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Chapter Text

Reigen’s presidential campaign starts as a harmless joke. To Serizawa’s dismay, it becomes a not-joke frightfully fast.

With hindsight twenty-twenty, the finger pointing starts. Serizawa blames Tome, and Tome blames Reigen, and Reigen blames the National Tax Agency. Despite that no one invited his opinion, Dimple blames them all equally.

But when the dust settles, one truth is clear — Reigen is the president.

And it’s everyone’s problem.

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the parachute candidate

chapter one: a horse in the race ~accounting for trouble~

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Wednesday, November 4, 2015 — 16:37 | Spirits & Such Consultation Office

It’s after hours at Spirits & Such consulting agency — late enough outside to flip the sign closed to walk-ins. Reigen flounders about the tax documents at his desk. In lieu of cleaning duties, Tome and Serizawa play a game of chess across the arrangement of couches.

More specifically, Serizawa plays a game of chess. Tome moves the knight to a square of her liking and yells “checkmate!” while Serizawa gawks at the audacity.

“I don’t understand why they make this so complicated,” Reigen groans from under a stack of receipts, most of them for individual purchases of cup noodles. He peers at his colleagues, expectantly awaiting an outpouring of sympathy for their overworked manager.

It doesn’t arrive. The two are fully engaged in combat.

“I don’t get it either,” Tome says, after Serizawa corrects her erroneous horseplay for the seventh time. “If they wanted people to play this game, they’d let them move as they’d like. It’s boring otherwise.”

“I mean, the taxes!” Reigen frets, wiping his brow with a navy handkerchief from his trouser pocket. It’s Serizawa’s handkerchief, and Reigen did not have permission to borrow it. “You think they’d make the taxes easy if they wanted my money. Really, they’re just begging us to hide it all in the Caymans and be done with it. The incentives here are completely perverse.”

Serizawa claims Tome’s pawn with his own knight. His gold wedding band glints over his ring finger, sending a curl of pride up Reigen’s spine. Reigen twists his own ring absentmindedly over his knuckle.

The one he wears to work is rubber, because Reigen read an article about ring avulsion once. It haunted his nightmares for a full week until he bought the stand-in for his silver band. Serizawa happily kept the gold, reminding Reigen that he doesn’t usually touch much at work aside from his homework, his business cards, and sometimes his boss.

“The knight piece moves in a L-shape,” Serizawa says patiently, gesturing at the updated state of the checkerboard. “Two forward and one over. Like so.”

Reigen sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Pop quiz for both of you. There’s a reason I make it as easy as possible for clients to pay us. Do you know why that is?”

“So that they pay us?” Tome suggests, moving her rook diagonally, and Serizawa twitches.

Reigen thrusts a pointer finger in the air at this. “Full points, Tome-chan.”

“Nice! And what do points get me?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Serizawa flicks the board back to legal proceedings with a prod of his powers. Tome frowns. Meanwhile, Reigen taps 100 minus 5 into his phone calculator, checking that the rules of mathematics haven’t changed in the last fifteen minutes of his accounting woes. 95 indeed. Phew.

“You know,” Serizawa says, as he glides his bishop across the board and through another one of Tome’s few remaining pawns. “Last time I saw Shinra-san, he mentioned his union provides accounting consultation for free.”

“You saw Shinra recently?” Reigen asks, quirking an eyebrow. “He didn’t try recruiting you, did he?”

“I think he got the message when he sent the wedding gift,” Serizawa replies.

“It was a nice blender,” Reigen admits.

“I ran into him at the Book of Book. Remember how I needed a new protractor for class last month? For my shapes homework.”

Reigen nods solemnly. He had been there and had the scars to prove it. “Because you imbued it with your aura and used it to slice open a ghost haunting a deep dish pizza.”

It was a real tragedy. That clear plastic protractor had seen Serizawa through a particularly gnarly geometry final exam. Yet, it cracked apart at first contact with the curse, leaving Serizawa utterly weaponless against the remaining onslaught of molten marinara and supernatural sausage.

“I thought you said it was a haunted calzone,” Tome blanches. “That’s what I put on their invoice.”

“Let’s hope there’s no audit,” Reigen says.

“I went to the bookstore to replace the protractor,” Serizawa continues his explanation. “I always like to check the self-improvement section while I’m there. That’s where I saw Shinra-san. We both picked up How To Win Friends and Exorcize People. At the check out, he mentioned he doesn’t bother keeping the receipts for his business expenses, because he sends his business credit statement directly to the union accountant. I thought that sounded convenient.”

Tome seizes the opportunity Serizawa’s soliloquy provides to skid her queen across the board, trapping Serizawa’s king in her vicious scope. “Checkmate,” she says.

“And this accountant,” Reigen prompts, twirling a pen between his fingers. “This accountant handles the whole shebang?”

“I didn’t ask for all the details,” Serizawa says. He glances at the chessboard in horror. “Oh, shoot. That is actually checkmate.”

“Don’t act so surprised!” Tome scolds.

Serizawa waves a hand to reset the board before Tome can snap photographic proof of her victory.

“Sore loser,” she grumbles.

“It’s a drop in the bucket,” Serizawa says, pointing at a spot on the wall-mounted dry erase board where he’s tracked the long-term standings of their board game battles. The score currently sits at Serizawa 112 - Kurata 16. Reigen’s name is conspicuously absent from the tracker because he claims his overwhelming victory streak would irrevocably dampen office morale.

Tome adds a tally to her column. Then she pulls a bag of crab-flavored chips from her bag and goes to town. She does not offer any to Serizawa, because he is a loser.

Reigen’s pen slips by his pinky and clatters to his desk. “I guess it’s a nonstarter anyway. I’d rather eat my arm off than give those grifters any of our hard-earned revenue. We’ll just have to make do this tax season.”

He considers his employees.

Dimple’s out of the question. Reigen can’t get the fickle evil spirit to do a damn thing he says. And besides that, Dimple’s a ghost. His backstory’s a bit murky, but Reigen’s fairly sure he never any formal education in personal finance.

As a minor, Tome doesn’t have any business filing taxes — doubly so if her arithmetic scores were any indication.

Serizawa. Wonderful, wholesome Serizawa. Love of his life, fire of his l—

No, no. It’s business hours, Reigen reminds himself.

Serizawa’s studious. Probably studious enough to equipoise a balance sheet after some coaching. But for now, the night student needed to dedicate his diligence to finishing his diploma and also rescuing his boss-slash-husband from unwitting but near-regular peril.

Plus, Serizawa was back into model-building in the evenings, and Reigen liked watching him bent over the kitchen table, tongue pointing from the corner of his mouth in deep concentration over the tiny pieces and Reigen’s eyebrow tweezers. And bent over, ah, other furniture and —

Business. Hours.

Long story short, Reigen didn’t need to sully the sanctity of their evenings with quarterly inventory depreciation.

After measuring up the breadth of his payroll, Reigen is left with his only possible option for office accountant — one conman with a regrettable liberal arts degree.

“We can’t afford an independent accountant either,” bemoans Reigen. “We can hardly afford a secretary.”

And then Serizawa’s nightmare begins when said secretary opens her mouth between crustaceous crunches of potato chips and incepts the awful idea into his all-too impressionable husband —

“The union has elections, don’t they?” she remarks, wiping an oily hand over her scarlet skirt. “Hoshida-senpai said Jodo-sama’s finally retiring. That guy’s, like, a million years old.” Tome barks out a laugh. “Wouldn’t it be funny if you ran for president and won? Then you’d have the accountant and all those guys would have to do what you say.”

Reigen blinks.

“You’re not seriously considering it,” Tome laughs again, tossing her crumpled chip bag toward the office wastebasket. It hits the floor three feet away. Ever the team player, Serizawa sinks the rebound with his telekinesis.

“If I ran…” Reigen mumbles to himself, suddenly lost in a lucid dream. He leans back in his chair, resting his feet over the corner of his desk. “Hm… If I ran for union president…”

Tome abruptly stops laughing.

Serizawa does not have telepathy. He does not need it to know that his husband is envisioning a campaign victory speech. Reigen’s already unconsciously practicing the accompanying gesticular choreography. He’s making peace signs.

This is dire.

“Arataka…” Serizawa bleats. “You can’t—You’re not even in the—… You don’t even know when the election is!”

But he knows it’s all futile, because he knows that look on Reigen’s face.

It’s the look Reigen wore when Serizawa complained about the water pressure in their apartment, and Reigen arrived armed with a wrench only to inexplicably erupt a violent geyser from the kitchen tap. And it’s the look Reigen wore last week when Serizawa advised him urgently, Arataka, that doll is extremely cursed, please don’t touch it — and Reigen plucked it from the shelf to clarify, you mean this doll?

“It’s settled then,” Reigen says.

Serizawa stares as Reigen pushes himself to his feet. The pleather office chair spins off into the wall. He wanders to the couches, nodding encouragingly to both of his apprehensive employees.

He clears his throat and proudly declares to the bated breath of his entire payroll, “I, Reigen Arataka, will run for union president.”

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THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 4, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #73

Renowned psychic expert and TV personality Jodo Kirin retires
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

Members of the local Rising Sun Spiritual Union reacted today as founder and three-term union president Jodo Kirin, 84, announced his official retirement from the exorcism business, effective November 30. The RSSU subsequently announced an emergency member election, which will be held in-person on December 1 in the Shishito Senior Center Multi-Purpose Activity Room.

Reactions to the impending retirement varied across the board. Some saluted Jodo’s contributions to the psychic community:

“Jodo-sama was the president,” said Cuticle City psychic Shinra Banshomaru, 41, a twelve-year veteran of the RSSU. “He was definitely the president. That I can say for sure.”

Others had more complex reactions:

“Jodo-sama was a good man. A great man, depending on who you ask,” said Roshuuto Dozen, 35, a union member in probationary standing who described himself as Jodo’s closest confidant.

“He was a powerful spiritualist, almost as powerful as myself,” said Roshuuto. “That reminds me: please inform your readers they can come to me, Roshuuto Dozen, the greatest living psychic in Seasoning City, for any and all spiritual needs. You can find my state-of-the-art office and adjoining gift shop at

This story continues as RETIREMENT on page 4A.

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Wednesday, November 4, 2015 — 23:41 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B

Serizawa goes to class that night like usual. Like everything’s normal. Like nothing’s off at all. Like Reigen is not actually considering running for elected office in a fraudulent business union for which he very much does claim membership.

Serizawa sits at his little school desk. He writes his little history notes. He balances his little chemistry equations. He heaves his little sigh when he has to correct the chemistry equations. And then he takes his train back to his beloved apartment.

Business as usual.

He arrives home before midnight, fully expectant that the whole business of hypothetical political campaigning has already blown over. That it’s been plucked off the shelf only to be replaced a few hours later like so many of his husband’s other abrupt “spiritual” hobbies. For the business, Reigen said.

Bird watching was short-lived. So was cross-country skiing. And ditto for needlepoint felt work. In the same manner, political campaigning should end imminently.

Serizawa doesn’t mind the hobbies; on the contrary, he loves watching Reigen entranced by a new interest. But Serizawa also worked for a man with misplaced political ambitions before, and it wasn’t such a fun time for either of them. Or their friends. Or the Seasoning City Department of Infrastructure.

Having fully reassured himself, Serizawa unlocks the door, swings it open, and eases off his dress shoes in the genkan. He drops his briefcase in its usual spot next to the shoe rack. He unknots his tie and hangs it with his suit jacket on the wall hook.

So far, so good.

He confidently strides past the kitchenette, expecting to talk about anything, anything other than the godforsaken Rising Sun Spiritual Union and —

“Katsuya,” Reigen greets, jumping from his perch over the dining room table and rushing to his side. Katsuya doesn’t even get a chance to enjoy the too-quick peck on his lips before Reigen’s shoving a scribbled-over stenographer’s notebook in his face. “I need your help with something. You’ve got a good ear for things.”

“What’s this?” Serizawa says into the wide-ruled paper, manifesting as much enthusiasm as he can to mask his trepidation. “Ideas for the office?”

Serizawa’s beloved therapist always said that he could shape his own destiny with the right attitude, and he’s tried his best to live by that mantra —

“No, no, of course not. This for the presidential campaign!” Reigen laughs like Serizawa told a hilarious joke. “I just checked the bylaws online — there’s technically no stipulation that candidates have to be union members. See this?” He gestures at himself. “You’re looking at a fully-eligible man.”

— to varied success.

Reigen slaps the back of his hand over the open page. “I’ve been workshopping ideas. I’m trying to draw on my personal brand. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Serizawa says.

“What do you think will work better as a campaign slogan? ‘Greatest President of the 21st Century’ or ‘Elect a Pro — Vote Seasoning City’s Bro’?”

Serizawa squints at Reigen’s chicken scratch.

“I was thinking the rhyming might be better. It’s more memorable,” Reigen continues, circling the phrase and flourishing his pen, “but then I thought maybe a simpler slogan would resonate better with the over-50 crowd? You’re older than I am — what would you go for in this case?”

Serizawa closes his eyes and clicks his heels together three times. When he opens his eyes, Reigen is still gazing at him expectantly.

It was worth a shot.

“I see,” Serizawa surmises. “You’re, uh, serious about this.”

“I’m serious about this,” Reigen confirms seriously. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Serizawa can think of several reasons in the milliseconds he has before his husband starts talking again.

“I can do some real good for that damned union,” Reigen says. “Kick the old leadership to the curb and bring in some fresh ideas. Screen out more of the frauds from their membership—”

Serizawa successfully resists the urge to comment.

“—and spend less time fundraising and more time helping people.” He gestures cyclically, drawing Serizawa’s eyes around like a manual hypnotism. “So…yeah. All that good stuff. And other stuff I haven’t even thought of yet, I’m sure.”

“You could help people without being the president,” Serizawa points out. “Just by being yourself.”

“I could help more people though,” Reigen insists. “Do you know how many members the union actually has? It’s—”

He glances quickly at his open laptop screen.

“—at least 130 self-proclaimed psychics in our ward alone.”

“You should memorize that if you want to run,” Serizawa advises.

Reigen waves that away. “Of course I will.”

Serizawa lifts the steno from Reigen’s grasp, setting it down next to a cup of lukewarm decaf — Serizawa sure hopes it’s decaf — coffee on the dining table.

“Arataka…” he says softly. “This isn’t about revenge, right? For that TV spot? Or the Mimic, or Rusty, or-or that time Roshuuto-san beat you at the parfait-eating contest — any of that?”

“I didn’t want to remember the parfait-eating contest,” Reigen grumbles at the floor. Roshuuto may have technically consumed more parfait but Reigen still claimed the moral victory — and was subsequently banned for life from Snow Problems Ice Cream Emporium.

He picks his head back up, meeting Serizawa’s concerned gaze. “I’m not, but— If I was still upset about any of that… Would that be so bad?”

“I don’t want you to run for the wrong reasons. Revenge is always the wrong reason,” Serizawa advises.

“It’s not just that,” Reigen says sheepishly. “I also really hate accounting.”

“That’s…not a good reason either.”

“‘Tsuya, I was joking. C’mon!” Reigen grins, but when he encounters the genuine concern in Serizawa’s eyes, he falters. “You… You think it’s a bad idea, don’t you?”

Serizawa’s a bit too whiplashed by Reigen’s emotional switch to appreciate that for once in his life, he might be winning an argument against The Man who Doesn’t Lose Arguments. Entirely by accident.

“I didn’t say that,” Serizawa backtracks, taking Reigen’s hand and running a finger over the knuckles. “I just wondered if it was a bit impulsive. Not that you have a track record of that.”

“Did you know I once hired an ex-terrorist on the spot?” Reigen replies.

His tone is light, but Serizawa can tell the warmth of his words doesn’t match the disappointment on his face. Truth be told, Reigen looks like a kicked puppy. Over time, Serizawa has identified this particular expression as his ultimate weakness.

Serizawa squeezes the hand in his grasp, bending down to kiss the spaces between Reigen’s fingers. “Whatever you decide, no matter what, you know you have my support. Just… Sleep on it, okay?”

Serizawa laces their fingers together, and Reigen nods, ears flushed at the tips.

“Sure, sure.”

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OFFICIAL MAILER FROM SNOW PROBLEMS ICE CREAM EMPORIUM
“Home of the BadSundae™”

WEEKLY SPECIAL

THE JODO KIRIN JOWEL BUSTER

This dairy delight features two scoops of butter pecan ice cream, topped off with giant tapioca pearls arranged to look like Jodo’s trademark prayer beads. This special celebrates Jodo-sama’s three terms of service to the psychic community! (Warning: choking hazard for children under four.)

Important note from the location manager:
Some valued customers recently left negative reviews complaining of a haunted bathroom at our Seasoning City location. We’d like to reassure our patrons that allegations of “sputtering sinks” and “judgmental toilets” were quickly disproven by talented representatives from the Rising Sun Spiritual Union.

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Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 06:01 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B

Reigen doesn’t smoke anymore.

It was a simple equation. Serizawa wanted him to quit, and so he did. It happened gradually, but he’s been a proud non-smoker since the night before his courthouse wedding.

That night — to celebrate his last day of bachelorhood — he went bar-hopping with Shinra. More accurately, Shinra went bar-hopping. Reigen sucked down one watered-down lemon sour at the first stop, dropped his last-ever cigarette into a puddle, and nearly stumbled into the downtown pedestrian scramble as the stoplight turned green. Shinra lassoed him out of harm’s way with his prayer beads — a move which made Reigen feel equal parts grateful and bovine. When he got home, Reigen didn’t want to worry Serizawa by telling him the night before the big day, but Shinra’s vice left an unmistakable circle of bruises around his waist, like a hug from an octopus.

Despite quitting cigarettes, Reigen still has poor circulation in his fingers and toes. His doctor told him the weird way his fingers frequently froze up and turned blue was Raynaud's Syndrome. She advised him to lay off the caffeine and computer work — a piece of advice Reigen swallowed down and chased with a canned coffee on his way to his next photographic exorcism appointment.

Delightfully, Serizawa always runs warm.

He once told Reigen it was an esper thing. With his aura, he’s always wearing a light jacket — the kind of barely-there affair you throw on in early spring. He said he’d never noticed the warmth, much less appreciated it until he’d held Reigen in it the first time.

Pragmatic as he is, Reigen takes full advantage of it — and Serizawa hisses like a tea kettle whenever Reigen abruptly presses his icy-white toes to Serizawa’s ankles.

This particular morning, Reigen rouses ahead of his alarm, despite his limited sleep.

