“But why are we like this?” she muttered into the quiet of her room.
Facing this truth stirred an uncomfortable feeling in her chest. She wasn’t satisfied with it—nor was she satisfied with the outcome of her discussions.
Kaeru and Sei, for all their words, hadn’t offered Tadasu a clear path forward. They told stories, offered perspectives, but in the end, they left the decision up to her. Just as Hareru had. Tadasu understood they did so out of consideration, out of respect for her journey. She was nothing but grateful for their willingness to carve out time from their busy schedules to listen. Yet she couldn’t suppress the thought that took root in her mind: Couldn’t they have just given me a straightforward answer?
When X happens, do Y, and you will never fail—that was the kind of situation that appealed to Tadasu’s nature. But “appealed” might be too strong a word. Perhaps it was more accurate to say it made her feel at ease. Whenever she saw people marching in unison to the beat of a single drum, she felt a peculiar and most exquisite sense of satisfaction. A strict private school—that had been heaven for Tadasu’s overimaginative tendencies, but at the same time, it had been like a single ray of sunshine, illuminating a warm sliver in what was otherwise a cold and chaotic world.
Had been.
Tadasu could never go back to that place. Now, she had to think for herself. The fluttering in her chest continued to tickle uncomfortably as she sat there, pondering.
“Hm?”
But perhaps this push was exactly what Tadasu needed.
“Why did that—”
Finally.
“—make me feel so at ease?”
Tadasu had touched upon the black box that was her essence.
Almost simultaneously with Tadasu’s discussions, the other half of this soul-searching party, Churiri, was holding her own.
Heeding Awayuki’s advice, Churiri picked out a few individuals for her discussions who were distinctly related to the individuals Tadasu had reached out to, and asked them for advice on what to do about Tadasu. (Though for some reason, this particular group of individuals seemed to fall more within Awayuki’s sphere of influence than Tadasu’s.)
“What?! We have to stop her—Tadasu-chan can’t leave!”
Churiri sat there, already regretting her choice of discussion partner. She had barely finished explaining the situation when Shion came out swinging with a drastic solution instead of real advice.
“Meow, meow (Now, now), Shion, let’s not get carried away quite yet.”
Thankfully, the other half of the gen-two duo, Nekoma, had a cooler head and stepped in before Churiri could throw up her hands in exasperation.
“How can you be so calm?!” Shion said. “Tadasu-chan can’t leave! I am not losing a child!”
“Okay, just relax, we’ll get to it, I promise,” Nekoma said. “Sorry, Sensei, Shion gets like this sometimes when she’s overstimulated.”
“No, it’s fine,” Churiri replied. “Would you believe me if I said this is far more preferable to work emails that are eighty percent fluff?”
Despite her deflection, Churiri couldn’t suppress a wry smile. She had been the one seeking advice, yet, seeing Shion so worked up, she felt the urge to offer some reassurance instead.
“Shion,” Nekoma said. “Our role in discussions like these is to listen and empathize, not to jump in with solutions.”
“But, but!” Shion sputtered.
“All right, all right. How about this? You let Sensei and me talk it over first. If you still have something to add after that, then it’s your turn.”
“Okay...”
Nekoma was adept at wrangling Shion’s emotions, and watching her in action, Churiri couldn’t help but feel a twinge of respect. But there was something else too—a sense of compassion or maybe pity. Kinship, perhaps, owing to Churiri’s similar role in gen five.
“To that end, Sensei,” Nekoma said, steering the conversation back on track, “I don’t have much to add beyond what Awayuki-chan already told you. What you need to do is face yourself.”
Churiri scoffed. “You too with that nonsense.” She couldn’t help it. Her personality was as twisty and tangled as the Tokyo subway map; Nekoma’s words triggered an instinctual resistance.
“I mean, yeah?” Nekoma said. “From what I gather, you don’t even have the slightest inkling of what you want to do. How can we, not knowing that, even begin to offer you good advice?”
“Well,” Sensei began to protest, but couldn’t find the words. “I mean...”
“It’s like they say on airplanes—you gotta put on your own mask before you help others,” Nekoma declared smugly.
“Um, can I jump in yet?” Shion asked. Her voice, unlike before, was now calm and motherly.
Nekoma and Churiri nodded.
“So,” Shion began hesitantly, “this is something I wish someone told me when I was younger, but I...don’t think it’s right for someone who hasn’t figured themselves out to try and help someone else. I think not only is it disrespectful and presumptuous, but you could really hurt the other person by doing it.”
