincingly as D's bus.

"Get moving," Maki said.

"I'm on the bike."

"I meant pull forward. Stop blocking the lane." She didn't even look at me.

"Lieutenant Hoshino, if your comprehension is running at this level today, I'd suggest cutting back on the cherry cola."

"... You're using that on me now?"

"If it works." I started the engine without another word. Beside me, the bus shuddered low, like a creature that had just been issued a legal identity and remembered how to breathe. Jess, heading for the door, turned back and waved.

"See you next time, Chair. Hope you bring a smile instead of a rulebook."

"You'd need to learn to follow rules like a person first," Nikaido said, flat. Jess paused, then burst out laughing.

"Oh, I like that one. Shimo — you hear that? The Chair's in good form today."

"I heard." I straightened the bars.

"I also heard that if you say two more words, we're walking in tomorrow." Jess shrugged and climbed aboard. Before closing the door, D looked down at me.

"Kushima's strong."

"Tell me something I don't know." He thought about it.

"Nikaido's strong too." I was quiet for half a second.

"That's exactly why I hate standing in the middle." He nodded like he fully understood, and shut the door. The door thudded closed. The bus rolled forward. Maki stayed by my side, waiting for me to go first.

"Let's go," she said. I gripped the bars, then couldn't help glancing sideways.

"What did you actually say to her?" She looked ahead at the gate, tone as bland as discussing lunch.

"Something she really doesn't want discussed in public."

"That's not an answer."

"You don't need the whole picture."

"... That's cold." She finally turned to look at me. Morning light caught in her eyes — clean enough to be irritating.

"Shimo," she said.

"You only need to know one thing."

"Which is?"

"We got through today not because we argued better," Maki said.

"We got through because some people are more afraid of trouble than you think." I stared for a second, then let out a low snort, pulling my helmet back on.

"The Federation's magnificent. Even gate access isn't about who's right — it's about whose grenade is bigger." Maki laughed. Soft. Faint as a gust brushing past an ear.

"Welcome back to school." Looking at the gate, the bus, and all the trouble ahead of us, I decided that was probably the most cursed sentence I'd hear all morning. Getting past the gate didn't make the bus a legal organism. I understood that immediately. Some things pass the threshold and are only tolerated, never accepted — D's bus, Jess's mouth, me, and certain cadets who are enrolled on paper and, in practice, are institutional kitchen scraps being run through the system a second time.

I rode behind the enormous thing along the main road toward the designated lot. Inside, the campus was far more presentable than the gate — trees trimmed sharp, glass facades throwing back a clean, faintly depressing light, clusters of students already moving toward the classroom block in crisp uniforms and synchronized steps, like a crate of standardized youth freshly unboxed from the line. Then, in perfect unison, that entire crate turned to stare at us. Couldn't blame them.

Seeing a bus that looked like someone had welded a nightclub, a field depot, a cheap shuttle, and a middle-aged bankruptcy dream onto one chassis, rolling calmly through campus — hard to pretend total indifference.

"I hate this kind of stare," I muttered, eyes on the bus's rear end. Maki rode half a length beside me, wind cutting her voice thin but steady.

"Do you hate being looked at, or hate that you also think the bus is embarrassing?"

"Do those conflict?"

"No," she said.

"So hate both." I clicked my tongue. That's the worst thing about her. You can't really argue with her — she rarely stabs you directly. She just calmly says the sentence you were trying not to admit to yourself first. High-end provocation. The bus followed the nav onto a side road, quieter here, behind the training block and equipment sheds — the kind of route usually reserved for club vans and maintenance carts.

Parking D's rig back here amounted to one clear directive: don't let the normal people look at it too long. Before the bus had fully stopped, Jess leaned out the door.

"I hereby declare," she announced, solemn, "we've successfully advanced from illegal vehicle to designated parking eyesore."

"Congratulations." I pulled into a white-lined slot.

"Keep working at it and by year's end we might make permanent pollutant." D climbed down, slammed the door. Standing beside the bus, he looked like the first organ it would grow if it ever managed to evolve a human body: a pair of shoulders. Same expression as always — heavy, slow, everything passed through three internal filters before it came out.