He’s smushed and a touch sweaty under the dead weight of a sleeping Serizawa arm. The sun hasn’t yet risen over the highrises down the street. The rush hour train schedule doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. Their bedroom is dim and quiet, save for Serizawa’s gentle snoring into his hair.

Normally, Reigen would love nothing more than to turn on his side, press his face into the soft, warm, and fleece-lined juncture between Serizawa’s chest and arm, and stay forever. If that’s what Serizawa asked for, then Reigen would find a way to make it happen.

Today, Reigen has a purpose. A greater calling. A job only he can do. The armpit can wait.

And with that in mind, he presses his lips to the stubbly jut of Serizawa’s chin and wiggle-limbos under a bristly forearm to start his day.

“...Mornin’,” Serizawa slurs, stirring when Reigen’s shimmy jostles the bed springs. He rubs his bleary eyes and fumbles over the nightstand for his smartphone.

Serizawa is not a morning person. In his first days at the office, he divulged that he’d been so nervous to screw up that he’d barely slept at all. That’s why he’d been punctual. But once he got more comfortable, he struggled with sleeping past the commuting hour.

Reigen introduced him to coffee.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Reigen advised. “Try adding sugar.”

The first time Reigen tried coffee, he’d taken one sip from the mug he stole from his sister, glared at her like he’d been betrayed, and spent the evening vibrating in his desk chair. Serizawa, by contrast, took a steady sip, sighed pleasantly, and sipped again. Full of surprises, that one. Reigen — meanwhile — spent far longer staring at Serizawa’s lips over the mug than a boss was meant to. He coughed and looked away quickly when Serizawa met his gaze.

Nowadays, Serizawa wants morning coffee, so Reigen makes it. In the kitchenette, he spoons coffee grounds into an unfolded paper filter.

“Oh,” Serizawa calls from the bed, sitting up under the covers. “Kurata-san texted me. She sent a link to read.”

Reigen hums and starts the electric kettle.

They’d stayed up entirely too late with Reigen lost in his caffeine-powered vision quest for the perfect political debut. And then Serizawa had come home and verbally dragged him back to earth, the emergency tether to Reigen’s runaway dirigible.

He’d been a bit letdown by Serizawa’s reaction. Reigen slept on it as he promised he would. And one partial night of sleep richer, he’s more sure than he was before.

Serizawa promised to support him no matter what. Reigen didn’t take that lightly — that’s why he wasn’t simply going to run in an election. Obviously, he was going to win the election.

“Ah, I see,” Serizawa says, tapping his phone. “It’s an article from the Yuzu Pepper Yodeler. I’ll check it out…”

The argument is clear in Reigen’s head, as he fits the ceramic pourover dripper atop a chipped coffee mug:

Firstly, the whole election affair would only bolster business. The campaign itself would double as marketing for his services, and his name would be in the newspaper no matter the election result. As much as he despises the union and everything it stands for, he’d be foolish to deny the formidable power of viral advertising. Not every bit of press is good press — a fact he knows entirely too well — but he’d take a calculated risk.

“Oh… Hey, uh…”

Secondly, the loading screen of his pirated accounting software makes him want to crawl under his desk and reconsider all the life choices that brought him into the situation in the first place.

“Hey, ‘Taka…”

Thirdly, Reigen-kaichou has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? A certain irresistible pizzazz. It rolls of the tongue like it was meant to be. He imagines “Reigen Arataka, President” on a laser-cut wooden desk placard. And when he walks into the room to host whatever nonsense the union met about — how did they greet him? Reigen-sama? Mr. President? His excellency? The most honorable—

“It’s an update about the union election…”

Reigen shakes off the thoughts of his preferred honorifics. He’d have plenty of time to sort that out after his victory speech.

Moving on.

Lastly, there’s the most important reason of all. When — not if, he wants to be very clear — when he wins, he’ll clean house in the RSSU entirely. Sure — not everyone in the RSSU was trouble. Shinra. Tome’s boy-friend-who’s-not-a-boyfriend Hoshida. Two examples. They’re okay, Reigen supposes. But Reigen has seen firsthand how much damage the more malicious frauds from the RSSU had done. Every member of his office has.

For every Shinra, there was at least one Roshuuto.

“This isn’t good…” Serizawa mumbles, chewing his lip. “Roshuuto-san is…”

With his argument sorted and the tea kettle singing, Reigen’s ready to seize the moment. When Serizawa understood his reasoning, he’d happily agree with Reigen’s grand entrance into the world of business politics. After all, Serizawa promised to support him no matter what. Today, Reigen would simply cash in the “what.”

Reigen hums happily to himself, satisfied with his mental script of artfully-crafted rhetoric. Serizawa looks quizzically at him from across the room like Reigen’s sprouted a second head. Reigen’s too focused on the coffee station to notice.

Reigen lifts the kettle, tilting to bloom the coffee grounds waiting in the ceramic dripper —

“Arataka, are you listening?” Serizawa enunciates, hopping out of bed. “Roshuuto-san is running for president. He’s running unopposed.”

“What?”

— and promptly waters the counter.

…

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 5, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #74

‘Psychic of the Solar System’ Roshuuto Dozen enters bid for union president
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

Seasoning City spiritualist Roshuuto Dozen, 35, confirmed his official run for president of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union in the RSSU’s upcoming election which will take place December 1. The election aims to fill the vacancy left by longtime president Jodo Kirin’s imminent retirement.

Roshuuto is the first candidate to collect the necessary petition signatures to qualify for the ballot. He announced his campaign last night in a private event held in the flatpack warehouse section of the former Seasoning City IKEA. It was attended by employees, customers and select union allies.

Occult literature student at Seasoning City University and former apprentice at Roshuuto’s office, Hoshida Origo, 20, attended last night’s event, sitting in a row that once kept particleboard patio furniture.

“Roshuuto-san had an enormous influence in my life. He taught me to work independently and never depend on my seniors for anything. I’ve become completely self-sufficient,” Hoshida said.

Hoshida refuted claims that Roshuuto did not pay him for his work.

“He paid me in exposure,” Hoshida said. “Exposure to both the work environment and various deadly curses.”

Asked if he would endorse Roshuuto’s bid to replace him, Jodo said he wanted to wait and observe the field as other candidates potentially toss their hats into the race.

“Roshuuto is one candidate,” Jodo said. “And if there’s only one candidate, I suppose I’ll have to vote for him.”

The Yodeler’s team of fact checkers reminded Jodo that, per his own union bylaws, he is allowed to submit a blank ballot.

“Then we could go either way,” Jodo said.

As of writing, Roshuuto is polling at the front of the single-candidate pool.

Corrections: November 4, 2015

Our headline “Yuzu Pepper principal beheads incoming student council” was printed in error. After thorough inspection, we determined that it should have read “Yuzu Pepper principal befriends incoming student council.” We regret the error.

…

Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 06:12 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B

With practiced ease, Serizawa catches the boiling kettle water with his aura before it can scald his spouse. He waves a hand and trickles the liquid back through the kettle spout before offering Reigen his phone.

“Psychic of the solar system,” Reigen sneers at the screen. “They really printed that? I thought journalists had a sworn duty to only tell the truth.”

Serizawa turns the screen back to his face to regard the headline again and offers, “I think a writer can say whatever they want as long as it’s in quotation marks. Or they use the word ‘allegedly.’”

Reigen sighs, rubbing his temples. He picks up the kettle, and the steaming water actually meets the target this time. Toasty coffee smell permeates the infinitesimal space of their kitchenette area.

“What the hell is that guy’s platform anyway? Child endangerment?”

Serizawa snorts but doesn’t otherwise reply, too focused on his device.

There’s no need to freak out, Reigen reminds himself. Of course Roshuuto’s unopposed if he’s the only one running. The race barely started! Plenty of time to stage a comeback.

No need for concern. Not yet.

Reigen sets the kettle back to its heat element cradle and leans lock-armed against the counter. Pourover ceramic full to capacity, floating coffee grounds swirl and stick to the paper filter as the liquid depletes into the waiting mouth of Serizawa’s mug.

Drip, drip, drip.

“According to Roshuuto-san’s campaign site,” Serizawa says, clicking the first search result. “He has endorsements from many key members of Jodo’s current staff. And…um. Did you know Occult Oddities magazine named him ‘Sexiest Psychic Alive’ in 2014?”

Reigen sputters, “Excuse me?”

Perhaps a bit of concern is warranted.

“I guess the judges need their eyes checked.”

“I’ll say.”

“I can think of a better candidate,” Serizawa muses fondly.

He attempts to wink, but in reality, it’s a staggered, suggestive smush of both eyelids. It’s so comically adorable that Reigen has to avert his eyes, like he’s looking into the sun or something. As much as Reigen tries to act nonplussed about it, his heart flutters.

“I can’t believe we still have an office subscription,” Reigen says. “It’s a trashy magazine for trashy readers.”

“Dimple reads it cover to cover every month,” Serizawa says.

“Case and point.”

Drip, drip, drip, goes the coffee. Reigen plucks another mug from the stack in their cabinet, another filter from the packet in the drawer. There’s only one ceramic dripper. One brew at a time.

“Hmm,” Serizawa continues. “Roshuuto-san’s got a page for key issues. Let’s see. The keystone of his platform is… Sorry, lemme scroll. This website isn’t very mobile-friendly… Okay, here we go. He wants to work with local officials on licensing laws. And…oh—”

Serizawa cuts off the thought, looking a bit activated.

Perhaps a lot of concern is warranted.

Reigen raises an eyebrow. “…And?”

“And, uh,” Serizawa says hesitantly. “He wants to make it impossible for businesses without union membership to operate within city limits. He’s proposing hearings and fines. He said he’d even explore getting law enforcement involved…”

He pauses, searching for Reigen’s expression, but Reigen seems to be devoting his entire attention span to examining the fingerprint smears over the chrome-painted knob of the kitchen cabinet. Taking a deep breath. Considering his next move.

Drip, drip, drip.

“It’ll be really bad for us if he wins, won’t it?” Serizawa says after a moment of Reigen’s uncharacteristic silence, squinting back at his screen. “If he succeeds, life might become very, ah…difficult for us, right?”

“Yes,” Reigen says carefully to the cabinet. “I imagine it would.”

“I don’t want to join his union,” Serizawa asserts, scrubbing a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “And I like our current standard of living. Being able to pay rent. Having room for our stuff. A big bed. A balcony. And, uh. Windows.”

When Serizawa first joined Spirits and Such, he lived in a three-mat room in the basement of a condominium building. His only “window” faced a troublingly-crumbly stone column, and the closet was infested with crickets. Reigen called it “the coffin” and bought him a set of borax traps from the hardware store.

Serizawa always says he feels more at ease in dark, confined spaces. But Reigen has also watched him sip iced tea and read a light novel on the balcony folding chair while the afternoon sun bleached the hair on his forearms.

Drip, drip, drip.

“I like the office,” Serizawa adds. “The job. It’s helped me meet lots of different people.”

Reigen nods slowly. “…Me too.”

“It helped me integrate back into society. It helped me. And…lots of other people. Those people would have been on their own if not for you…”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Katsuya.”

“The office helped me meet you. Without that, I…”

Serizawa’s eyebrows knit together, lost in a difficult contemplation. Reigen can nearly spot the steam puffs from his ears.

Something’s happening here, Reigen thinks. Some cosmic alignment that he shouldn’t dare question. A planetary syzygy. A brush from an angel. A minor blessing. The pure unadulterated bliss of walking into the grocery store the minute the intercom announces a flash sale on Himalayan rock salt. You know, cosmic stuff.

The dripping ceases.

Reigen pulls out the coffee filter, tossing it with the compost. He rinses off the ceramic in the sink. He returns to the counter. He stares at the shimmery oil-slick surface of the coffee, watches the steam waft and curl into the air. He picks it up through the embrace of the handle, savoring the permeation of warmth through his too-cold fingertips.

And once he’s satisfied with that, he passes it to Serizawa, who’s busy worrying his thumbs together. Serizawa takes a sip and sighs. He fixes his gaze over Reigen. There’s trepidation there, but Reigen spots a glint of fire too.

The sunrise peeks through their balcony blinds, leaving streaks across the pebbly white walls, glare over Serizawa’s posters, a dotted line over the TV screen, a ray tangled up in Serizawa’s soft curly hair.

“I think,” Serizawa enunciates carefully, “you have to run for president, Arataka.”

Reigen can’t say Roshuuto never did anything for him.

But that’s not really what he wants to think about as he traps Serizawa by the waist against their kitchenette counter, smooths his hands over goosebumped hip bones tucked beneath the waistband of Serizawa’s sweatpants, and smothers him into a figuratively-searing kiss. Those lips bear notes of jasmine, stone fruit, and cacao nibs — exactly as the bag of grounds advertised, satisfaction guaranteed.

Ambitions are better shared. Serizawa’s on board. In fact, Serizawa may have usurped control of the ship entirely. And Reigen’s a simple man with a simple equation — if Serizawa wants him to, Reigen will.

.

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ROSHUUTO DOZEN for Rising Sun Spiritual Union President
“Honest. Humble. Handsome.”

[roshuuto_official_campaign_img.jpg] [alt text: A dark-haired man wears a cheaply-sewn replica of an early-1800s French cavalry general’s uniform, including black heeled shoes, long white socks, cropped white pants, a white vest, and a navy military jacket with gold fringe on the shoulders. He’s decorated with several nonsensical colorful ribbons and gold medals.

He is photoshopped riding a galloping white stallion and pointing a plastic saber in the air. The background is a low-resolution ripoff of the famous Windows XP ‘Bliss’ desktop background — the one with the green grass, blue sky, and excessively fluffy clouds.]

Donate here! (We accept credit, debit, cash apps, cryptocurrency) (No AmericanExpress, sorry!)

Please enter your email address here to be added to the “Rooting for Roshuuto” mailing list: _______

Campaign Promises (Listed in order of importance)

- Repeal of union bylaws prohibiting unpaid apprenticeships
- Repeal of term limits for the RSSU presidency
- Require RSSU membership for operation in the Seasoning City metropolitan area
- Ceiling on the skyrocketing price of prayer beads
- Female suffrage

(Next Page)

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Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 06:41 | Downtown Seasoning City

Once they’re caffeinated, shaved, and dressed, they embark on the usual commute to the office. Reigen and Serizawa pick up the rapid line from their local rail platform to the subterranean superstation below Marjoram Mall in downtown Seasoning City. From there, it’s a short walk to the office.

Serizawa always savors the morning commute. When he comes home alone late on school nights, Reigen’s asleep in bed or passed out of their couch with an absolutely atrocious movie rolling on the TV. The morning therefore is an extension of their time alone.

Serizawa also really loves trains. He thinks they’re neat. He’s thought about getting into train models someday. Maybe for his birthday.

Sometimes, as the train passes over the suspension bridge along the river, they spot Shigeo jogging the path along the waterway. Reigen’s beloved student claims to be training for an upcoming charity 10K at the end of the month.

This is one such morning, and Reigen watches Shigeo traverse the running path, trademark bowl cut bobbing along each stride. He’s tailed by a familiar green specter until they disappear beneath an underpass.

Reigen wanted to help Shigeo train but discovered his hard limit around the fifth kilometer. Serizawa reminded him that his knees were definitely not supposed to make that crunching noise when he strode up the stairs to their apartment. So instead, Reigen spectates from time to time and shouts out words of encouragement if he’s within earshot of Shigeo’s route.

Reigen’s immeasurably proud of Shigeo’s hard work and progress. He’s come a long way since middle school. And ever since Shigeo’s mom started adding the iron fish to the rice cooker, the kid’s had far more pep in his step.

The commuter train lurches as it transfers over a rail switch, and Reigen’s face nearly meets the dagger of Serizawa’s elbow before he rights himself. He coughs once and straightens his tie.

“…I think you’re right about qualifications,” Serizawa says. He’s got one hand loosely fisted around the metal stanchion; the other flicks through a downloaded pdf on his phone. “There are a few demographic requirements that you already qualify for. You remembered to renew your driver’s license, right?”

“Yep.”

“But I don’t see anything about membership requirements.” He grimaces at the screen. “It actually seems… A little unedited.”

“Then registering for the election should be a cinch,” Reigen replies with an easy flourish of fingers. “We can stop by the union branch after morning clients. Tome-chan texted last night to remind me we have a haunted broom coming in first thing, and then I’m giving a foot exorcism at 9.”

“A foot massage or an actual foot exorcism?”

“It sounds hairy, the way the client described it. Could be both.”

“Yikes.”

“We’ll close for walk-ins,” Reigen decides, “in case things get messy.”

“Downtown” flashes across the electronic screen, while the conductor announces, “Marjoram Mall.” Serizawa tucks his phone into his coat pocket and follows Reigen out of the train, over the platform, up the maze of escalators, and through the crowded station.

They exit into the anchor department store, traipsing through a selection of loveseats and sectionals on their way to the door. Reigen once proclaimed it to be a “shortcut,” and Serizawa didn’t have the heart to tell him he timed the route between the optometrist and RC Helicopter hobby shop a minute faster. He likes watching Reigen’s coat flutter as he speed-walks by the overpriced upholstery and blathers on about reflexology.

Serizawa could listen to him talk about his interests all day, even if they shuffled a lot. He wonders if the union voters will listen to Reigen with the same voracity. He hopes so, but then again, the Public Reigen has always been a measure different from the Reigen he enjoys in the privacy of their cherished life together.

They waltz together through the automatic doors and out into the downtown streets. Off the main road, they duck into an alley, passing over the dampened pavement in front of the flower shop as the owner completes first watering. They stride by the usual takoyaki stand, not yet unpacked for the business day. They climb their building's stairs, and Reigen unlocks the door.

They’re in for a morning of brooms and feet. Serizawa would personally rather perform a hundred exorcisms than spend an hour touching someone’s feet. He doesn’t even like his own feet. Reigen doesn’t mind them so much.

They’re equals and they have their strengths and weaknesses, but Serizawa can never shake the admiration he’s carried since he first watched Shigeo’s memories — the persistent feeling that pours over him and spills down the sides. Archimedes in the bathtub.

Reigen, he thinks giddily, is pretty amazing.

The client comes sweeping through the threshold — literally. And the day truly begins.

.

— PROPERTY OF SEASONING CITY UNIVERSITY’S LEMONGRASS LIBRARY —
(DO NOT REMOVE FROM PREMISES UNDER PENALTY OF LAW)

OCCULT ODDITIES • JULY 2014 EDITION
Cover Story: Roshuuto Dozen is OCCULT ODDITIES’ Sexiest Psychic Alive!