Those words stung Churiri’s heart, like disinfectant on an open wound. To Churiri, who despised herself for her sexual deviance and had turned her back on herself even more than society had, Shion’s words hit like venom. Her eyes dropped to the floor, silence gluing her lips together. Part of her wanted to argue, to push back, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it—proof of how deeply Shion’s words had cut.
The silence dragged on for a moment longer. For Churiri, it was a time of stewing in her emotions. For Nekoma, it was awkward and uncomfortable. But for Shion, it seemed like the perfect moment to add a little levity.
“This is kinda like...” She giggled shyly. “This is kinda like we’re giving Sensei relationship advice, isn’t it? Kyaa! I’m blushing!”
“Huh?” both Nekoma and Churiri grunted, confused. Then:
“HUUUUUUUUUUUUH?!” Sensei shouted in shock.
The call’s awkward mood shattered instantly.
“What are you... What are you even saying?!” Churiri yelled. “This isn’t a joke. I’m being completely serious here!”
“Oh, but so am I!” Shion said. “I was just thinking that you must really love Tadasu-chan a whole lot to come to us with something like this.”
“D-D-D-Don’t be ridiculous,” Churiri replied, a stammering, blubbering mess. “Wh-Who would even think about that brat? Why, I... Ah! Earthlings! I’m in despair! Earthlings and their constant need to relate everything back to romance has left me in despair!”
“Um, I think that’s a different sensei’s catchphrase,” Shion said.
“Did you just forget that I don’t feel sexual attraction to human beings?!” Churiri continued. “My sexuality is completely different. I literally cannot fall in love with that girl!”
“Nya? Why not?” Nekoma suddenly chimed in.
Churiri blinked, startled that Nekoma had rejoined the conversation after being sidelined by Shion’s off-base comment.
“Love is love. Sex is sex,” Nekoma said. “You can love somebody without wanting to sleep with them. Just look at me, Shion, and Sei. I love them both, but it’s not like either of them do anything for me.”
Churiri’s heart thumped uncomfortably. The ease with which Nekoma said that left her feeling trapped.
The discussion fizzled out from there, and the trio dispersed. Churiri’s mind, however, was no more settled than it had been before. After hanging up, she drifted into recollection. She remembered the day she, Tadasu, and Dagger had first met.
Not long after her acceptance into Live-On as part of gen five, Churiri had found herself at the Live-On offices for onboarding. Right beside her were her future genmates, Tadasu and Dagger. At the time, she had still intended to make good on her promise of joining Live-On purely to act out, and so was even more defiant than she was today. She had no time for those kids and even less intention of becoming friends with them. But they were persistent, constantly drawing her into the conversation until she eventually felt too guilty to keep brushing them off. Reluctantly, she began to interact with them.
Maybe it would just be a onetime thing, she thought. Humor them once and be done with it—but instead, it had been the beginning of something new.
Why did she keep interacting with them? Even Churiri couldn’t quite understand it.
With Dagger, it was simple: Dagger possessed a childlike innocence. She was a wellspring of youth and purity, one that eroded the years of cynicism that had built up around Churiri’s withered heart. She was also like a ray of sunshine. All of Churiri’s worries seemed to fade away when Dagger was around, and she found great comfort in that.
Tadasu, though, was different—not as pure as Dagger, but uninhibited in her own way. While she might’ve seemed innocent, her imagination was clearly compensating for something. Tadasu and Dagger were similar, but something set them distinctly apart.
Churiri recalled Tadasu’s behavior during that first encounter. Just like Dagger, Tadasu had tried to break the ice and befriend her. Her words were warm and welcoming, but unlike Dagger, her hands had trembled violently.
A smile, so genuine it terrified her, spread across Churiri’s lips. “Of course,” she murmured with a soft giggle.
There had always been something about Tadasu that endeared her to Churiri, but in a different way than Dagger. It was the way that, every time Churiri looked at Tadasu, she saw a reflection of herself—a younger, more hopeful version, still clinging to dreams.
She would not leave that girl alone. She could not leave that girl alone. If there was any chance Tadasu wouldn’t end up like her, Churiri had to help. If not for Tadasu’s sake, then for her own—to prove to herself that things really could have turned out differently.
Tadasu Miyauchi—a radiant bloom of youth, as delicate and pure as spring meltwater, yet one that teetered with a precariousness that was as foreboding as a single drop of crimson against snow.