"Getting in was enough," he said.

"Your standards are way too low." Jess hopped down the steps.

"Is your life philosophy just didn't explode today, therefore success?" He thought about it seriously.

"... Close enough."

"Your two survival philosophies sound like a street scam and a construction safety poster." I pulled off my helmet.

"Listen to either long enough and you want to call the police." Harvey came out behind them, clipboard still in hand, looking like he hadn't stopped organizing paperwork even mid-ride. The frightening thing about that man: if the world blew up right now, he'd flatten his forms first and only then check if debris landed in his mug.

"I'm more concerned about something else," he said, pushing his glasses up.

"The way the Chair backed off didn't feel like an ending."

"You finally said something normal," I said.

"Thank you," he replied, neutral.

"Though that didn't sound like praise."

"It wasn't." Footsteps came from behind — measured, brisk, carrying an unpleasant sense of purpose. Two students with Disciplinary armbands were closing in. The boy in front carried a folder; the girl behind pushed a portable inspection kit. Both wore expressions of pure bureaucratic dedication — the kind that comes from being pinned by a superior's glare and not daring to breathe out of line since. Jess groaned without any attempt at dignity.

"You've got to be kidding me. Again?"

"Here they come," Harvey said.

"How's that different from stating the obvious?"

"I said it before they got here." I watched them approach, temples starting to throb. Of course. People like Nikaido don't argue to the last second at the gate. They let you in, then take you apart from the inside — more legal, quieter, and considerably more nauseating. That's the Chair's version of romance. No shouting, no scene, no loss of composure. Just making sure you die with proper citation attached.

"Captain Kushima." The boy nodded to Maki first, then turned to the bus.

"Per the Chair's instructions, this vehicle requires supplementary post-entry inspection and is provisionally listed as a Restricted Transit Vehicle. Until review is complete, it may not enter the classroom sector, dormitory arterial roads, or the central plaza perimeter."

"Knew it." Jess raised her hands like she was about to applaud the Federation.

"Federal trust is exactly like the salmon in a convenience-store rice ball — you never know if it's actually in there until you open it." The boy's expression didn't move a millimeter. Either a total professional, or the job had already burned out every trace of his emotional range.

"Additionally," he opened the folder, "the sound system, lighting, external power modules, heating equipment, storage compartments, and any temporary fixed structures require item-by-item verification. Anything inconsistent with declared use will require removal, sealing, or correction within a set deadline."

"Wait." Jess's eyes went wide.

"What do you mean sound system, that's just—" She stopped herself. Because whatever came next — that's just what makes some of us feel human or that's part of the bus's soul — was guaranteed to land in some deeply humiliating Disciplinary footnote. D didn't speak, just slowly frowned. Not rage — more like a wall realizing, for the first time, it needed to file paperwork just to keep standing where it was.

"You can inspect it," he said, low.

"The bus doesn't get torn apart."

"Whether removal's required depends on the—""He said you can inspect it." Maki cut in, still level.

"So follow procedure. We'll cooperate. Cooperation isn't the same as conceding you have unlimited authority to reinterpret as you go." The boy hesitated, visibly flipping through pages of rulebook in his head.

"... Understood." Listening beside them, my stomach hurt. Maki is genuinely skilled at holding her tone exactly between entirely reasonable and this is already a warning. Most people trying that line just fall off one side or the other. The girl had already opened the kit, laying out seals, a scanner pen, and colored tags — red, yellow, white — like the clearance rack of a stationery store having a very bad day. Harvey frowned the second he saw them.

"If they touch the water heater, I'll be displeased." I looked at him.

"The terrifying part of that sentence is that I can't tell your displeased face from your normal one."

"There's a difference," he said.

"Normally I just don't bother with people. When I'm displeased, I keep records."... Right. Him too. Jess had no intention of cooperating quietly. She drifted beside the inspectors, reading the labels out loud like she was browsing discount furniture.

"Restricted zone... wow. Pending reinspection... wow. Audio system under review... wow again." She glanced at me.

"Shimo, think they'll slap on a visual hazard tag next?"

"If they do, put it on your face."