[image] [alt text: A dark-haired man wears a black modern-cut two-piece suit, white dress shirt, shiny black dress shoes, and black satin tie. The tie is loosely knotted, and the first two buttons of the shirt are unbuttoned, revealing a sultry clavicle. He reclines in a swiveling, high-backed black leather executive chair in front of a lit fireplace with an extremely fluffy and equally unhappy Persian cat on his lap. He smirks at the camera.]

image caption: When renowned supernaturalist Roshuuto Dozen isn’t breaking curses, he’s breaking the hearts of his many admirers! Read all about Seasoning City’s ‘suave’ psychic (pg. 47).

.

Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 10:15 | RSSU Seasoning City Branch Headquarters

With a gentle prodding of his powers, Serizawa helps the broom ghost embrace the big dustpan in the sky. To Serizawa’s relief, Reigen handles the feet. While Reigen works his magic in the massage exorcism room with incense, a water basin, and a lot of elbow grease, Serizawa chips away at a literature assignment, leaving little notes in the margins of his translated copy of Macbeth. He doesn’t know a lot of the vocabulary, so he vacillates between the paperback and a dictionary app he pulled up on Reigen’s beat-up laptop.

When Reigen finishes up, he washes his hands three times to really show those prokaryotes who’s boss. Serizawa rings up the client, pulling change out of the cashbox behind Reigen’s desk with his powers to break a paper bill. Then they both yank on their winter coats and stroll to the other side of downtown. Reigen buys them both green teas from the hot vending machine with some of his tip money.

“Wanna know what the prognosis was?” Reigen asks after a hearty gulp.

Serizawa wipes his lips and grimaces. “Not really…”

But he knows that Reigen —

“It was the craziest ingrown I’ve ever seen! Seriously. Like a shark tooth!”

— will blurt it out anyway.

“I poked all the pressure points, but he’ll need a professional,” Reigen goes on, gesturing in reminiscence. “I’ve never seen anything like it! And he wears a lot of red socks. Want to know how I know?”

“Because he had red sock fuzz.”

“Because he had red sock fuzz!” Reigen confirms, thrusting his tea can in the air. “You’re an observant man, Katsuya.”

“Am I?”

“You’d make a fantastic advisor,” Reigen says with a wink, dropping his can in the recycling. “Your colleague must be a lucky guy.”

Serizawa smiles as he sips the dregs of his tea.

Their local union branch location is sandwiched between a real estate office and a vape shop in an otherwise nondescript concrete downtown building. Their glass door bears the RSSU’s updated eyeball logo, though Reigen can make out the faint traces of a scratched-out Psycho Helmet decal behind the fresher sticker paste.

“After you,” Serizawa offers, swinging the door open with his powers. He’s a little hard on the rusty hinges, but Reigen appreciates it nonetheless, throws him a coy grin.

They both wander into the stereotypically austere union office — gray cubicles tessellated claustrophobically together, dull dirty carpet on the floor, stacks of manila folders spilling off bent wire organizers, the suffocation of the ticking clock on the wall, fingers typing rhythmically over computer keyboards, stale coffee stench in the air, faint murmur of phone conversation and hold music, and the romantic coupling of a half-empty water cooler and a basket of crushed paper cups in the corner.

No one at the desks pays them any mind, too engrossed in their daily tasks. The sight is a bit nostalgic to Reigen — brings him back to his salesman days, when his manager used to gather entire meetings simply to discuss whether they were having too many meetings. He can still smell all the corporate perspiration. Meanwhile, Serizawa takes a moment to admire the filing cabinet collection, before he spots the door across the way labeled “Official Election Commissioner.”

Reigen expects to open it and find some impressionable Jodo loyalist he can quickly bulldoze over with a special combination of a foolproof argument, infectiously-winsome personality, and maybe — if the situation calls for it — a little leg.

The room beyond the door is dim and blurry, wafting with incense smoke. There’s a computer monitor covered in stickers, a mini-fridge packed with kombucha, and a gold-beaded curtain — Reigen recognizes it from the discount bin at the local party store — hung over the threshold. Paint-opaque vessels — antacid bottles, gachapon capsules, film canisters, and French-style yogurt glasses — fill the shelving unit behind the desk. Inside the room, it smells a bit like amber and chicken-flavored cat food.

“Oh, it’s you. From that one time. And the other times,” says the all-too-familiar election commissioner. “Reigen-san.”

Serizawa looks confused, so Reigen pulls his wits back about him and fills in the missing lore.

“It’s the guy with all the jars. The one with spirit powers,” Reigen elucidates, waving a hand. “His name is…uh…”

“Matsuo,” Matsuo supplies.

“Matsuo…?”

“Just Matsuo.”

“Matsuo then.”

Serizawa fumbles through his suit breast pocket for his business card case.

“He was at the Asagiri mansion. And, uh — I think he tried to eat Dimple once.”

“I don’t eat my precious pets,” Matsuo hisses. “I’m a strict spiritual vegetarian! And if you’re talking about your green friend, I was planning to save him for Marshmallow-chan.” He sighs, running a finger along the capsules on the shelf behind his desk. “Oh Marshmallow-chan, you were gone far too soon from this world.”

“He’s a former Scar,” Reigen says. “I’m surprised you didn’t already know him.”

Serizawa stops fumbling through his suit breast pocket for his business case.

“We didn’t do a lot of networking,” Serizawa replies, shoulders slumped.

“Serizawa, right?” Matsuo says, a little on guard. “I know a former-Upper Echelon when I see one.”

Serizawa nods bashfully. “Ah yes. Although that’s not who I am anymore. I mean, the name’s the same, but…”

“He’s fully rebranded himself,” Reigen announces, clapping Serizawa firmly between his shoulder blades. “He’s fully integrated into society. Speaking of which, what the hell are you doing here in the official election commissioner’s office?”

Matsuo blinks. “I’m the official election commissioner.”

Despite the straightforward logic, this is not the response Reigen expects, evidenced by the choking sound his throat emits. So Serizawa takes over.

“Reigen-san would like to register for the union election,” Serizawa says. “Would you be able to help with that?”

“Sure,” Matsuo says.

He flips open a capsule at his belt, letting loose one of the most harrowing spirits Serizawa has ever seen despite his wealth of experience in the arena — it’s an utter eldritch horror of eyeballs and tentacles and lots of slime. It makes an insidious shrieking sound worse than nails on a chalkboard when Matsuo coos its name. It wears a glittery collar around one of its thick eyestalks.

“Bubblegum-chan, fetch.”

The spirit pries open the drawer of Matsuo’s desk and reaches in for the manila folder labeled “Applications” with its — er, Serizawa’s not exactly sure if it’s a mouth or a nostril or something else entirely.

“What was that?” Reigen whispers to Serizawa, baffled by his husband’s uneasy expression and utterly ignorant to the monstrousness of Matsuo’s menagerie.

“Um, telekinesis,” Serizawa replies, watching the spirit drip ectoplasm onto the shag carpet. “…Yeah, let’s go with that.”

Reigen picks up a pen from the cup of Matsuo’s desk and sets to filling out his information. Bubblegum-chan lays in wait, merging ominously with the shadows cast from Matsuo’s bookshelf.

“I’m supposed to ask for proof of your psychic abilities,” Matsuo says, watching as Reigen struggles to remember his driver’s license ID number.

Serizawa stills, but Reigen snorts and says, “You’ve seen them yourself. At Seventh Division.”

“Sure, but…”

“And I’m happy to reprise our last game of rock, paper, scissors,” Reigen adds.

Reigen’s overconfident about his abilities, Serizawa worries. Then again, his husband had recently bested Tome’s telepath friend in a best two-out-of-three — the first sporting event Serizawa’s ever found riveting enough to spectate.

“…Yes. Fair enough,” Matsuo concedes, unwilling to revisit the troubling memory. He stamps Reigen’s completed document with his election commissioner seal. Bubblegum-chan growls like a hellhound and grows a fresh eyestalk. Serizawa’s clammy hand twitches over his briefcase handle.

“Last thing — I’ll need you to identify a campaign manager,” Matsuo says, directing Bubblegum-chan to take up the pen in a tentacled grip with a lazy point of his finger. “There’s a spot for it on the petition, see?”

Campaign manager, Reigen frets. He hadn’t known that’d be a requirement. Well, no matter. He’d simply put his own name—

“It has to be someone else,” Matsuo advises.

“Who’s Roshuuto’s campaign manager then?” Reigen demands. “Surely there’s no one willing to—”

“It’s not my business to gossip about other campaigns,” Matsuo says.

Reigen frowns.

A beat passes.

“But…it’s his mother.”

Reigen groans.

Serizawa struggles to imagine Reigen’s mother campaigning on his behalf for any sort of supernatural ambition. Last time he’d visited Reigen’s parents, she’d sent Reigen off on an errand and then attempted to bribe a bewildered Serizawa into convincing her son to change careers in exchange for a packet of homemade cookies. Meeting her was plenty evidence of where Reigen got all his chutzpah. They were excellent cookies. Chocolate and sort of melt-in-your-mouth. She suggested life coaching or waste disposal. Serizawa admitted to her that they pretty much did that already.

Reigen quickly runs through his admittedly-abbreviated mental deck of people who might be willing to take this job. Outside his collection of psychic teenagers, he only has one adult ally he might trust to do it, and he would never thrust such a belittling and thankless of a job on his dear—

“Do you think I can balance it with office responsibilities?” Serizawa inquires.

Reigen jolts, utterly floored.

Lucky day indeed.

“I don’t see why not,” Matsuo replies. “The election’s only a month away so it isn’t a long commitment.”

Serizawa counts off fingers. “And there’s midterms… And Book Club… And the upcoming cultural fair… The upcoming Galaga tournament… Hm. I can make time. I’ve never run a campaign before. Do you think it’s hard?”

Matsuo shrugs. “No idea.”

Reigen says, “Didn’t you campaign for this job?”

Matsuo shakes his head. “No one wanted to do it, so they told me to when I joined. I think they were hazing me. Anyway, I like having free office space.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Reigen tells Serizawa. “I can find someone else. I could ask… Hm. Maybe Dimple?”

“It has to be a person,” Matsuo yawns. “Believe me, I’ve asked.”

“Or Shinra. Or…or…”

Reigen trails off. Serizawa squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.

“Let me do it, Arataka,” he says.

Reigen beams at him — the turn of Reigen's lips shoots through Serizawa's heart like an arrow.

“My last self-improvement book said following politics is part of integrating into society,” Serizawa adds. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. …Maybe it’ll be fun?”

As Reigen proceeds to explain the spelling of "Serizawa" to Matsuo’s literal ghostwriter, it briefly occurs to Serizawa that he might be a bit blinded by his affection when it comes to rational decision-making. And also, he doesn’t enjoy the squelch of a tentacle partaking in calligraphy.

Bubblegum-chan tucks the form into a tray. But before it disappears back into Matsuo’s capsule, it slaps a thick, binder-clipped packet onto Matsuo’s desk. The collision rattles all the jars on the shelves.

“Isn’t my pet adorable?” Matsuo gushes.

Reigen stares confusedly, while Serizawa sweats into his dress shirt collar and lifts the heavy packet with a pull of his telekinesis, pulling off the ectoplasmic residue – his first act as the newly-appointed campaign manager.

“Now that that’s taken care of,” Reigen says, wiping his hands together, “I suppose we can let the press know.”

“Um,” Serizawa says, scanning the documents. “Not yet.”

Reigen raises an eyebrow at his spouse as Matsuo reclines in his desk chair.

“He’s right. You applied for the right to petition,” Matsuo says, waving at Serizawa’s clutch over the paperwork. “You’ll need 40 signatures on that petition to be considered a legitimate candidate. You can’t be on the election day ballot otherwise.”

“What?” Reigen blanches. “But I…”

“I don’t make the rules,” Matsuo replies. “They just force me to enforce them.”

“You’re telling me Roshuuto found 40 friends to vouch for him that quickly?”

“He’s well-connected within the union,” Matsuo says, utterly nonplussed. “He always hosts trivia night. Sometimes with an open bar.”

“God dammit,” Reigen huffs, while Serizawa wrestles the packet into his briefcase.

.

Rising Sun Spiritual Union — Official Constitution (PDF)

Article 6 — On Presidential Elections (continued)

Section 7. Official Presidential Logistics
The Rising Sun Spiritual Union must have a sitting president at all times. A president is limited to four terms of service. If the president is somehow unable to serve those full terms — whether this is because he’s reached their term limit, he’s entered retirement, or he’s been otherwise disposed of by a supernatural force, the union must hold a prompt election for his replacement.

Section 8. Official Ballot Counting
The president shall be elected by majority vote of union members in good standing. The votes shall be counted by the sitting RSSU election commissioner. The commissioner must verify all ballots. Any ballots submitted in error or from members in poor standing will be promptly tossed in the union incinerator (also known as the gas fireplace in the Shishito Senior Center Family Visitation Room).

Section 9. Official Candidate Basic Qualifications
All candidates for presidential office must have the following basic personal qualifications:

- Male and over 30 (in human earth years)
- Can demonstrate plausible psychic or spiritual abilities
- Driver’s license (boat license also accepted)

Section 10. Official Candidate Membership Qualifications
(TO DO 12/5/2003 — finish filling this out. Need a copy edit?)

Section 11. Official Candidate Petition Requirements
All potential candidates must petition for inclusion on the official ballot. The number of signatures required scales linearly with the number of members in good standing in the union, and it shall be publicized by the sitting RSSU election commissioner. He shall determine this threshold in an expedient manner. That is

(continues on next page)

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Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 14:54 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office

“—the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” Dimple says, pinching the ghostly bridge of his nose between his ghostly fingers as if in anticipation of a ghostly migraine. “You’re not serious.”

Tome wonders briefly where ghosts keep their brains. According to the latest issue of Occult Oddities, some alien corpses had brain matter in their butts.

“It’s not,” Reigen says. “I’m seriously running for president.”

“Whoa,” Tome says, eyes twinkling. “We’re actually doing this, aren’t we? You never do my ideas!”

Reigen says, “Sometimes, you have good ideas, Tome-chan.”

“I have more where those came from,” Tome says, pulling out her sketchbook. “I was thinking, if Mob-kun and I found a telepath to recruit for the office, then we could travel to Stonehenge and—”

“Let’s stay focused on politics here,” Serizawa says, a touch apologetic. “The election is very soon.”

“Politics is always a bad idea,” Dimple advises. “There’s a reason I founded a religious cult. You don’t want to get involved with politicians, Reigen. Don’t get me wrong – you’ll fit right in with the hypocrit—”

“Oi!” Reigen protests.

“And I’m sure you don’t have a qualified manager to run your campaign either,” Dimple adds.

“I’m the campaign manager actually,” Serizawa volunteers.

Dimple pauses a moment, examining Serizawa up and down.

“Yes, so in addition to that, there’s inherent danger to all of this. There’s a corrupting energy around politics. Why do you think there are so many scandals all the time?” He heaves a sigh. “You’ve seen the types who get involved with Jodo. You’ve been burned before. What are you gonna do if they go after you? What if they humiliate you on TV again?”

Serizawa frowns.

Reigen had told him about his unfortunate appearance on live television of course — he’d even shown him the tape one night when they were still dating. It never bothered him that Reigen had a messy history. He accepted all the parts of him — and the ones Reigen was too ashamed to ever share, he’d accept those too when the time came. Reigen had accepted all the worst parts of Serizawa, and Serizawa thought his terrorist past probably weighed heavier on the scales of justice than all of Reigen’s lies combined.

But it was one thing to accept the troubles of the past – and another to willingly charge face-first into the pit of lions at the media circus.

“I’ll deal with it when it happens,” Reigen says swiftly. “I’m not someone who gets crushed so easily.”

“A cockroach,” Dimple summarizes.

“Not a cockroach,” Reigen says quickly.

“One of those clown punching bags that swings back when you hit it.”

Serizawa wonders if he’s supposed to come to Reigen’s defense. The roach quip, yes. He missed the boat on that. Unfortunately, the clown punching bag metaphor rings a bit true, so Serizawa’s conflicted on this one. He’ll have to ask later.

“I’m a determined man, alright?” Reigen says. “Determined. Let me have this, okay? The point of this is to do what’s best for the office. There’s a lot at stake if Roshuuto wins! Right, Serizawa?”

Serizawa’s back goes board-straight. “Uh. Right!”

“Katsuya doesn’t count.” Dimple waves at Serizawa’s wedding ring. “Is there anyone in agreement who isn’t contractually-obligated to you?”

“I think it’d be fun,” Tome says. “I’m for it.”

“All this aside, I think it’s a great idea,” Reigen counters undeterred. “And last I checked, I’m the boss. So—”

He scrawls “Reigen 2015” in thick swipes over the dry erase board next to Serizawa’s overwhelming game win tally, caps the marker, and drops it like a hot mic.

“—there you have it,” Reigen grins at Dimple. “Spirits and Such is now home to the Reigen campaign headquarters. Any questions?”

Tome raises her hand. “Can I be press secretary?”

“If that would make you happy,” Reigen says, “why not?”

.

“…Hi! This is Serizawa Katsuya! Ah, but you probably already know that, since you’re calling me. But if you didn’t know that, this is Serizawa! Katsuya, that is. Not a different Serizawa. Haha. …Oh no, I’m running out of time—”

“Just re-record it, ‘Tsu—”

“Please leave a message for me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I—”

BEEP!

“Hello, this is Sato with the downtown Book of Book. I’m calling to let you know that your pre-orders have arrived for pickup. I have two titles under ‘Serizawa’ here. Let’s see…

“So yeah… we’ve got volume 23 of ‘Reborn as a Middle Manager in a Fantasy Recession, I Met our KPIs with my Insane Six-Sigma Synergy’ and ‘Winning your Supernatural Election Campaign: A Primer.’

“You’ll need your ID to pick them up. Please stop by at your earliest convenience. Thanks. Buh-bye!”

.

Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 15:07 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office

When Shigeo walks through the door, he’s met with an audience of expectant eyeballs, and he wonders briefly if he forgot something conspicuously important — like his school work or his winter coat. Or his pants.

No one says anything, and that’s strange for such a loquacious crew. Minus Dimple, they’re all wearing their coats and scarves. And that’s stranger still, because at most only Serizawa should be wearing his coat and scarf, and it’s still a bit too early for him to board his usual express bus to night school. The rest of them should be handling clients or brewing tea or chit-chatting or stealing Reigen’s secret snacks from the massage room cabinet when Reigen’s not looking.

