Kai’s prediction had been right, up to the part where Misako left for groceries. Everything past that had been wrong in every way. The dinner Misako made them was nothing short of perfection.
“Thank you for the food! It tasted great!” said Nanaka, with a huge grin.
“I... could make... this...” Aina muttered, unable to accept the way things had played out.
“Pheeew, that was delicious,” Aya remarked blissfully.
“That was... satisfactory.” Despite her curt reaction, Eru had eaten the most out of them all.
“Kai,” Misako called. Kai had lost a round of rock-paper-scissors and was now washing dishes, writhing in discomfort as he surveyed the opinions of the room. His sister walked over to him and continued, “If I wasn’t able to write novels, I’m sure this would have been my calling...”
“Your calling?” he asked suspiciously.
“A trivial job: I’d cook, deliver, and serve food to those four for the rest of my life...” Misako said happily.
“...I see.”
“Hm? Did you not like the food, Kai?”
“No, that’s not... Honestly, it was shockingly good.” In truth, Kai was undoubtedly the most surprised out of everyone. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a good reason to think Misako’s cooking skills were subpar. In all the time he’d spent with her since moving to Niigata, she hadn’t cooked for him a single time. She’d always found some excuse to eat out or grab a bento box.
Thus, Kai had assumed she couldn’t cook. But upon pressing for an explanation, all he received was a declaration of laziness: “It was just too much work! ☆” Misako proclaimed with a wink and peace sign.
Apparently, Misako had previously needed culinary experience to write out the details of a cooking scene. She had been able to taste the food in question by going out to eat, but that didn’t help her all that much when it came to writing about the process behind making it in the first place. So, she had decided to cook it herself.
Since then, Misako did the same anytime she had a cooking scene, and at some point she’d come to be remarkably skilled. At this point, she was capable of making pretty much anything.
“Let me give you a hand,” offered Misako, reaching for a dirty dish.
“It’s fine,” Kai replied. “It’s cramped over here.”
“But you’re not satisfied with my answer, right?” There was a small clattering sound as she began washing plates beside him. Misako didn’t turn his way, but it seemed that she’d seen right through him.
“...Do you not want to get involved because you’re a professional?” Kai ventured.
“That’s not it,” she demurred.
“Then, why?” he demanded, knowing that as the team had worked on the application which they were now slated to turn in for Summit, they had run into one major problem: the script.
Breaking the project down into simple terms, it was basically an app where the user was to read a story as they communicated with a character. It was going to be simple conversational phrases like you’d see on LIME, but they still needed some form of script.
In the world of social game management, larger teams (like the LW team at Tsukigase) often employed writers to exclusively work on scripts and dialogue. However, smaller social games frequently saw the planner doubling up as the scriptwriter.
The majority of the content currently being released in Meikun High’s Miracle Stage had been written by one of Nanaka’s friends in the literature club. Kai and Nanaka had taken charge of the flavor text and whatnot for all the miscellaneous items, but they didn’t have any experience when it came to writing out a proper story. During his time managing Rondo at Tsukigase, Kai had relied on his team’s writers for both the main and event stories, and never once did it himself.
“It’s not like I want you to write it for us,” Kai pleaded. “I just want you to look it over and make sure it’s not too bad.” As a matter of fact, that was the extent of what he could ask for. Whether the script was prose or software, it didn’t change the fact that a direct contribution from an outsider was against Summit rules.
“You want me to point out typos for you?” Misako offered.
“No, I can just look that up,” Kai refuted.
“Then there’s nothing I can do.”
“...If it’s because we’re just a bunch of kids—”
“That’s not it.” Like a mother reading a picture book, she repeated, “That’s not it, Kai.” Then, Misako chuckled playfully.
“This isn’t a joke,” chastised Kai.
“Alright, how about I give you the answer instead of a hint this time?”
“The answer?”
“Kai, you have to be the one to write it. That’s the only answer here,” Misako told him plainly. “It’s not for me to supervise you, and it’s definitely not for anyone else to write it.”
“I don’t understand,” Kai muttered.
After finishing off her last plate, Misako wiped her hands down with a towel and placed them on her hips. “I’m not saying this as a joke,” she lectured. “You showed me your project plan. And now, this is my genuine opinion—not as your older sister, but as another creator.”
“...Can you explain what you mean?”
“You’re right in thinking that passing it through me will improve the structure and delivery—the overall quality of the writing,” she clarified. “I have confidence in my skills. But in all probability, that isn’t what’s needed here.” Misako’s hand slipped from her hips and extended out to pat Kai on the head, where it messily ran back and forth through his hair.
“Hey, what are you—”
“Your feelings, Kai. As long as your feelings are in it, it’ll be alright. Put your faith in your sister every now and again.”
Kai knew straight away that she wasn’t messing with him this time. That much was easy to tell; they were siblings, after all. That fact had caused him legitimate stress at points, but... when it came down to it, he always sincerely trusted her.
But... “Just so you know... I’m a planner, myself, so... I always put my feelings into my work,” he told her.
Kai’s retort begot a rare sight: Misako’s eyes went wide with surprise, and then she smiled happily. “I see. That’s fair. I apologize for suggesting otherwise, Kai.”
“...Kai-kun, do you have a sister complex?”
“Whoa!”
“‘Whoa’? Aww, that’s mean! ♪” Aina hummed. “Don’t treat me like a spooky ghost!” She’d appeared right behind Kai from out of nowhere, and for whatever reason, she was now back to her dainty persona.
“That’s right!” Misako announced, “Kai is incurably sick with a severe case of sister complex!”
“You shouldn’t,” Kai growled, slapping away the hand that had been left atop his head, “lie through your teeth like that!”
“I lied?” Misako protested.
“You did...”
“Really?”
Already sick of this exchange, Kai decided to ignore the teary, puppy-dog eyes his sister was making.
“So, Kai-kun, you’re writing the script?” Aina asked.
“...I am now,” he said.
“I see... Okay, I’ll pat your head, too. ♪”
“Wha—” With no time to duck away, Aina’s right hand made its way above his head. A feathery sense of weight rested on his skull as her fingers slipped through strands of his hair.
“Hey, Kai-kun...?” she said.
The hand on Kai’s head effectively meant he couldn’t move. He couldn’t turn away from Aina. Her large eyes and the long lashes that bordered them were clearer than usual. If he set his mind to it, he could probably count how many she had.
Even though he knew she was only pretending to be a sweet angel, her faint, gentle expression threatened to melt his heart away. With a soft smile, she told him, “If you’re adding voice lines, there’s a lot of work on my end, too. ♪ C’mon, if you’ve got time to think perverted things about me, then hurry up and finish the script. Got it?”
“............Y-Yes ma’am...” At some point, the hand in his hair had begun squeezing. The dichotomy between her faux-innocent face and her real-vicious words could only be described in one word: terrifying.