"That's so mean."

"I already told you I was in a bad mood."

"Is that because the morning was too exciting, or because Maki whispered a secret to the Chair and didn't tell you?" I kicked her shin.

"Ow. Direct hit."

"You have a death wish or something?" She danced sideways, laughing like she'd just picked up a live grenade.

"Knew it — you care."

"I care about you disappearing before I help them fill out a hazmat tag with your name on it." Maki must have heard the noise. She glanced over — just once. My face went warm anyway. Annoying. Even more annoying because I knew it wasn't the weather.

"Shimo," she called.

"... What."

"Come here a second." Jess produced a deeply punchable "ohhh—" behind me. I glared over my shoulder.

"Make that sound again and I'm putting you in the storage compartment for inventory." She pressed her lips shut and gestured after you. I badly wanted to bury her in the parking space, but with Disciplinary still on-site, today wasn't the day to add a body count. I hung my helmet back on the bar and walked over, scowling. Maki stood just ahead of the bus's front quarter, far enough from the inspectors to hear without catching everything.

Very her — never actually stepping away, just adjusting the distance to wherever suits her best.

"You call me over to slap a seal on me too?"

"If I could, I'd start with your mouth," she said, mild.

"You'd need industrial grade." She didn't laugh. Just looked at me. Her eyes were quiet — too quiet, the kind that makes you feel every messy, unguarded thing you've done in the last five minutes has already been filed somewhere.

"Back at the gate," she said.

"You had a question." I was ready to lie. Say no, say I didn't care, say keep your secrets, the Federation runs on leverage anyway, one more won't make it dirtier. What came out instead: "I just hate being left out." The second it left my mouth I wanted to strangle myself. Too honest. Stupidly honest. Not like me at all. Maki only lowered her eyes slightly, like she'd already known the answer would sound like that.

"You're not left out," she said.

"It's just not time for you to know yet."

"That's a terrible line."

"I know."

"Sounds like you're humoring a kid."

"You're sometimes harder to manage than a kid." I glared. She stayed completely calm. That's the infuriating part — it's never what she says, it's the way she says things that ought to earn her a punch, delivering them like neutral fact. Like I'm not being provoked. I'm being documented.

"At least tell me one thing." I dropped my voice.

"Nikaido backed off today — was it really because of the Prin—" I stopped myself, swallowing the word. Campus isn't the Command corridor. There are walls here, and ears in the walls. Some words stop being words the moment they leave your mouth and become incidents instead. Maki glanced at me. Brief. But clear enough: at least you're not completely hopeless.

"Partly," she said.

"The rest is that she didn't want to escalate to faculty level on the first day of term."

"So you pressed her from both sides at once."

"Not pressed," Maki corrected.

"Reminded." I nearly rolled my eyes.

"People like you always call a chokehold adjusting a collar." This time she laughed — quiet, quiet enough it clearly wasn't meant to be seen. But I saw it. And afterward something in my chest caught, pathetically. I hate this distance. Hate that she always leaves the last half-step unsaid. Hate that she clearly isn't shutting me out, yet somehow never tells me everything either. Hate most of all that some tiny shift in her expression can send my head into an extra, useless loop.

Like someone quietly lacing my nerves with cheap sweetener — cloying, and impossible to quit.

"Also," she said, "don't go looking for trouble with Freya today."

"That's insulting."

"I'm preventing a documented outcome."

"Do I look that bored to you?" She looked at me for two full seconds.

"Yes."

"..."

"Very." I was so annoyed I nearly laughed.

"Maki, you're going to end up with no friends."

"I have one."

"Who?"

"The one standing in front of me right now. Barely counts." I froze. Half a second. Maybe a full one. Long enough that pretending I hadn't heard it was no longer an option. Does she even know what she's saying? She knows. She always knows — that's why she says it so flatly, like slipping a lit match into your pocket and commenting on the weather. I looked away, fixing my eyes on the bus getting tagged.

"... Your barely is really annoying."

"Your reaction's also annoying."

"Then why are you still talking to me?"

"Because you spiral," she said.

"If I don't pull you back once, you'll wear that face all day."