And speaking of Reigen — he’s occupied with stuffing a comically-tall stack of handmade flyers into a Black Pepper High School gym bag held open by Tome. She wills the zipper over the hump of contents unsuccessfully before Serizawa flicks it shut with his powers before tying his scarf. The seams are full to bursting. Reigen hefts it over his shoulder and stands like the Leaning Tower of Pisa until Serizawa gives him a telekinetic boost back to being properly perpendicular with the floor.

Shigeo treads carefully into the office.

There’s a strange energy permeating through the space, but he can’t quite give it a name. He doesn’t come to the office as much now that he’s fully entrenched in the responsibilities of a second-year high school student, but he doesn’t think that he’s been long enough for the whole dynamic to change so dramatically.

Tome seems a bit miffed, so Reigen must be expecting actual labor. A case? But not an interesting one, if he reads her expression correctly. And Serizawa is flitting nervously about Reigen like a moth around a street lamp, so it must involve intensive customer service. A sensitive case with no aliens, Shigeo decides. That must be it.

Dimple’s muttering about Reigen under his breath, but he always does that.

Shigeo sets down his bag.

“Yo Mob,” says Reigen. “Grab your bag and some of these flyers. We’re headed out.”

Shigeo lifts his bag again.

“Shishou,” Shigeo replies hesitantly. “I didn’t realize we had an off-site case today. Is it a curse?”

“It’s not a curse,” Tome replies.

“It’s a curse,” Dimple reaffirms.

“It’s not a curse,” Serizawa corrects.

“It’s better than a curse,” Reigen spouts. “It’s politics! We’re going canvassing!”

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 15:36 | Herbes de Provence Heights | Current Signature Count: 0

Canvassing consumes the remaining afternoon.

Each with a copy of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union member information list included in the packet from Matsuo, the employees of Spirits & Such (and also Dimple) break into two groups for the first day of canvassing. Serizawa, Tome, and Dimple head to the eastside of the neighborhood to ring a few doorbells close to Serizawa’s night school. At the same time, Reigen and Shigeo knock on doors in the Herbes de Provence Heights neighborhood of southside Seasoning City.

Looking down on the other neighborhoods from the top of its eponymous hill, Herbes de Provence Heights is the wealthiest conclave of Seasoning City. It spares no expense rubbing that in the face of every pedestrian who passes through.

The neighborhood boasts excellent panoramic views of the neon skyscrapers in the financial district and close proximity to bordering Basil Beach. Its single-family lots give rise to homes in various styles — some traditional Japanese-style homes, some ultra-modern melds of glass and metal, and some more western-style stone-lined country mansions. The uniting motif is that they’re all obnoxiously huge and sprawled over their grassy lots, especially for a neighborhood so proximal to the dense urban-center of downtown. The neighborhood is also home to the most elite schools in the metropolitan area — namely, Black Vinegar Middle and Yuzu Pepper High.

In other words, when Reigen walks along the line of iron-wrought gates, the residents can immediately suss out that he doesn’t belong – one whiff of the distinctive plasticky stench of a polyester suit.

Reigen double-checks the address from the RSSU petition.

“Yup,” Reigen says, popping the syllable. “This is the street. How the hell does a psychic make enough money to live here? Geez.”

Reigen wonders if it’s one of the multi-level marketing guys. He hates those guys. He spends a formidable amount of time undoing the damage from their schemes and doesn’t see half the money. One time, he drunkenly bought a candle from the MLM-obsessed woman at Happy Trail Bar, and the artificial vanilla perfume gave him a migraine.

They’ll be the first to go once he’s inaugurated.

Reigen leads Shigeo down Escargot Garth and up a driveway. They pass a neatly-trimmed hedge in the shape of a soft-serve ice cream twist and a standard poodle with a fastidious Continental clip cut lounging in a plush dog bed. There’s a pristine aqua-blue pool in the backyard and an intricately-raked rock garden in the front. The whole mismatched cultural conglomeration makes Reigen feel a bit like he’s walked into a customizable video game. One of those home design simulations Serizawa would play in pajamas on the living room TV while procrastinating on his math homework.

“Shishou,” Shigeo says, admiring the dog’s fluffy ears. “What exactly are we doing here?”

“Canvassing.”

“You said that before, but… What’s canvassing?”

“It’s when you harass people to do things for you,” Reigen says, and quickly adds, “For the greater good, of course.”

Shigeo nods slowly. “I don’t know how I feel about bothering people in their homes. Won’t they think it’s rude?”

“Don’t worry about all of that. It’s all very standard-issue. Happens every day. It’s a hazard of homeownership. And it’s not like I’m asking for money. …Yet.” Reigen frowns before shaking the thought. Campaign finance would be a concern for Future Reigen.

Instead, he flips the conversation around. “Haven’t you been involved in politics before, Mob?”

“I ran for student council president once,” Shigeo answers.

“So you understand then. You must have done something similar?”

“Not really,” Shigeo says. “I gave a speech, but it wasn’t really a speech. Mezato-san said it was more like an unexpected staring contest.”

Reigen grimaces at that, but luckily, Shigeo doesn’t seem perturbed at the memory.

This little canvassing trip could be a valuable learning opportunity for a boy on the cusp of manhood. Reigen rarely turns down an opportunity to impart much-needed wisdom whether or not it’s welcomed. So he takes a deep breath — and Shigeo readies himself to digest the incoming full-course lecture, lovingly garnished with a plethora of assertions he doesn’t understand.

“Get ready to learn an important lesson,” Reigen announces, accompanying choreography of gestures locked-and-loaded. “This is what I call community engagement. You have to talk to lots of people and understand all their issues. You have to help them see why you’re the best man for the job!”

“I see.”

Reigen puffs out his chest. “Networking is an important skill, Mob. It’s not to be underestimated! You have to convene with people regularly. A man without connections is a tree without a forest. He’s nothing but a… uh, tree.”

Reigen clatters the ostentatious door knocker — a giant iron lion’s face, clutching an metal ring intricately engraved with a vine pattern over a strike plate.

“Putting effort into this sort of thing is how you open doors in your life,” Reigen informs Shigeo as they wait for an answer. “Watch carefully.”

The door unlocks and their first canvass target pokes his head tentatively through the threshold. He’s a shirtless balding man wearing boxing gloves, and the gloves are not helping with the fine motor skill required to open his deadbolt.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Reigen schmoozes, ducking into a shallow bow before holding up the election document, “we’d like to take a minute of your time to explain why you should sign this peti—”

“Absolutely not,” says the man, and he slams the door shut, leaving Reigen abruptly nose-to-nose with the ferrous feline.

“Do you think we should try again?” Shigeo wonders.

.

the parachute candidate

chapter two: starting from a blank canvass ~convention apprehension~

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 6, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #75

Herbes de Provence Heights Police Blotter (5 Nov. 2015)
compiled by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

100 Omelette Avenue, 13:01 A woman reported a stranger in the vicinity of her yard. It turned out to be her neighbor with a fresh haircut.

Steak Street & Frites Lane, 15:32 A resident called the police reporting vandalism. When the police arrived, they found a knocked-over combustibles bin, which they attributed to the wind.

404 Escargot Garth, 15:42 Multiple neighbors reported a man knocking on doors, handing out suspicious flyers, and otherwise casing the neighborhood. They described the man as around thirty years old and dressed in a gray suit and pink tie. Dispatched officers were not able to locate anyone matching the description but did find a half-eaten carton of takoyaki near the knocked-over combustibles bin.

.

Friday, November 6, 2015 — 06:17 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Current Signature Count: 0

“—and then the jerk threatened me with the jet spray setting on his garden hose,” Reigen says, when he returns from the kitchen to their bedside. “I admit, I got a little upset about that. And might have run my mouth. And might’ve told him to save that enthusiasm for his struggling chrysanthemums. Then he said he was calling the police! Can you believe the nerve of people these days?”

“Nnnh,” Serizawa says, muffled under the covers. Only the apex of his head is visible, a few dark curls of hair spread onto his pillow above the taut boundary of covers.

Reigen frowns. “You don’t think I was the asshole, do you?”

“Mm.”

“You too then.” Reigen sniffs. “Unbelievable!”

Despite his indignation, Reigen still offers an almost illegally-adorable snoozing Serizawa a mug of freshly-brewed coffee. Bleary-eyed and utterly disoriented, Serizawa emerges from the cocoon of comforters to lift the vessel with his powers, dropping it carefully into his waiting grasp. The mug clinks against his wedding band.

Serizawa yawns, waving a hand to cool down the drink a couple degrees. He cools Reigen’s coffee too for good measure — if Serizawa had a five-yen coin for every time he watched his husband scald himself on street food, they’d be able to live in Herbes des Provence Heights.

Reigen settles on the edge of the mattress with his own mug — half coffee and half cream. His brow creases — a man boiling deep in a hearty stew for such an early hour.

While Serizawa conks out like a log at night, Reigen usually sleeps like a washing machine agitator – intent on disturbing its surroundings as thoroughly as possible. And somehow, last night was worse than usual. Reigen had been restless all night, unconsciously flapping his arms around and kicking Serizawa’s defenseless shins with his icepick toes like he was locked in combat with a mortal enemy. It was like someone took that same washing machine and agitated a cinder block.

This continued until Serizawa woke up with bloodshot eyes, seized Reigen around the waist, and squashed him into the mattress until he calmed down like an upset kitten at the vet. It was alright after that. Serizawa doesn’t mind playing big spoon so long as the little spoon is inanimate.

Reigen’s clearly stressed about the poor reception to the petition canvass. It’s written all over his face. Between Reigen’s group and Serizawa’s group, they retrieved an aggregated total of zero signatures over the course of the evening. Perhaps the angst is warranted.

Serizawa figures formulating the pep talk to draw Reigen out of his doldrums is part of his job description as the newly-christened Reigen 2015 campaign manager. And also the husbandly duties. Et cetera, et cetera.

Tactfully, Serizawa will refrain from reminding Reigen of how much campaign is left to go, given he’s this stressed out already. Then again, he’s never known Reigen to handle rejection all that well. How’s he going to handle it if he loses? To Roshuuto?

…No, he needs to focus on the immediate. Serizawa’s sure if he thinks about it too hard, he’ll send them both floating to the ceiling, and that’s no way to start a morning.

Pep talk, pep talk, how to pep talk…

“I’m sure today will go better,” Serizawa says, cradling his mug in his lap. “I mean, strictly speaking, it can’t go worse, right? Like um… We can’t get negative signatures.”

“People can technically void their signatures,” Reigen says.

This pep talk went better in Serizawa’s head.

“I’d hate to do more of the same,” Reigen replies glumly. “I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. Usually, I just talk at someone until they agree with me. It worked in sales. It works with our clients.”

Serizawa is familiar with this special move — the one where Reigen wins any debate by assaulting his opponent with the verbal equivalent of a confetti cannon. Serizawa appreciates it most when Reigen haggles for discount furniture at the local flea market. It’s how they were able to upgrade Reigen’s broken office chair when Serizawa demanded an end to the fart noises it made at the slightest jostle.

“But,” Reigen says, “all these guys slam the door in my face before I’ve even opened my mouth. I can hardly get a syllable out.”

“Maybe we need a new strategy then,” Serizawa says, and then it hits him. “Oh! I almost forgot! …Here, I picked this up last night—”

He waves a hand, and a thin book from his briefcase by the door flings itself through the air, flopping onto Reigen’s lap.

“Winning your Supernatural Election Campaign: A Primer,” Reigen recites, flipping through it. “This seems pretty niche.”

“I saw it in their catalog when I was ordering next month’s book club pick,” Serizawa explains. “I figured I’d need all the help I could get if I was going to be a campaign manager you could be proud of.”

Reigen raises an eyebrow at him.

Serizawa flushes.

“I-I didn’t want to do a bad job!”

“You’re actually into this,” Reigen says, eyes twinkling – one part awe, another part more mischievous. He sets both the treatise and his mug on the nightstand before he crawls over the wrinkled bed sheets, eyeing Serizawa like he's on the menu for breakfast.

Reigen’s hands land against the wall aside Serizawa’s ears. He swings a leg over so that he’s sitting on Serizawa’s thighs, leaning over him hungrily to murmur into Serizawa’s ear, “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am!” Serizawa spouts. “There’s a lot at stake! If you’re going to win, I need to do everything I can and— mmmfh.”

Reigen cuts him off with a kiss. Serizawa happily relaxes into it with a small sigh, slotting their lips together and enjoying the peppery friction of Reigen’s morning stubble against his skin. Reigen’s mouth envelops his lower lip. It tastes like spearmint toothpaste and French roast.

Reigen’s fingers are mercifully warm from their earlier congress with the coffee mug — soft and pleasant as they find their way under the hem of Serizawa’s sleep shirt and splay across the skin of Serizawa’s belly, tangling in the wiry hair. Reigen’s relentless ministrations stray to the corner of Serizawa’s lips, the corner of his jaw, the lobe of his ear — mapping Serizawa masterfully, as Reigen always does, a maestro familiar with every inch of his well-played instrument.

“Katsuya,” Reigen murmurs softly. “Let me show you how much you mean to me.”

It raises goosebumps up the column of Serizawa’s spine.

Serizawa’s morning is going well — exceptionally well, he amends, as Reigen’s tongue meets the pulse point under his ear — until the blaring train horn in the distance snaps him back to reality.

“T-taka,” he frets, rubbing a hand down Reigen’s side, “we’re going to miss our train to work.”

Serizawa’s worked hard over time to build perfect control over his powers, but there’s something about Reigen Arataka that never fails to light him up, aura flaring around him like a neon glow.

“Five more minutes,” Reigen insists obdurately into Serizawa’s defenseless neck, an equal mix of teeth, tongue, and lips at his jugular. Reigen’s gifted hands journey stubbornly southward.

Serizawa keens, and both coffee mugs float weightlessly off the nightstand.

.

Winning your Supernatural Election Campaign: A Primer by Dijon Kori

#1 Amobzon Best Seller — “Spiritual Business Politics” Category
Included in Occult Oddities’ List of “Books that Came Out This Year”

-

A new hit from mysterious and highly-prolific esper political writer Dijon Kori, this guide is bound to cure all your spiritual and electability woes.

Polling at all time lows? Too many doors slammed in your face? Had enough of the telekinetic mud-slinging? Look no further!

This book contains everything your political camp needs to put the ESP back into a RESPECTABLE campaign!

-

“An extraordinary effort! This advice is almost as good as the advice I’d give!” — Roshuuto Dozen, alleged ‘Psychic of the Solar System’

“This is the political campaign strategy I’d recommend. The tricks work every time.” — Jodo Kirin, President & Founder of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union

“This is surely relevant to at least one person.” — Tsuchida Yori, Occult Oddities

“What in the fresh hell is this?” — The New York Times Book Review

-

DIJON KORI has been a household name in supernatural politics for decades.

He’s known for his other hit works, including Brave Soul: How I Recovered from a Humiliating Public Knee Strike and Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day: Exorcizing Empty Fields One Inch at a Time.

Not much is known of the highly secretive author’s personal life, except that he is definitely not a well-known TV psychic with an anagrammatic nom-de-plume.

.

Friday, November 6, 2015 — 08:05 | Smile Mart #2873 | Current Signature Count: 0

“—was worried we’d miss the train,” Serizawa said, winded as they missed the train.

It was a toldja-so rendered cheerfully, not meant in accusation. If Serizawa had truly wanted Reigen to stop fooling around earlier, he would have waved a lazy hand and adhered his libidinous husband to the bedroom wall as a time out.

“It’s okay! I knew—” Reigen briefly scrutinized his phone calendar for the first time since waking. “—that we didn’t have a morning client.”

Serizawa said, “And walk-ins?”

“Walk-ins will wait.”

“If you say so.”

It had been a mad scramble out the apartment door, no breakfast and half-finished coffees left languishing on the nightstand. The pair sprinted down the escalators and onto the platform at Fennel Station — drawing plenty of disapproving stares along the way — just as the plastic platform barriers swung shut and the rapid downtown line pulled away into the tunnel. Reigen swore at the departing train, mourning the days when he could walk across the bridge to the office. Serizawa admired the chugging train engine.

They caught the next rapid transit train when it arrived half an hour later. Serizawa read the first three chapters of the supernatural election treatise while Reigen returned a client email from the previous day and beat his existing phone Tetris record by a hundred points. Reigen happily boasted the latter, shoving the pixelated high-score screen in Serizawa’s face.

The gloating ended as quick as it began, when Serizawa pulled out his own phone and revealed a score more than double Reigen’s. Reigen then muttered something about smartphone touchscreens being an unfair advantage and quickly changed the subject to proposing on-the-go breakfast options.

And this is how, after Reigen’s entirely-verbalized and fully-solitary struggle to pick between potential breakfast staples, they end up at the worst-rated Smile Mart in Seasoning City.

As they approach the building, they pass a customer carrying a bag of plastic-wrapped baked goods and grumbling about expiration dates. His forehead bears the trademark indents of aggressively pinched oden tongs.

“Onigiri, it is!” Reigen says, like it’s a revelation and not basically what he eats every morning on the road. “And you?”

“You can pick for me,” Serizawa replies.

The spread of flavor options and colorful marketing inflicts intense decision paralysis — and anyway, Reigen’s always able to sniff out exactly what Serizawa’s hungry for like some sort of gourmet mood ring.

“Welcome to Smile Mart!” Koyama calls, when they breach the automatic doors of the establishment. “Oh, it’s Reigen-sensei! Welcome in! And—”

He always instinctively flinches when Serizawa arrives, like he’s suddenly recalling the bone-crushing impact of the unceremonious thwack of an umbrella.

“—Serizawa-san.”

“Yo, Koyama,” Reigen drawls, “Megane.”

Sakurai gawks at both of them briefly and then averts his eyes. There’s poorly-blended concealer not quite hiding the burgeoning red marks on Serizawa’s neck and a bit of tissue stuck to Reigen’s chin where he nicked himself speed-shaving.

It’s not their most photogenic morning. Sakurai grumbles something that sounds like newlyweds.

Reigen shows himself immediately to the cooler shelf of prepared food, stomach rumbling unapologetically. Serizawa flutters behind him, not quite sure what to do with himself while he waits. He feigns enormous interest in the limited edition packaging of the Calorie Mate blocks by the counter, nervously spinning his gold ring around his finger.

While Reigen picks through the lineup of salmon roe onigiri and frowns at the dates on the packaging, Koyama regards Serizawa with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, like he’s searching for a way to start a conversation. Serizawa tries and fails not to fluster under the attention.

As he straightens out an askew display of candy bars and Serizawa continues to marinate in his inexorable social anxiety, Koyama finally says, “We heard Reigen-sensei’s getting into politics.”

Serizawa blinks. “…Yes. But how did you…?”

“Matsuo,” Koyama explains. “He only sends pictures of his weird pets. And it’s boring since they can’t be captured on camera.”

“It’s a lot of pictures of his floor,” Sakurai says. “And he needs to vacuum more often.”

“He talks about his job too,” says Koyama. “That’s less boring.”

“I see.”

“We know some other guys in that union,” Koyama supplies as Reigen approaches the counter, arms full of rice balls.

“Tuna mayo,” Reigen tells Serizawa.

Correct, Serizawa’s stomach confirms happily.

“What’s this about the union?” Reigen wonders, as the rice balls plop to the counter in front of Sakurai, who’s manning the register. Reigen slices open the plastic of one of the salmon roe onigiri, ripping it away from the nori and taking a big and equally unbothered bite, much to Sakurai’s chagrin.

“Muraki,” Koyama tells them. “And Terada, but he ain’t dependable.”

“Who?” Reigen utters, mouth full of eggs.

Sakurai scans Reigen’s discarded plastic wrap. “Muraki can clone himself, and Terada conjures psychic whips.”

“Ah,” Reigen says, still masticating. “Shoulder Pads and Tiger Stripes. I remember those guys.” He swallows loudly, cheek inexplicably plastered with roe. “I thought I told them to grow up. What are they in that lame union for?”

“Aren’t you running for president of ‘that lame union’?” Sakurai bites.

“Reigen-san is invested in the improvement of the union,” Serizawa counters, squeezing his briefcase handle. “It’s the keystone of his platform! Um, once we’re qualified for the ballot, that is.”

“It’s impossible for independent espers to start businesses without membership,” Koyama says, shrugging. “Not that we’d know. It’s something Matsuo said.”

“I guess we should ask them for their signatures,” Serizawa says thoughtfully, petition burning a hole in his briefcase. “They must be on the register somewhere. Do you know where they live?”

“Not really. We don’t exactly host reunions. And Terada’s particularly hard to get ahold of,” Sakurai says, flashing the total at Reigen. “Goes in and out of service. He says he’s ‘traveling for high-profile work’ but we’re pretty sure they make him do grunt labor at shrines in the countryside.”

Reigen fishes the requisite bills from his wallet.

Serizawa’s about to politely pose a series of follow up questions, including but not limited to do they have full names? when it happens—

There’s a deafening screech — like rusty metal twisting through the blades of a lawn mower. It reverberates over the shelves and violently breaks into the very pit of Serizawa’s skull, like it’s grinding against his brain stem. Serizawa drops his briefcase to the floor tiles, desperately covering his ears with his hands to block out the awful clangor.

It hits Koyama and Sakurai too. Koyama grimaces, and Sakurai’s oden tongs clatter over the hot food case in his surprise, leaving a scorch mark where the curse meets the glass.

Luckily, it’s brief.

The noise ceases, but Serizawa’s eardrums ring even in its absence.

“The hell was that?” Sakurai groans, rubbing his temples. He picks up the tongs and drops them sizzling into the wash basin behind the counter. Koyama is still wincing while he drops the uneaten onigiri and two bottles of iced tea into a to-go bag. Serizawa retrieves his briefcase from the floor, feeling disoriented.

“Whatever it was,” Serizawa groans, “I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“Haah?” Reigen pipes up, still chewing obliviously. “What are you talking about?”

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @serizawa_k
For you | Following

tknk @peachboy • 11 secs ago
Oh my goddddd whoever’s doing that don’t make me come over there

Mitsuura @ESPerEnthusiast • 16 secs ago
My #ESPer friends keep complaining about a noise! I wonder what that could be! Isn’t #ESP so interesting???

MT🌱@ivy_books • 20 secs ago
wtf was that

Tanaka Kenji Convention @TanakaKenjiUnite • 3 mins ago
We’re shattering the record for most people of the same name in one place! Are you a Tanaka Kenji? Help us out by meeting at 15:00 tomorrow at the Marjoram Mall Food Court. RSVP: @ https://…

(@sho_and_tell liked this tweet)
MT🌱 @ivy_books • 4 mins ago
ISO new roommate

requirements: brain cells

MT🌱@ivy_books • 10 mins ago
idiot roommate has no fucking idea how to take care of plants
└ Single (DM me) @ShimazakiAtHome • 6 mins ago
    @ivy_books How was I supposed to know water would kill it? It’s a plant. Plants love water. You should be thanking me for my attentiveness.

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 12 mins ago
Seasoning City Coast Guard reports strange wave patterns at Basil Beach, temporarily bans access to beach and historic Lychee Lighthouse. Code Red in effect for paddle boarders: https://…

.

Friday, November 6, 2015 — 10:43 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Current Signature Count: 0

“—yes,” Reigen says into his phone. “What’s that? … Yes, sir, we’re mindful of food allergies too. … No, I’ve never met anyone allergic to psychokinesis. I don’t think that’s a thing. But I promise you, our exorcisms are 100% food-safe! … Exactly, exactly, completely edible and free of cross-contamination. … ”

Serizawa eavesdrops over Reigen’s performance, glancing up from the open pages of How to Win Your Supernatural Election Campaign. Years into this, it’s still a treat to witness just how easily Reigen is able to pull an emerging academic discourse entirely out of his ass at a moment’s notice.

Reigen notices the audience, covers the phone receiver, and self-consciously hisses, “The exorcism salt is iodized. It’s good for them!”

Serizawa grins into “Chapter 4: Finagling Finances.” This chapter covers basic financial tracking, accepting and managing donations, and — most importantly, the book notes — avoiding accidental money laundering.

If you’re going to screw up — and let’s face it, you’re in the psychic business, so you probably will, the book reads, make sure to screw up under 100,000 yen, so you avoid prison for money laundering. I’m a veteran of the business. Trust me.

It’s a bit dry, if Serizawa’s being honest. The content is straightforward — don’t commit crimes with money. Serizawa is hardly a financial expert, but how hard could it be to keep proper finances? As long as they kept all the receipts and wrote everything down then—

Serizawa’s gaze wanders over to the filing cabinet beside Reigen’s desk, stuffed to the brim with crushed, unfiled receipts. Reigen said he was, quote, getting to it. Serizawa offered to organize it, and Tome offered to exorcize it, but Reigen dismissed their concerns at the gate. He insisted he had some foolproof mental system for keeping things straight, so they all let him be and hoped for the mercy of the National Tax Agency when the other shoe dropped.

Serizawa picks up his highlighter and glides over a passage about managing a separate bank account for the campaign.

“The platinum course?” Reigen suggests to the phone client. “Yes, excellent choice. I’d recommend that one. It’s the best of the best. 99% of the curse dispelled, guaranteed. … Absolutely no salmonella, sir, or your money back. … Fantastic, we’ll be there this afternoon, Tanaka-san. Thanks for choosing Spirits and Such.”

He snaps the phone shut.

“Haunted commercial deep fryer,” Reigen explains. “Thermostat’s wonky and the steel baskets are ‘bobbing like a buoy in a monsoon.’ So he says. Think we can handle it?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll do great.”

He drops the phone on a pile of documents on his desk and takes a brief sip of iced tea. Then he sets his fingers to his laptop keyboard and types furiously.

“Checking Mobgle for ‘telekinetic allergies’?” Serizawa wonders aloud.

“No,” Reigen lies, hitting the enter key on his query.

.

Rising Sun Spiritual Union — Official Constitution (PDF)

Article 6 — On Presidential Elections (continued)

Section 13. Official Campaign Finance Regulations
Candidates may collect donations from any member of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union or any outside party invested in the election. These donations must be reported to the union with the Official Campaign Finance Tracking Form. Donations meant for the election may only be used for expenses of the campaign, not for personal use.

Specifically, candidates may not spend donated funds on any commitment that would exist outside of the election campaign or their held offices. Please note that this financial regulation includes costumes, props, and other necessary spiritual equipment — but an exception will be made at the Official Election Commissioner’s discretion in the event the presidential election itself requires an exorcism.

Section 14. Official Campaign Fundraising Regulations
Candidates may host fundraising events, provided the cost of these events is covered with existing campaign finances. Events may range in formality and function. As decreed in 2012, candidates may not host fundraising seances out of respect for the dead, nor may they host fundraising at cat cafes out of respect for Jodo-sama who is extremely allergic to felines.

Candidates are also forbidden from hosting mystical board game events, due to the potential for Jumanji-esque supernatural disasters. Mystical card games are okay, provided no board is included. After conducting extensive spiritual review, the existence of the board was determined to be the root of the problem.

Section 15. Official Campaign Advertisement Regulations
Candidates may create and distribute advertisements for their election campaign. Any advertisement must clearly bear disclosure of the campaign responsible for its approval and distribution. Digital and physical advertisements are allowed, but we draw the line at autoplay ads on videos.

You may not distribute advertisements containing curses, unless the curse was already irrevocably placed on the object before the placement of the ad (e.g. Seasoning City Rapid Transit Bus #14 which we all know is viciously and circuitously cursed). Additionally,

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Friday, November 6, 2015 — 12:06 | Marjoram Mall Food Court | Current Signature Count: 0

Reigen and Serizawa meet five middle-aged men of various shapes and sizes in the Marjoram Mall Food Court, between an upscale ramen counter and a cheesecake joint. The food court is closed for business, evidently occupied by the elaborate preparation for an upcoming large-scale event.

There’s a guy tacking up streamers over Colonel Sanders’ trademark visage at the KFC stall in one corner. In another, there’s a makeshift music stage, and a group of sound experts arrange an assortment of instruments with their requisite tangle of cords and collection of amplifiers. Various other groups flit about the space, moving tables and chairs around the otherwise empty floor and setting up plastic floral arrangements.

“Thanks for coming,” greets Tanaka Kenji with a brief bow. “I’m Tanaka Kenji. I’m the one who called for your services.”

The man beside him also bows. “I’m Tanaka Kenji.” He waves at his other companions. “This is Tanaka Kenji.” One of them nods. “And this is Tanaka Kenji.” The fourth one waves.

Serizawa smiles politely at all of them.

“And who’s this?” Reigen says, gesturing at their fifth companion. “Another Tanaka Kenji?”

“Oh,” Tanaka Kenji from the Phone says. “No, this is the event manager. His name’s Steve.”

Behind them, the drum equipment tumbles over. The drum bounces twice, followed by the crash of a cymbal.

Reigen blinks. “I’m not having a stroke, am I?”

“It all makes sense to me,” Serizawa assures him.

“Ah, I see you haven’t been keeping up with the news,” says one of the Tanaka Kenjis not from the phone, while Steve and the other two Tanaka Kenjis wander off to help the set up effort. “This is the Tanaka Kenji Convention. We’re trying to break the record for most people of the same name gathered in one place. And then the excruciating twenty-year reign of Lee Smith will finally come to an end.”

“Sounds competitive,” Serizawa comments.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” says Tanaka Kenji from the Phone. “Last year, we came up three Tanaka Kenjis short, and the worst Lee Smith wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. It was a terrible time. He grabbed the mic right from the DJ at the celebratory reception and said—”

He’s interrupted when Serizawa drops his briefcase handle and abruptly collapses to his knees, covering his ears with his shaking hands and squeezing his eyes shut in pain — as if blocking out some blood-curdling noise completely unknown to his companions.

“Katsuya,” Reigen murmurs, aching concern in his voice as he rests a hand on Serizawa’s trembling shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Strangely, Tanaka Kenji Not From the Phone also winces at the sound.

Tanaka Kenji from the Phone rushes to get them water. Reigen squeezes Serizawa’s shoulder; he can feel the sweat emerging through his shirt and swallows back a pang of fear.

“It’s that sound from earlier,” Serizawa says with a cringe, still in his crouch on the polished linoleum floor. “From when we were at Smile Mart. You can’t hear it at all?”

“No,” Reigen says. “What’s it sound like?”

“Like the worst noise you’ve ever heard,” Serizawa answers with a shiver down his spine.

Reigen imagines the sound the checkout terminal makes whenever his credit card gets denied.

“And then make it two-times worse,” Serizawa adds.

Reigen imagines it twice in a row.

“I see,” he grimaces.

“I wonder why only certain people can hear it,” Serizawa says, grabbing Reigen’s offered hand and rising back to his feet. He wipes his brow with the handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

“An esper thing?” Reigen suggests, before rushing to blurt to the customer, “I’m an esper too of course! It’s just that with an overwhelming power level like mine… Uh, something so small is beneath my notice, you understand!”

“That explains Koyama-san, Sakurai-san, and me,” Serizawa says. “And…”

“Then what about him?” Reigen says, waving at Tanaka Kenji Not from the Phone, busy vehemently rubbing his temples against a budding screech-induced migraine. “Why could he hear it?”

“Because he has ESP too,” Serizawa answers, like it’s obvious.

Tanaka Kenji nods in agreement. “I am.”

“I can see his aura.”

Reigen’s jaw drops. “Seriously?”

“I’m an oracle from the Rising Sun Spiritual Union,” he says, pulling out a business card and handing it to Reigen. Reigen examines it suspiciously, as if he wants to call bullshit but recognizes that he shouldn’t alienate a possible constituent this early in his presidential run.

“I can read visions of the future but…” The clairvoyant’s eyes flick cautiously over Reigen from head to toe. “…you might not want to know what’s coming.”

Reigen finds he’s over his initial hesitation quickly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

But Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant) pays little attention to Reigen’s commentary and shuffles his attention to Serizawa. “You, on the other hand… I sense trouble afoot in your future. Massive trouble. You need to tread carefully.”

Serizawa stiffens uncomfortably.

Reigen sighs impatiently, as Tanaka Kenji from the Phone returns and passes Serizawa a tall KFC-branded cup of lukewarm tap water, bearing the name ‘Tanaka Kenji’ scrawled in black Sharpie over the side. Serizawa gulps it down gratefully, color returning to his sweaty face.

“Just show us to the haunted deep fryer already,” Reigen grouses.

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[alt text: An organizational chart for the Rising Sun Spiritual Union, bearing its trademark sparkling psychic eye logo with a spiral pupil. The chart is drawn as an upside-down tree. The President sits at the top of the hierarchy. There are three separate divisions reporting to the president — run by the Press Secretary, Treasurer, and Sergeant-at-arms respectively.

Each of these positions runs its own subtree. The Speech Writer and Historian report to the Apology Writer, who reports to the Press Secretary. The Election Commissioner reports to the Official Accountant who reports to the Treasurer. Finally, the “Rural shrine monkey wrangler” and the “Backup guy if something happens to the first monkey guy” report to the Sergeant-without-arms who reports to the Sergeant-at-arms.]

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Friday, November 6, 2015 — 12:19 | Marjoram Mall Food Court | Current Signature Count: 0

Tanaka Kenji from the Phone leads them to a Chinese fast food stall. It’s the type of layout with a serving counter with a sneeze guard in front and a full kitchen in back, connected by a serving window.

“There have already been several casualties,” Tanaka Kenji from the Phone discloses. Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant) bobs his head in agreement. “Burns mostly. One Tanaka Kenji went into anaphylactic shock from the peanut oil exposure. Luckily, another Tanaka Kenji is a paramedic.”

They stand outside the shining kitchen door, and Reigen can already hear the violent bubbling within. He doesn’t need Serizawa to tell him there’s a real evil spirit simmering in the vat of oil. The stench of a burnt kitchen floor mat pricks at his nose.

“Your deep fryer is definitely cursed,” Reigen warns his clients solemnly. “Please evacuate while my associate and I handle this.”

“Be careful. Keep an eye on your surroundings,” says Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant) with an air of brutal mystery. Reigen tries not to let that bizarre utterance bother him.

A moment later, Serizawa and Reigen are left alone, facing down the two-way kitchen door. Reigen pulls his bag of table salt from his pocket, scooping a handful into his palm, readying for the assault. Serizawa still maintains a bit of malaise from the harrowing auditory exposure, so Reigen figures it might be up to him to dodge the oil splatter and unplug the whole thing if his spouse is off his game. It’s the least he can do.

“Let’s go,” Reigen says, and, with grave determination, Reigen throws open the swinging door.

Before Reigen has time to throw an ounce of salt at the evil spirit, a spring roll catapults screaming from the haunted fryer basket and slams directly into his left eye lengthwise.

“Agh!… shit!” Reigen spits, reflexively, grasping over his eye socket and tripping backward through the door. The salt sprinkles out of his hand and into the kitchen tile grout.

Briefly wired into place in surprise at the sudden assault, Serizawa quickly pushes a swearing Reigen out of the way before the rest of the vegetarian appetizer order rings up to further disfigure his husband. He catches three more spring rolls with his psychokinesis, discarding them into the sink where they land with a crunch among the dirtied cups and silverware.

“Melt it, Tsuya!” Reigen cries from the threshold, simultaneously inside and outside the kitchen.

“I’m not sure where it is,” Serizawa replies frantically. “And you said it has to be food-safe! I can’t crush the whole thing!”

Reigen argues, “It doesn’t matter if you’re not safe! Just get it over w—”

“We need that guy to sign the petition, Arataka!”

And that shuts Reigen up real quick. Instead of shouting orders, he returns to swearing at the blunt pain from the dim-sum-induced damage to his eye.

Serizawa’s trying to zone in on the aura of the evil spirit, but dodging deep fried projectiles is getting in the way of deep concentration. He knows he’s off his game. He draws up a psychic barrier and watches it shred the next assault of spring rolls into a neat pile — flakes of fried dough, chopped wood ear mushrooms, shredded carrots, and pulverized cabbage.

As Serizawa observes the stainless steel fry baskets fling back and forth through the vat, it occurs to him that the poltergeist might not be caught in the expanse of hot oil at all. Were that the case, Serizawa figures the ghost wouldn’t be able to swing the mechanical components around so assertively.

The curse must have entangled itself into the heating element underneath.

Sliding his aura into a pool of boiling oil isn’t exactly pleasant, but it’s definitely better than putting his real limbs at risk. He sweats under the pressure, like he’s stuffed himself into an overwhelming sauna room. Deeper and deeper still, he goes, fumbling around the corners of the vat. He feels underneath the pair of restless baskets, dodging an onslaught of smushed and not-quite-fried dough all the while, as the prep station is depleted of its vegetable mise en place.