"I always wear this face."

"Today would be worse." I stayed quiet. Because she was right again. Being seen through like that feels awful — you want to smash something, but you can never find a legitimate angle to do it from. Like reaching to throw a cup and finding she's already slid the coaster under it. Jess's voice drifted over.

"Harvey, check this seal color — doesn't it look like a Federal shame sticker?"

"No," Harvey said.

"Shame stickers at least have educational value. This is closer to administrative masturbation." I turned despite myself. Harvey's face stayed perfectly composed. In that moment I thought — maybe the genuinely dangerous one in this house isn't Jess, who broadcasts everything, or Maki, who wields rules like a scalpel. It's the man who can deliver filth like that in a coroner's tone. D stood by the bus, watching the inspectors apply a pending reinspection tag, brow low. He didn't argue. Didn't block them.

Just stood there in a silence that made you think: if this school ever really collapsed, he'd be the one still standing in the rubble, quietly putting the steel beams back. Maki followed my gaze.

"Go on," she said.

"They still need you over there."

"For what — sealing Jess's mouth shut?"

"If you manage that, I'll be grateful."

"That's inhumane." She looked back at me.

"One more thing."

"You're full of things today."

"Because you never lead with the important ones."

"... Just say it." She dipped her head slightly and smoothed a small piece of my fringe where the helmet had pushed it out of place. Just once. Very brief. Brief enough I nearly thought I'd imagined it. But when her fingertip crossed my temple, the contact lingered — light as an impossibly thin flake of snow, landing exactly where it had no business landing. I went completely still.

"Your hair got messed up on the ride," she said, tone infuriatingly ordinary.

"Better now." I stared at her. For a long moment, nothing came out. Every piece of deflection I'd had ready got kicked straight down some internal drain, leaving nothing but a blank, embarrassingly total. What was that supposed to be? Senior-student management? Routine maintenance? Or some very specific brand of weaponized tenderness only she knew the calibration for?... Fuck. Maki stepped back, like nothing had happened.

"Go on, Shimo." My throat was dry. All I managed was a low "... Yeah." Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. I turned and walked back toward the bus, steps deliberately steady, pretending complete normalcy, pretending my brain hadn't just shorted out because a senior smoothed down a strand of my hair. Two steps in, her voice caught up to me.

"Also." I didn't turn.

"What."

"Don't trip."

"... I'm not going to." Three seconds later I nearly caught my boot on the raised edge of the parking guide. I recovered fast and pretended nothing happened. No laughter behind me. Which was worse. Because I knew she'd seen it, and her type doesn't necessarily laugh — she just files it away, and brings it back the day you least want reminding: see? You nearly tripped that time too. Back at the bus, Jess was on me first.

"Wow." She narrowed her eyes.

"Your face has a whole story in it."

"Get lost."

"What'd Maki say?"

"Told me to stop talking to idiots."

"Then why'd you come back?"

"There's a high concentration of them right here." Harvey looked up, pushed his glasses.

"Your ears are red." I whipped my head around.

"They are not."

"They are," he said. D glanced over, adding with brutal honesty: "A little." I seriously began calculating whether it was technically feasible to bolt both of these men under the bus chassis as ballast. Jess exploded laughing.

"It's over, it's over — someone just got petted, didn't they?"

"You really want to die today."

"I'm just checking on my roommate's mental health."

"Check your own remains' structural integrity first." The two Disciplinary members were still logging the bus — half the seals applied, the scanner pen flashing short green bursts. It had made it inside today, but right now it looked less like a vehicle and more like a large wild animal that had just been formally tagged and put under observation. We stood there, watching the school politely wrap it in loop after loop of invisible chain.

I took a breath and looked up at the training block's glass, catching the morning light. First morning of the new term. The bus was tagged. Disciplinary had backed off, then flanked around. Jess was asking for it. Harvey was noting things nobody asked him to note. D looked like he was working out how to legally keep his mobile coffin alive. Wonderful. Everything was completely normal.

Normal enough that I was starting to suspect this school had quietly written disaster into the opening ceremony as a required feature. If so — congratulations. This year's ceremony was a resounding success.