As the tips of his fingers start to burn beneath the greenhouse shell of his aura, Serizawa finds the curse embedded in the heating element and yanks it free. When he levitates it from the industrial fryer, its trip through the grease shrivels it up like a funnel cake.

Serizawa frowns. “That’s…”

“Gross,” Reigen says from the door, one-eyed. “Super gross. Don’t eat that.”

“Smells kinda good though,” Serizawa admits, before he waves a hand and vanquishes the pest off the plane of existence.

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“You’ve reached the voicemail of Reigen Arataka, the psychic of the century! I’m unable to come to the phone, but if you’re having trouble with spirits, you’ve come to the right place! For a limited time, we’re having a special on in-house exorcisms — buy one, get one free! If you’re looking to schedule an appointment with us, please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

BEEP!

“Arataka, this is your mother. I don’t know what any of that message meant, but it seems like you’re still entangled in this sketchy business. You’re not being scammed, are you? You have to be picky about who you trust with your money.

“It’s like I always say, there are plenty of people who would take advantage of a nice young man like you. You have to look out — especially for those guys who sell the healing crystals near the park. You can’t trust them as far as you can throw them.

“Anyway — you remember the Ito family next door? They just had their second granddaughter, and their son is even younger than you. Imagine that! I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, but the clock is ticking. Your father and I could keel over at any moment.

“…I’m kidding, I’m kidding.

“But we could. Just something to keep in mind.

“Of course, you need a real job if you’re doing any family planning. I saw a job listing at the car dealership down the road. You know, the one that only sells old Honda Civics. And I thought maybe you would—”

BEEP! Message time limit reached.

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Friday, November 6, 2015 — 12:31 | Marjoram Mall Food Court | Current Signature Count: 0

Back in the open-air food court area, Reigen holds an ice pack to the left side of his face prepared for him by Tanaka Kenji (paramedic), as Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant) and Tanaka Kenji from the Phone thank him profusely. Serizawa cobbles together an invoice for the exorcism from the contents of his briefcase.

“5000 yen,” Serizawa says, clicking his pen, “made to the order of Reigen Arataka.”

“That curse was the bane of our existence,” Tanaka Kenji from the Phone spills as he fills out his checkbook. “The spring rolls are extremely popular and a huge draw for the conference. Without those, I don’t think we’d be able to draw even half as many Tanaka Kenjis. You’ve done us an enormous service.”

Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant) adds, “Now that that’s taken care of, breaking the record is much more certain. You guys were cheaper than we expected for qualified exorcists. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

Serizawa and Reigen glance at each other.

“You said you’re a member of the spiritual union,” Reigen says, while Serizawa pulls a clipboard from his briefcase. “Would you consider signing a petition?”

Turns out, there are four Tanaka Kenjis in the Rising Sun Spiritual Union — the clairvoyant rounds up the other three quickly, and they all happily sign Reigen’s ballot petition for the measly promise of freshly-fried spring rolls. It brings Reigen’s campaign tenth of the way to the qualification goal. The clairvoyant even cuts Reigen a check for 5000 yen, meant as a campaign donation.

“One last thing,” says Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant). “Be extra careful. Your future is murky but… Be careful with your enemies, but even more careful of your allies.”

“What are you, a horoscope? A fortune cookie?” Reigen barks dismissively. “That’s far too generic!”

It isn’t even useful advice. Of course Reigen was careful of his allies! He had a high-level evil spirit on his payroll, for heaven’s sake. And two espers who could level a city block in a temper tantrum. He was married to a bomb – albeit an exceptionally kind and reasonably well-adjusted bomb. And worst of all, Tome used to forget to turn off the lights when locking the office up at night — the ensuing utility bill had felt like a personal attack. After surviving all of those various tribulations, Reigen was the self-proclaimed king of minding his allies.

Serizawa apologetically whisks him out of the mall and back to the office before he can further offend his constituency or tempt a voided check. Reigen’s melting ice pack leaves a trail of droplets in his wake as they march back to the office. Serizawa lets them both into the office with a wave of his powers over the interwoven cylinders of the lock, not bothering to bug Reigen for his key.

It occurred to Reigen once, a while ago, that he’d never be able to buy a lock that could keep an esper out. Luckily, the espers in his life tended toward unwavering respect for privacy rights. Serizawa only does this mystical lock-picking trick when Reigen’s keys are so deep in his overfull coat pockets that they’d take a fully-chartered expedition to retrieve.

“That was worth the trouble,” Reigen says, stuffing the loose checks into a manila folder to cash later. He slides the folder into the filing cabinet, which appears to finally exceed capacity, bulging at its aluminum seams. Its plight remains ignored.

Serizawa sets his briefcase down on his desk, eyeing Reigen carefully.

“I’m not sure it was worth the trouble,” Serizawa says, picking at the handle with his thumb. The fine threads on the leather are starting to fray from wear. He hasn’t had the briefcase long, but it was cheap.

“Four signatures is nothing to shake a stick at,” Reigen insists. “You know what I mean?”

Serizawa has no idea what that means. He’s still stuck on —

“You almost deep-fried your eyeball for four signatures,” Serizawa contends, a little more aggressive in his tone despite his best attempt at gentle restraint. “I would hope your eyeball would be worth more than that. I would hope your life would be worth more than that, Arataka.”

“Hey,” Reigen sputters, lowering the ice from his face. It’s half-melted and dripping unpleasantly into his suit sleeve. “It barely even hurts. There isn’t even a burn! It’s all a hazard of this job, you know?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Reigen tosses the bag of ice into the sink to fully melt. “You and I take on risks every day. I wouldn’t put you through something I wouldn’t take on myself. So don’t you worry about me! I’m doing just fine. Great even. I’m doing great! This eye thing is basically nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s nothing,” Serizawa murmurs. “It’s…uh, more like, something.”

“Something?” Reigen repeats doubtfully.

Serizawa chews a lip indecisively before he grabs Reigen by the shoulders and drags him into the adjacent bathroom, flicking on the light with a lazy jolt of his aura.

Reigen squints at the mirror. His reflection stares back at him, marred by a splotch of swollen discoloration around his left eye, rapidly purpling. He looks, in short, like half a raccoon. He traces the edge of the tender contusion with the light stroke of a fingertip.

“That,” Reigen admits, “isn’t great.”

He bends to the sink beneath the cabinet to root through his makeup kit for concealer — only to realize with a frown that the last of his shade is still badly spackled along his spouse’s exposed neck. Thus, Reigen retreats from the bathroom with his tail fully deflated between his legs, resigned to an afternoon of explaining the blemish away to clients.

To add insult to literal injury, he’s practically lobbing material at Dimple to send careening back into his face, surely another thwack when he’s already fully tenderized. Really, the prospect of ensuing commentary is much worse than the agony of a minor facial bruise. He didn’t even get a free spring roll out of the ordeal.

Curse it all.

He flops into his desk chair, opting to focus instead on the massage exorcism scheduled for the afternoon

Serizawa shuffles after him, extinguishing the light behind him. He bore witness to the Great Utility Bill Meltdown of 2013 and isn’t eager to repeat the experience.

Serizawa hadn’t meant to make Reigen feel bad about anything. But Reigen, despite his insistence that running away was always an option, did very little in practice to evade danger. And Reigen needed repeated reminding that the whole being married thing meant that Serizawa very much preferred him alive — unbattered and unfried.

“Sorry,” Serizawa says. “I just… I-I know you make your own decisions. I get nervous sometimes. About you. In situations like this. You know that. I…”

“I do know that,” Reigen replies quickly. “But I won’t be sorry for doing my job, and I never will be.” He grins impishly. “But I am sorry for forgetting to duck. Next time, I’ll be ready for the—”

“I love you,” Serizawa blurts, painting a flush over Reigen’s cheeks, a clash with the burgeoning black and purple of his eye socket, but lovely all the same, as far as Serizawa’s concerned.

“…Y-yeah,” Reigen stammers in return. The potted peace lily on the windowsill perks up, or maybe it’s simply Reigen’s imagination playing tricks on him in all the excitement. “Yeah, I know that too. I’ll get my act together.”

Serizawa knows this is the Reigen equivalent of the same sentiment. It’s their own symmetry, and more importantly, it’s enough for Serizawa.

Especially when Reigen adds, “How about I grab us lunch? I’d kill for some tempura.”

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mobslist
seasoning city > community > missed connections

posted about thirty minutes ago
ISO Tanaka Kenji

hi — we met at the tanaka kenji convention. we sat at the table next to that whiny blond dude with the black eye and bonded over strawberry cheesecake. let me know if you felt a spark too.

if you get with me, you won’t have to change your name ;)

(reply?)

Chapter Text

Friday, November 6, 2015 — 16:01 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Current Signature Count: 4

Serizawa took the lead on remaining clients for the day aside from a massage exorcism. Reigen hadn’t wanted to scare the clients away with his darkening contusion, and it worked out fine. He sipped fresh-brewed tea that Serizawa brought him to give his mouth something to do while he observed the appointments.

Reigen enjoyed watching Serizawa handle things. His customer service skills had come a long way over the years. Reigen could claim some responsibility for this development, sure — but so much of it was pure Serizawa. He had a wonderful empathy, as he listened and advised.

No evil spirits on any of them, from what Reigen could tell. Serizawa treated them with dignity all the same. An elderly woman who kept seeing her husband in the corner of her eye. A college student convinced a curse caused his childhood best friend to reject his confession. A young mother fretting over the list of charges her kid spun up buying loot boxes on an iPad game.

“In-app purchases are their own sort of curse, aren’t they?” Serizawa reassured her, picking up the device and swiping through the options. “Here. We’ll exorcize it together. See? This is the most spiritual part of the game — the parental controls menu…”

Reigen always ran his mouth to clients. He was a conveyor belt, doing whatever best moved them from Destination A (bad) to Destination B (less bad).

On the other hand, Serizawa was so delicate in his exchanges. That restraint, once a fear of his own raw power, became something so much more heartfelt and wholesome — his dedication to building connections with others.

Observation made Reigen’s heart tighten in his chest. A catch in his throat. A raw giddiness. A strike of heat lightning. Like he had to clench his jaw or his feelings might explode out of him all at once, pure magnesium exposed into fresh air.

The massage exorcism appointment served as a nice distraction. In the dim, aromatic backroom, Reigen pushed the pads of his thumbs around the client’s knotty shoulder blades. Breathing the lavender oil helped push back against his frantic nerves. Reigen wasn’t even sure what activated him so much. Perhaps he was still a bit antsy from spring roll assault. Perhaps the caffeine in the green tea. Perhaps the remaining canvassing work. Perhaps Tanaka Kenji’s prophe—

No, no, no. Reigen snorted to himself as he smudged his oily hands up the planes of the client’s back. Not the bullshit prophecies. Please. Like there was anything to that. He probably just needed more sleep. Yes. That had to be it.

Clients came and went through the afternoon. As usual, Tome wandered over after her last class of the day, clattering her school bag and its excess of acrylic keychains over her secretary station. She filled out an invoice for the “AppStore exorcism” client while simultaneously pounding out an ultra-difficult platformer level on her sticker-encrusted Nintendo DS — a demonstration of dexterity that impressed even a seasoned gamer like Serizawa.

As Reigen scrubbed massage oil from his hands with a hot towel, Serizawa cobbled together the last of his geography homework, furiously scribbling colored pencils over a printout of a world map. He paused once, imbuing his aura into a butter knife and whittling the pencils into the wastebasket, before resuming his cartographic artistry. Reigen was pleased when Tome plugged in the wired earbuds he insisted she use when she watched hydraulic press videos at her perch.

Shigeo let himself in a half hour before close, Dimple trailing close behind him. He still donned his running clothes and fluorescent-green sneakers, hair tousled and cheeks rosy from the evening wind.

Underneath the windburn, Shigeo seemed paler than usual — and on that note, Dimple did too. They discussed something quietly together until Tome marched over — smacking Shigeo a bit too hard on the back and asking when he’d get over “this whole training thing” so they could go hunting for telepaths on Friday nights.

Reigen would have to ask about it later.

Here, in the present, he has pressing business to attend to. That’s why he called them here after hours.

After Reigen turns the sign on the door, blocking out what few potential walk-ins might appear, he addresses the fraction of his political advisory committee to whom he isn’t wed — Tome, Shigeo, and Dimple — all seated or floating in a semicircle adjacent to Reigen’s desk and around the mounted whiteboard.

“Alright everyone,” Reigen says, clapping his hands together. “Welcome to the first group brainstorming meeting of my campaign!”

He waits for some sort of enthusiastic response. Applause, maybe. None comes. The two high schoolers stare blankly at him, and the ghost idly picks his nose.

“Ahem.” Reigen coughs once, moving on from the silence with all the grace of a moped over a sand dune. “Since Serizawa’s our campaign manager, he’ll lead this first session.”

The group then claps for Serizawa, who smiles nervously, wielding a dry-erase marker in one hand and a laser pointer in the other, because he read about that once on a LinkedIn blog post and wanted to be fully prepared. He’s taken off his jacket, leaving it draped over his desk chair, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows. Reigen briefly mulls over instituting Casual Friday, if only to get the view of the wiry muscles of Serizawa’s exposed forearms more often.

Business hours, he admonishes himself.

The clapping settles back down into quiet.

“Before we get started,” says Reigen, “does anyone have any questions?”

Three hands rise.

“Any questions not involving my black eye?” Reigen amends.

Three hands lower.

“Alright then,” Reigen grumbles, retreating to his desk chair as Serizawa steps in front of the dry erase board. “Take it away, Serizawa.”

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the parachute candidate

chapter three: the beach episode ~a-reptile dysfunction~

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THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 6, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #75

Breaking: ‘Photogenic’ Basil Beach stays shuttered
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

Closures at Basil Beach remained in place throughout the day as the Seasoning City Coast Guard continued to monitor aggressive tides among other strange weather patterns.

Spokeswoman for the Coast Guard, Lt. Noya Aoi, 28, was not able to provide an estimate for Basil Beach’s reopening.

“This is an emerging situation,” said Noya. “We’re keeping civilians out of what could become a severe situation. Our highest priority is the safety of the citizens.”

Sudden weather events have become commonplace in Seasoning City in the past decade. Noya specifically cited the sudden tornado that emerged in the downtown corridor in winter of 2013 and cost the city nearly a billion yen in damages. She said there was something else too, possibly vegetable-related, but she couldn’t remember.

There are many theories about the recent influx of weather events, according to Dr. Kajiwara Yuki, a environmental science researcher at Seasoning City University’s Asagiri Institute of Meteorology.

“We haven’t successfully simulated any of the weather conditions impacting Seasoning City,” Kajiwara said. “All of them completely defy our expectations. They violate the laws of physics as we know them. Many of my colleagues have quit the profession in frustration.”

He stressed the importance of caution in light of the unpredictable nature and baffling science of these catastrophic events.

“It’s not just people,” said Kajiwara. “It’s corporations too. The strange wave patterns we’ve picked up with our sensors are correlated with the rise of off-shore drilling in the area. Our side-scan sonar detected topographical changes along the ocean floor in those areas. We have to regulate businesses that impact the environment in unpredictable ways.”

Some outside the scientific community disagree. In beach-adjacent Herbes de Provence Heights, neighbors aren’t pleased with the closures, demanding more transparency from the city government. Some called the measures “overprotective,” even “ludicrous.”

“As a homeowner, I’m deeply concerned about how this development will impact property values. People buy homes specifically for the beach amenities. I’m sure the city hasn’t considered our plight,” said Roshuuto Dozen, 35, the president of the Herbes de Provence Heights Homeowners Association. “It’s incredibly challenging being a landlord in the current economy. Haven’t land owners suffered enough?”

This story continues as BEACHLESS, on page 12A.

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Friday, November 6, 2015 — 16:05 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Current Signature Count: 4

“As you all know, Reigen-san’s going to be president,” Serizawa says a bit too loudly for the diminutive size of the audience. Reigen finds his enthusiasm almost threateningly adorable. “Uh, once he wins! I mean, once we get on the ballot first and then he wins! After all that. So yes. That’s our goal.”

He uncaps his black marker and scribbles “GOAL” on the board, circling it once.

“That’s a lot of caveats,” Dimple grumbles. “We couldn’t have run a candidate with less baggage?”

Serizawa painstakingly ignores him. “Canvassing yesterday didn’t go well, but I’m sure our next try will go better.”

“Yikes,” Tome says. “Was canvassing how Reigen-san got the black eye?”

“No,” Reigen barks from his desk. “That was unrelated to the campaign.”

“The black eye isn’t relevant right now,” Serizawa says with a placating gesture. “We need a strategy, and as campaign manager, it’s my job to implement one! I read a book recently that said failing at the same thing over and over again without making adjustments is the definition of insanity. So I thought — maybe we should make some adjustments. Starting with—”

He scribbles “CAMPAIGN PLATFORM” on the whiteboard under “GOAL”—careful to avoid the existing board game standings. His kanji at the beginning of the phrase are a little too big, so he has to squish in the last bit completely illegibly.

“—what we stand for,” Serizawa continues, turning back to the group. “So I pose it to all of you: what do we stand for as an office? Um, feel free to speak up!”

Serizawa draws his laser pointer dot around the dry-erase scrawl as though he isn’t only inches away from the board. He waits for someone to answer the query. Naturally, no one volunteers. He appears briefly flustered but recovers quickly, electing to cold-call instead.

“Oh uh…Shigeo-kun, I haven’t heard from you yet this session. Do you have any ideas you’d like to share about our values? As my book said, there are no bad answers!”

“Our values? Hm.” Shigeo taps his chin. “Shishou always says, ‘get paid up front.’”

Dimple offers, “In cash only.”

Tome adds, “And no refunds.”

There are, as Reigen observes, some bad answers.

“These are all interesting,” says Serizawa, as diplomatically as possible. “But… Maybe we can look at-at the bigger picture! Yes. Let’s do that. Everyone, take a step back. Ask yourself: why do you work at Spirits and Such?”

“I don’t work here,” Dimple clarifies.

“It’s free to say nothing,” Reigen hisses.

“Shishou taught me how to use my powers,” Shigeo pipes up contemplatively. “In the most roundabout way possible, I think. But it all turned out okay. Mostly.”

Serizawa’s not sure how to summarize that in the limited real estate of the board, so he writes “OKAY” and hopes it helps him remember later.

“I started working here because I wanted to have an interesting high school life,” Tome says.

Serizawa’s eyes alight. He’s visibly bouncier on his feet at the offer of a promising thread. “Nice, Kurata-san. I think you’re onto something! What was so interesting about working with Reigen-san?”

“At first, I thought it was cool that Reigen-san was a psychic,” Tome says, recalling her early days. “I wanted to learn everything I could about him.”

Serizawa writes “COOL” on the whiteboard. Reigen perks up at his desk.

“But then I learned he has a lot of time on his hands,” Tome adds contemplatively, “and he doesn’t have any powers. And he’s kind of weird.”

Serizawa’s marker hesitantly stutters “WEIRD” on the whiteboard, while Reigen deflates like a balloon met with an infestation of thumbtacks.

“He’s not afraid to be a little out there,” Tome settles, smashing a fist into her waiting palm. “And he looks out for us.”

Reigen’s not sure how to feel, like he’s been whiplashed by an emotional rollercoaster he doesn’t quite meet the height requirement to ride.

“And he’s bad at math,” she concludes merrily while Dimple chuckles behind her. “I think that’s everything.”

Reigen drops his head on his desk.

“Let’s try a new exercise,” Serizawa interjects, erasing the board with his forearm, despite the perfectly good shred of tissue tucked between the board’s corner and the wall. Bits of dry erase residue stick to his arm hair.

He poses, “What issues are important to you as a voter?”

Tome and Shigeo glance at each other abashedly. Dimple checks his ghostly nails.

Shigeo says, “Actually, we’re still in high school, Serizawa-san. We’ve never voted in an election.”

“What about a school election?” Reigen says. “You said you ran for president once.”

“I’ve never actually voted in the school elections either,” Shigeo admits.

Reigen turns it on Tome. “And weren’t you a club president?”

“I was a club dictator,” Tome clarifies proudly. “I never held an election once.”

“And…uh, Dimple?”

“We didn’t hold elections in my cult,” Dimple explains. “Because it was a cult.”

Serizawa shoots Reigen a look. A desperate look — a magician trapped in his escape cabinet bereft of a secret key. He’s at his wit’s end, and — Reigen checks his watch — it’s nearly time for his commute to school anyway.

Reigen would figure this out himself. He built his business from scratch, didn’t he? How much harder could it be to figure out a political platform from scratch? He’d type it up and post in on his website this evening — no problem. And once he had that, canvassing would be a breeze.

“Great brainstorm, everyone,” Reigen says, mustering the enthusiasm of a parched traveler confronted with a dry oasis. He slaps a hand over his desk in punctuation. “Let’s call it a wrap for now.”

Tome reassumes her DS, Shigeo re-ties his sneaker, and Dimple floats over to perch on Reigen’s yucca plant like it’s his own personal hammock.

Serizawa relaxes in place at the dispersal of his makeshift focus group, staring at Reigen with overwhelming fondness, which would be a lovely view, Reigen thinks, except—

“Please turn off the laser pointer, Katsuya,” Reigen says, squinting.

“What? …Oh! Sorry!”

.

mobstagram — @xx_iwantobelieve_xx (New Post) (Likes) (Messages(2))

@roshuuto_official | 1,260 posts | 380 followers | 238,438 following
[profile_picture.jpg] [alt text: A dark-haired man stands smirking at the camera on Basil Beach. It’s sunny, and the ocean is at low tide behind him. He’s heavily sunburned and dressed only in a short pair of red swim trunks and a pair of highly-reflective sports sunglasses. The lines of a sixpack are obviously photoshopped over his exposed abdomen. ]

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.

Friday, November 6, 2015 — 17:01 | Mirin Adult Learning Center | Current Signature Count: 4

Serizawa traces a pencil aside the flat-end of his protractor, building a unit circle on his graph paper bit-by-bit for a classwork assignment. He clutches the protractor as he fills in the radians at each relevant angle, and then—

The noise again. The noise.

It’s even louder. And even worse, somehow. Like someone’s run a chainsaw against the rotating belt of a disc sander and then thrown the whole sparking affair directly into his eardrum. It comes in tight waves, each more unpleasant than the last, a series of tightly-timed pings on a radar screen. Against the barrage, his brain is a block of half-melted cheddar against the finer side of the cheese grater.

He can’t think; he can hardly breathe against the pressure. He clenches his fists, willing his psychic power to stay within his skin. It’s an urgent battle — a horrible flashback to his middle school days, when the contents of his pencil case flew like knives to the front chalkboard at barest provocation. His nails dig into the fat of his palm, pushing back a raging tide.

In all his struggle, the protractor shatters in his grip as the noise finally ceases.

When he opens his eyes, his classmates are staring like he’s an alien beamed down from Mars, and his desk is littered in shards of twisted clear plastic. 180 degrees, claims the most intact of the debris.

Not again.

He frowns at the damage. And he’d just had that replaced.

Still, he’s relieved in a way. It could have been much worse. It used to be much worse.

He’d have to talk to someone about this. Other espers ideally. It seemed to affect Serizawa more than it had Sakurai or Koyama or Tanaka Kenji. He could talk to Reigen, maybe, but Reigen couldn’t hear the noise per his own admission. Plus, Reigen is already so deeply entrenched in campaign worries. Serizawa would feel terrible adding a side order of esper eccentricity to Reigen’s already-heaping plate.

Maybe he’d text Shigeo. Maybe Dimple would stop by over the weekend. Maybe he could get in touch with Hanazawa. Maybe.

For now, he’s a heaving, perspiring mess making a scene over a ruined protractor. And he’d like to avoid the undivided attention of his peers.

“Excuse me,” he mutters through his clenched jaw, excusing himself to the bathroom to clean himself up.

“Trigonometry,” his teacher opines, shaking her head as Serizawa disappears through the sliding door. “Sometimes, it really breaks people.”

.

smile mart cctv footage archive:

(earlier)
⏯️11-06-2015 FRI 17:00:00
⏯️11-06-2015 FRI 18:00:00
⏯️11-06-2015 FRI 19:00:00
⏸️11-06-2015 FRI 20:00:00 (currently playing)
…

closed captioning transcript:

[cricket noises]

[heavy breathing]

[footsteps approach]

>> boy, off-screen: I think… something’s off..

>> ???, disembodied snarky voice: Your pace sucks today. You think it has something to do with those weird psychic waves earlier?

>> boy, off-screen: I’m not sure. Those noises were terrible. Wherever that came from… It reminded me of telepathic disturbance. But it felt more sinister than that.

>> ???, disembodied snarky voice: It's much worse than any telepathy I’ve ever heard. Straight-up evil. Like someone put a fox through a blend—

>> boy, coming on-screen: Please stop. I…I don’t feel good right now. But it also might have been that protein shake Sagawa-kun made for me.

>> ???, disembodied snarky voice: I’m not cleaning up if you puke, Shigeo.

>> boy: I’m not going to puke. …Probably. Let’s go home. I should save my energy for the weekend training camp. Musashi-senpai said not to overdo it with training or I won’t be in good shape for my race.

>> ???, disembodied snarky voice: Whatever you say.

[footfall noises]

[disembodied burp]

…

.

Friday, November 6, 2015 — 23:39 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B | Current Signature Count: 4

Even though the lights are left on, Serizawa returns to a quiet apartment. He sheds his shoes and other trappings by the door and ambles across the hardwood to the kitchenette. The electric kettle is still warm. He fixes two cups of herbal tea. The first is to assuage the ceaseless pounding in his temples, and the second is for a suspicion he has.

As he predicts, Reigen’s asleep at the kitchen table with his laptop open, snoring gently against his trackpad. There’s an in-progress word document stretched across one half of the screen; on the other side, a mess of what Serizawa assumes is the code for a website.

Reigen’s contorted like a pretzel in the wooden dining chair — legs and arms folded awkwardly in a manner Serizawa knows Reigen’s over-thirty back will not survive if it continues much longer.

He sets down the tea on the table, trailing a warm hand over Reigen’s slumped shoulder and pressing his lips into the hairline over Reigen’s temple.

“‘Taka?” Serizawa whispers.

Reigen’s eyes flutter but remain shut. “Hmmh?”

“You should come to bed,” Serizawa says into his hair. “It’s late.”

“I was having a dream,” Reigen mumbles groggily, nose depressing his spacebar.

Serizawa’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “A good one?”

Reigen lifts his head from the table, stretching his arms overhead and yawning so widely that Serizawa can see the fillings in his molars. Reigen winces when the skin stretches over his shiner.

“Mm…” Reigen mumbles, staring at a poster on the wall.

It’s an older mecha anime Serizawa gleefully collected on BluRay. In the poster, a team of piloted humanoid robots take on a fleet of what Reigen assumes are aliens. They’ve slowly worked through Serizawa’s ever-expanding collection, tetris’d haphazardly in the narrow media console shelf. They haven’t watched this one yet, because Serizawa insisted they work up to it. Save the best for last, he said.

Truth be told, they didn’t really watch the last one, a director’s cut edition Serizawa popped into the disc player either. Reigen had started fully intending to watch it with a critical eye for the details, knowing Serizawa would corral him into a full dissective discourse over everything from the casting choices to the art direction. It’s not that Reigen isn’t game for a good discourse — on the contrary, he’s Mr. Discourse where certain media are concerned.

But then as the title credits rolled, Reigen had looked over and spied the little baby hairs on the back of Serizawa’s neck, growing back over the line where Reigen had last dragged the razor, and something about them looked tasty, like Reigen could nose into the sensitive skin where Serizawa’s skull met his neck, breathe in the salty musky scent, wander a hand to the taut drawstring of Serizawa’s sweatpants, and drag his tongue along—

“‘Taka?” Serizawa prompts, waving a hand to vanquish the glossiness from Reigen’s faraway gaze.

“Ah.” Reigen snaps back to reality — in his grogginess, his brain feels a bit like a bundle of marbles unleashed on a gelatin mold. “Sorry… What are we talking about?”

“Your dream. Was it good?”

“Oh… Uh. No. I don’t think it was.”

“No?”

Reigen yawns again. “I don’t remember the beginning. Somehow, I was walking downtown at rush hour. I went to the post office on Avocado Street. You know, the one next to the crepe stand? I think it’s rabbit-themed.”

Serizawa says begrudgingly, “Bun-anas Foster.”

Serizawa doesn’t care much for the place. He went with Tome after a case a few months ago, and the crepe attendants were far too stingy with the whipped cream.

“Maybe?” Reigen pauses a second, furrowing his brow. “It might have been truck-themed in the dream. I don’t… Hm. I guess I don’t remember the middle either.” He offers a small, sheepish smile. “Anyway, the punchline is that I was naked the whole time.”

“Had you intended to be naked?”

“Probably not for visiting the post office,” Reigen replies earnestly.

“Probably not,” Serizawa agrees.

A moment passes.

“I kind of want a crepe now,” Reigen admits.

Serizawa scoots the mug beside Reigen’s elbow with telekinesis. Even a simple action like this seems to take more effort against the tumult and utter exhaustion of the day. Reigen takes a hearty gulp. Serizawa is about to suggest again that Reigen call it a night, but Reigen somehow beats him to it.

“I want to work on this a little longer,” Reigen says, stifling yet another yawn with one hand and beckoning at his laptop screen with the other. The laptop’s nearly out of battery.

Serizawa’s lips quirk into a little twist, torn between arguing against Reigen’s inevitable date with lumbar pain and the vicelock his tension headache has around his skull.

“…Okay,” Serizawa relents. “With the lights off, if that’s okay? My head’s been bothering me, and the brightness kind of hurts, so…”

“The noise from earlier, eh? Hasn’t gone away?”

Serizawa chews his lip, presses, “Do you think we should be worried about it? A psychic disturbance of this magnitude… It can’t be good. Maybe something we should investigate? It’s dangerous, I think. And with powers like mine, I feel that… that I should—”

“Let the experts handle it?” Reigen says, shrugging. “You’re a regular guy, not a superhero. You have more than enough to work on without Sherlocking away on some weird psychic broadcast. Right?”

As Reigen says this — psychic spring roll injury blatantly apparent on his face — Serizawa distinctly recalls Reigen running into a collapsing building with a toy gun to confront Serizawa’s former megalomaniac employer. And Reigen running past the safety of his aura-imbued umbrella into a psychic tornado. And Reigen deliberately taking a deadly curse on a hiking trip to convene with another deadly curse on purpose — although Serizawa wasn’t technically conscious for that one. And the circumstances factored heavily into the genesis of their romantic relationship.

And what is that if not far too much to process on a migraine?

All of this is to say: Reigen’s argument has more holes than their kitchen sponge — and it’s a ratty kitchen sponge in desperate need of replacement. Then again, isn’t this the same admonishment he showered over Reigen before Reigen turned it a full 180 degrees back on Serizawa?

(180 degrees. Damn. He briefly mourns his dearly departed protractor. Gone too soon.)

If Reigen’s finally sprouting a healthy sense of self-preservation — or at least, listening comprehension skills — then Serizawa should reward good behavior.

“… I suppose you’re right,” Serizawa murmurs, leaning in to press his lips sweetly to the shell of Reigen’s ear.

“Of course I’m right,” Reigen says, grinning under the blooming flush of his cheeks when Serizawa’s teeth meet his earlobe. “Please. I’m hardly ever wrong. Maybe never. Maybe I’m always right. Maybe—”

Serizawa kisses him on the mouth — it would be much better for Serizawa’s relentless headache if Reigen shut up.

.

♪ Sharp, intense, and pungent! This is Channel 99 News, Seasoning City! ♪

[There’s a brief montage of unrelated civic images — a helicopter over the newly rebuilt cultural tower, a politician giving a speech in front of city hall, a man performing ‘Figaro’ in the metropolitan opera house, an aerial glimpse over the delta where the main branch of the river meets the oceanfront, and a high school girl serving a tennis ball to an empty court.

The montage ends. The camera pans in on the local news desk, manned by a cheerful woman in a brick red pantsuit.]

Orio Chiasa: Good morning! And welcome to Channel 99’s Saturday Morning News — The Zest! I’m Orio Chiasa. The time is now 9:02 AM. We’ll get to our top stories — including coverage of the sudden radio signal disturbances through the metro area and the puzzling result of the annual Rubik’s Cube Contest — and more in just a moment. But first, let’s go now to our resident meteorologist for an update on the strange weather gathering off the coast. Over to you, Dew Point Daichi.

[The camera cuts over to a perspiring, bespectacled man. He’s forcing a thousand-watt smile, but underneath, he looks deeply, deeply troubled. Along with his two-piece suit, he wears a tie patterned with the cotton candy texture of a picturesque cumulonimbus cloud.]

Sato “Dew Point” Daichi: Thank you, Orio-san. We’ve got a doozy for you today, Seasoning City. I’m sorry to report, today’s conditions are anything but picnic weather.

[The green screen map of Seasoning City behind him is scribbled over. He crossed out lines demarcating the cold front, scrawling “???” in its place. There’s a black X in the ocean a mile from Seasoning City labeled “one acre thunderstorm.” Dew Point Daichi is looking increasingly aggravated as he points.]

Dew Point Daichi: We’re monitoring a strange cold front — well, we think it’s a cold front. It shouldn’t be a cold front, and yet it is. And there are thunderstorms over here —

[He points to the X.]

—and nowhere else, so if you’re a captain of a ship, uh, don’t go there. The meteorological helicopter survey said it looked bubbly. Like a club soda — from the soda gun, our pilot was careful to specify, not the can. Other places might be fine though. It’s hard to say.

[The map zooms in on a temperature map of the city, covered in the blues of nearly freezing conditions. Dew Point Daichi’s underarm perspiration is now extremely visible through his dress shirt.]

Dew Point Daichi: In the downtown corridor, we expect chilly temperatures, due to the unrelenting and inexplicable cloud cover overhead, despite that all our meteorological readings indicate that it should be sunny. And brace yourself! It’s windy too — even though it has no reason to be — with gales from the east measured at nearly 24 knots. So bundle up. Uh. Probably. That’s all for me, Orio-san.

[The camera pans back to Orio, who appears to mouth ‘what the hell’ before she remembers she’s on camera and re-dons her overtly jovial personality.]

Orio: Thank you Dew Point Daichi, we’ll be sure to stay indoors today. Please note, the Coast Guard has formally issued a small craft advisory for the area, although the transmissions were muffled, due to the radio troubles. And now on to our top story, a cheating scandal rocked the competitive cube community today as—

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 11:31 | Seasoning City Ten Yen Savings Bank, Brine St. Location | Current Signature Count: 4

The oceanfront is freezing today.

Even under his piled-up scarf, Reigen can feel the insistent wind nip at his nose and seep its chill through his canvas sneakers, despite the wool socks he donned underneath. Something about the smell of the sea — the heady mix of sulfur and salt — intensifies the bite of the air, pricking at his eyeballs.

Serizawa and Reigen stroll through the main drag of the oceanfront business district. They don’t come here often — mostly, it’s a tourist trap best avoided. The guidebooks say the seafood is to die for, but Reigen always insists he knows a better joint for (insert dish here) — the places they go are quieter, grimier, and best of all, cheaper.

“This place has way better ikayaki than anything the reviewers claim,” Reigen would insist. “They can be so elitist about it all. It’s fast food! Just, uh, don’t look in the bathrooms here. Or the corners. Trust me.”

There’s something divinely romantic about the shore though.

Reigen took Serizawa to this beach last summer, because Serizawa confessed he’d actually never been to any beach. None that he could recall anyway, not even for a class trip. He never learned how to swim confidently, and he wasn’t sure what else you were supposed to do with yourself so close to water.

When he heard that, Reigen dragged two beach towels and a tube of expired sunscreen from deep in the cobwebby recesses of the office storage closet, announced that the office was closed for “employee development,” and spent the afternoon teaching Serizawa the soul-healing power of a good nap under a beach umbrella. And then he spent the day after that teaching Serizawa the soul-healing power of smearing fresh aloe on your sun poisoning spots.

It’s a cherished memory. Serizawa fell asleep, head resting in Reigen’s lap and body strewn half under the sunlight. He woke up with a handprint tattooed in red on his belly.

The beach itself is closed, with barricades at the boardwalk entrances and a few Coast Guard all-terrain vehicles parked in the dunes. It’s the off-season, so it’s not like the place would be swarmed, but it is strange to see such a popular destination completely shuttered. Even in November, it’d be common to watch brave surfers and paddle boarders in the waves, kids dredging moats around their sandcastles, and partners hand-in-hand tracing along the edge of the foamy tide with their footprints.

Definitely not safe now, Reigen thinks. The tide now seems almost violent. Lapping against its confines. Yanking sand from the beach. White-capped. Churning. Frothy. Closure is the right choice. Anyone dumb enough to take a dip in that would find themselves intimately acquainted with the jagged points of the cliff face.

The topography, in all its inherent danger, is still as striking as it was in Reigen’s childhood. The beachfront is bookended on either side by cliffs — on one end, the luscious lots and imposing gates of Herbes de Provence Heights; on the other, a salt-streaked white pillar protrudes from the lacy volcanic cliff — the historic Lychee Lighthouse.

Why it’s so historic, Reigen had no idea. That’s the sort of knowledge his parents had from architecture tours aimed at the city’s retired community. The lighthouse isn’t in-use commercially anymore, yet another tourist trap for the region. But there is a draw to it that’s always intrigued Reigen, a moth to a beacon.

“Did you know you can rent the lighthouse deck?” he says out of the blue, pointing at the monument. “They set up a candlelit table for you and everything. You bring your own food and drinks. But you get the whole space to yourself for the evening.”

Serizawa’s hand grazes his own as they walk side-by-side. “Is that something you want to do?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Reigen admits fondly. “Renting it for us. I’ve never been there at all, even though I’ve lived in the city my whole life. And food always tastes better when you’re up high.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s a fact. That’s why they always put the fanciest restaurants on the penthouse level.”

“I’ll go anywhere with you,” Serizawa tells him.

He says it so casually. Like it’s a passing thought. Like some small observation. Like he has no idea — even a few months after signing their marriage certificate — how much it makes Reigen’s heart stutter in the moment, and if Serizawa keeps playing around and saying things like that so flippantly, he’s going to have to start carrying around a dedicated set of defibrillator paddles.

“…M-maybe someday,” Reigen manages, sniffing at the cold. Yes, the cold. Of course only the cold and maybe off-season allergies and nothing else. “Last I checked, they had a months-long waiting list, so that’s…” Reigen makes a dismissive gesture. “You know?”

“If it’s something you want,” Serizawa replies. “I’m happy to wait as long as it takes.”

God, Reigen thinks, palpitating. He wants to kiss Serizawa so much it aches, really press all the deep-set feelings he isn’t sure how to verbally expose into the shape of Serizawa’s upturned lips — but not in public. Ugh. He’ll have to tuck that enthusiasm away for later.

“I need to stop by the bookstore,” Serizawa says as they near the street crossing.

“Weren’t you just there?”

Serizawa sighs, remembering the sad smell of friction-burned plastic. “My protractor. Well… I’d tell you the story, but it’s kind of a long one…”

Reigen blurts, “Long? I thought most protractors were only ten centimeters.”

Serizawa blinks for a second, then opens his mouth, then flushes, then stammers “you’re terrible,” then cracks a dopey smile despite himself — like he’s gone through the stages of grief at Reigen’s juvenile joke. Reigen chuckles like he’s overly carbonated and letting the bubbles free.

They split at the corner.

With a parting squeeze on Reigen’s elbow, Serizawa walks off around the corner and disappears into the beachside storefront.

Reigen figures Serizawa isn’t telling the full story — not only about the protractor; there’s probably some new manga or novel release he’s excited for, the kind that requires a flash of his ID and an opaque paper bag for the train ride home.

Serizawa sometimes acts bashful about his taste for self-insert isekai stories, written and illustrated, especially over the gratuitous fanservice. But Reigen has never said a negative word about it. In fact, Reigen would be lying if he didn’t sometimes devour the chapters himself when he was bored at home waiting for Serizawa to return from night school.

Reigen pulls his scarf up over his wind-chapped nose and turns off the main drag and onto Brine Street. His fingers are numb from Raynaud's Syndrome — white at the tips and frosty against his palms.

Both checks from the previous day’s casework are loose in his coat pocket, one Tanaka Kenji leapfrogging the other — the donation on top of the case fee. Those papers sit alongside an envelope of cash to deposit from the walk-in clients Tome invoiced. Along with the business deposits, Reigen’s intention is to open a separate bank account for the campaign as Serizawa advised vis-a-vis a self-help book.

He’s at this particular location because his sister works at the branch by the office and the uptown bank had a vending machine that ate one of Reigen’s 500 yen coins, so they are both no-gos in equal measure.

He pulls out the checks from his pocket as he nears the door next to the statue of a security guard. The wind kicks up, and then his cloddish fingers fumble with the paper — and then he watches in frantic disbelief as the documents slip out of his clutches and float, riding the gale into the street.

“Shit!” Reigen cries. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He dances in place on the curb, watching the wind continue to carry the checks but mindful enough not to throw himself in front of a moving vehicle while he’s in hot pursuit.

Luckily, the stoplight helps him out and he’s able to jog fast enough to catch up with the wayward twin money orders before the end of the next block. One of them ends up a bit damp on the corner, but still valid. He holds each in a hand. This is all fine except—

He looks at one: 5000 yen, paid to the order of Reigen Arataka, signed Tanaka Kenji.

He looks at the other: 5000 yen, paid to the order of Reigen Arataka, signed Tanaka Kenji.

“Shit.”

And… no memos to speak of. The dates are the same. The handwriting is similar too. The stamp seals bear the same kanji. The checks bare identical default design. Aside from vitally secretive bank routing information, he cannot tell the difference for the life of him.

But — there has to be something — an address?

…Aaaaand the addresses are the same.

“Shit,” Reigen mutters. “They live together. Of course they live together.”

He feels like a kid, scanning “Spot the Difference” in his mother’s Sunday newspaper, except it’s a misprint — or some otherwise rotten psychological experiment, maybe, because there are no goddamn discernable differences.

“Shit,” Reigen says again.

“Watch your language,” gripes the security guard, throwing him a disapproving stare. Reigen, as much as he’d love to exhale his panic into some snide remark, resists the urge — the security guard’s missing a significant chunk of ear, enough to suggest he’s seen some serious shit he’d be happy to demonstrate to Reigen in the right circumstances.

Reigen sighs and proceeds into the bank. It’s almost closing time for the teller anyway, and he needed to do this ages ago for the monthly rent check. The left check, he decides, is a donation. The right check is his payment. It’ll have to do for now.

.

“This is Reigen Arataka, the psychic of the century at Spirits and Such consulting office. Did you know I defeated the Great Yokai King? I’m tied up right now, but if you’re struggling with the supernatural, I’m the man for the job. By popular demand, we’ve put the kibosh on the buy-one-get-one-free deal. Instead, we’re offering free collectible stickers with every seance! To get in touch, please leave me your name and number, and I’ll call you right back. Thanks!”

BEEP!

“Yo, Reigen-san! This is Kurata, reporting for duty as your press secretary! You didn’t give me anything important to do, so I did what I always do at your office and made problems to fix.

“Listen! You need a social media presence! Serizawa-san has one. Roshuuto-san has one. Even Jodo-sama has one, and he’s older than dirt. You have to keep with the times, Reigen-san. Only old people use MobBook! That’s why I took it upon myself to start Mobtter, Mobstagram, and MobTok accounts for your campaign. I used your email address and a picture of you Dimple-chan found on Serizawa-san’s computer while he was in the bathroom. It’s the good picture, not the one with all the leg hair.

“I’ve had tons of ideas for content! We need to start with current events. Every account I follow is talking about the weird radio transmissions! Some people think it’s telepathy. Awesome, right? I was going to ask Takenaka-kun to weigh in, but apparently he’s too sick to come to the phone — even though he wasn’t too sick to leave my messages on read. High school boys are the worst.

“Anyway, I’m gonna get some footage at Basil Beach today for the accounts. We’ve got to get on the trends first if we want to win. Social media is the new battleground, as they say. And this occult stuff is right up our alley.

“Aren’t I a great press secretary already? Ha! You should give me a raise.”

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 10:27 | Book of Book, Basil Beach | Current Signature Count: 5

Reigen steps through the revolving door of the upscale Book of Book location, intending to find his spouse somewhere between the thematic whiplash of self-help treatises and self-insert light novels.

Reigen pauses momentarily, eyes catching the elaborate display for Dijon Kori’s latest publication: Phantomime: The Art of Acting Possessed on Television. Reigen plucks it off the shelf, scans over the back cover, and feels inexplicably itchy.

In a pleasant twist of events, he finds both Shinra and Serizawa sitting all the way in the back, gathered around a round cafe table in the store’s built-in coffee shop, nursing paper cups of tea and conversing animatedly. Even more miraculously, this all occurs as Shinra’s stamping his initials across Reigen’s election petition.

“Arataka,” Serizawa smiles, waving him over. “I ran into Shinra-san again. And look, he said he’d vote for you.”

“I said I’d sign for him,” Shinra corrects. “I didn’t mention the ballot.”

Shinra either doesn’t notice the black eye or doesn’t want to know — either way, Reigen’s grateful to be spared the effort of explanation.

“Shinra,” Reigen greets, raising his eyebrows, as Shinra hands the clipboard back to Serizawa. “I didn’t think you hung out this far from Cuticle City.”

“I don’t,” Shinra says, leaning back in his seat, prayer beads jangling against the table edge. Reigen spies a copy of the Dijon Kori new release peeking from the loose pocket of his sweatpants. “I had business with a client in the area.”

“I hope you’re not poaching our customers,” Reigen says, pulling up a chair and setting himself down. Serizawa squeezes his thigh in warning — as if to chide, Arataka do not bite the hand that signs your ballot qualification.

But Shinra simply snorts. “Hardly. The union called me in to exorcize someone’s cat. I carefully evaluated the living room for all sorts of spiritual presences. I flicked around some holy water. I said a few chants.” He wiggles his fingers faux-mystically, before folding his arms over his chest. “And then I moved the catnip plant to a higher shelf.”

“What a ham,” Reigen mutters.

Shinra says, “I have plenty to do in Cuticle City without setting foot here. Especially not this neighborhood. It’s crawling with the union’s worst. You know that Roshuuto lives just up the hill?”

“Isn’t Roshuuto-san your colleague?” Serizawa asks.

“Uh huh,” says Shinra. “And that’s why I never go out of my way to run into him.”

Reigen picks up the clipboard in front of Serizawa, peeping the welcome addition of his fifth petition signature — an incredibly hardwon eighth of the way to his goal. “Nice to see you support my political ambitions.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Shinra says. “The way I see it, you’re the lesser of two evils.”

“I can live with that.”

Serizawa retrieves the clipboard from Reigen’s grasp, tucking it carefully into his briefcase alongside a protractor and a fresh copy of volume five of Reborn as an Office Cappuccino Machine, I Now Wander The Breakroom.

“We appreciate your support all the same, Shinra-san,” Serizawa gushes. “Petitioning has been harder than either of us expected, so it’s nice to have someone else in our corner.”

“Yes, well,” Shinra says, “you’re not going to succeed if you limit the campaign to Seasoning City. Roshuuto’s got the union here under his thumb. It’ll be easier to convince voters in the other metros. He’s not as popular in Cuticle City. Mostly because the train schedule doesn’t work well for attending his trivia night.”

Serizawa latches onto Shinra with the thousand-yard deep-focus stare that he generally reserves for observing possessions on case work, learning new spiritual techniques from Shigeo and Sho, and admiring plastic components at the model store. Customers and lawyers find it terrifying. Reigen finds it endearing, reminding Serizawa to blink before he gives himself a case of blepharitis.

“Can I pick your brain, Shinra-san?” Serizawa says. “I was thinking of fundraising ideas that play on Reigen-san’s personal brand, but I was worried all the sodium-based ideas might be too hard on those with existing hypertension.”

“They like to drink,” Shinra replies with a shrug. “Alcohol is the key to all their hearts. Whatever else you do is extra.”

Serizawa scratches ‘alcohol’ into a notebook and stuffs it back into his briefcase, glancing at his spouse nervously. “I’ll take that with a grain of salt then,” he says. “Another thing I was wondering was —”

Serizawa cuts off abruptly in the middle of his sentence like he’s been shot. He blinks, painfully disoriented, and a bit of blood trickles from his nose.

Reigen’s eyes widen in fear. His heart plunks into his gut. Something’s wrong.

“Katsuya!”

At the front of the bookstore, the windows shatter, and glass shards rain over the display, sliding and slicing over the hardcover jackets. The incoming gale sends the Dijon Kori display tumbling to the floor, while the other patrons in the establishment duck in cover.

Something’s very wrong.

Serizawa’s hand slides off the table, eyes rolling back into his head. Reigen launches out of his seat and nabs Serizawa around the shoulders before he can hit the linoleum floor. He drags them both under the shelter of their cafe table. Shinra slides down from his seat and kneels next to them, looking green. Reigen finds Serizawa’s pulse under his ear — beating normally, thank god.

So it’s just a fainting spell? He’s never seen Serizawa pass out from anything but a severe concussion. He yanks Serizawa’s handkerchief from his own pocket, wiping the cold sweat from Serizawa’s hairline before pressing it to his nosebleed.

And then there’s the glass everywhere.

Truth be told, Reigen doesn’t feel so hot either; he’s clumsy and heavy, as if he’s swimming through a fishbowl of molasses.

So how—?

“It’s that noise again,” Shinra says, clutching the table stem for support as his nausea passes over him. He gestures at Serizawa’s reeling form. “Ugh… I imagine it’s worse for an esper of Serizawa’s caliber.”

Reigen stops himself running his mouth about his own (fraudulent) psychic abilities at Shinra’s implication. Who gives a shit about any of that when Serizawa’s out of commission? Nothing’s more important than that.

Reigen presses, “What do you mean?”

Shinra squeezes his eyes shut. “ESP’s like having sonar equipment in your head. …Someone like him? It’s a big-ass antenna he can’t switch off.”

And something else catches Reigen’s attention when Shinra finishes his sentence and Serizawa twitches back to consciousness in Reigen’s arms.

“‘Taka,” Serizawa groans, pressing a hand to his aching forehead. “W-what’s…happening…?”

Serizawa’s condition is obviously a problem.

But somehow, a bigger problem quickly emerges from the depths.

“Katsuya,” Reigen grits, “don’t look now, but…”

Reigen watches in horror through the frame of the broken window as the rough waves give way to something more sinister — a shadowy colossus emerges screeching unbearably from the murky ocean depths beyond the shore of Basil Beach.

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @reigen_for_president

For you | Following

Vote Reigen Arataka @reigen_for_president • just now
Seasoning City’s Bro is going in! Stay tuned. Starting a livestream shortly. #Reigen4President #VoteForReigen #BasilBeachKaiju

Vote Reigen Arataka @reigen_for_president • 30 secs ago
We’re out here! #BasilBeachKaiju

[twt_img.jpg][alt text: Kurata Tome holds up her phone for a blurry selfie with one hand and makes a peace sign with the other.

Below the cliff, Serizawa, Reigen, and Shinra scurry across Basil Beach. At the front of the pack, Serizawa wields an oversized rainbow beach umbrella like a sword. At his side, Reigen’s yelling at the top of his lungs and gesturing something to Serizawa.

Shinra stands meters behind at the edge of the adjacent parking lot, clutching Serizawa’s briefcase, seemingly unsure of how he got stuck with the bellboy role. A scaly tail encased in a sickly green aura erupts violently from the ocean, sending rippling waves to the shore that soak and subsequently ruin Reigen’s useless canvas sneakers.]

Seasoning City Coast Guard @SCCoastGuard • 2 mins ago
City officials order code red, mandatory evacuation of oceanfront zones L, M, N, O and P in Seasoning City due to emerging kaiju threat, signal disturbance. Find your nearest community shelter: https://…

(@mezato_writes retweeted)
All Hail Psycho Helmet-sama @psychohelmetlove • 2 mins ago
Could this be the work of our beloved leader??? #PsychoHelmet #SearchingForGod

GIANT LIZARD WATCH 🦎 @mezato_writes • 2 mins ago
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 3 mins ago
sorry wrong account

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 3 mins ago
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 11:56 | Basil Beach | Current Signature Count: 5

Goliath shrieks from afar.

It’s a monster the size of a building — not the skyscrapers zoned for the downtown financial district, but the squatter, sturdier concrete buildings uptown, at least ten stories high and nearly as wide. A swirling mass of black and green underneath a rugged layer of ocean floor debris — the kaiju’s body is made of bits of bedrock, coral, algae, seaweed, and other detritus layered over the unstable mass of energy like patchwork scales. Its eyes glow an eerie red, its horrible mouth is layered with rocky teeth, and its enormous tail flaps against the surface of the ocean, sending rough waves to the shore nearly half a mile away and dwindling.

Above the kaiju, the weather worsens — heavy, dark storm clouds swirl over the sea, and bolts of psychic lightning dance between them. The wind picks up, howling and sending a violent mesh of ripples over the ocean’s surface.

Serizawa’s sprinting toward the tide like a man possessed. He wields a seven-foot, stake-ended beach umbrella he swiped from an abandoned rental shack in one hand and clumsily shoves a set of foam plugs into his ear canals to block out the incessant, violent screeching.

“Take these,” Shinra had said back in the cafe when Serizawa had dragged himself to his feet, intent on rushing to the front lines against Reigen’s protests. Shinra handed Serizawa a packet of ear plugs from a first aid kit in his pocket. Reigen wondered how the hell he fit so much in his pants.

Serizawa stared at them without understanding.

Shinra said, “They should help obstruct the noise. Use your psychic powers to make a barrier too — and structure it like egg box foam. It’ll work like a sound dampener.”

“How do you know this?” Reigen demanded.

“Union karaoke night,” Shinra grouched.

Shinra stayed back, saying he’d be of more use to the evacuation effort. He advised Reigen to do the same, but the minute Serizawa booked it out of the building, Reigen chased after his spouse so fast he nearly left behind a Reigen-shaped cloud of sandy dust in his wake.

Now the white-capped tide licks at Serizawa’s knees. “Arataka, I have to—”

“No,” Reigen says, grabbing his arm as if to root him in place — despite that he knows Serizawa can easily send him flying with an errant thought.

“I have to go fight the—”

The beast lets out an audible roar. Reigen’s ears ring painfully at the overwhelming pressure, like he’s standing next to an airplane turbine in motion.

“No!” Reigen shouts. “You don’t have to do anything. We just talked about this. It’s not your responsibility! You’re a consultant and a regular person. You’re not some vigilante! Let the authorities handle it.”

They both glance over to the “authorities” nearest to them — two very frightened-looking police officers on the beach, wielding only night sticks.

“I think the authorities need my help,” Serizawa says, peeling Reigen’s fingers away. “No one else can help like I can.”

Reigen insists. “You’re not well enough to fight a giant lizard.”

“It’s not a lizard.”

“It’s fucking Godzilla!”

“That’s copyrighted, Arataka.”

“The reptile thing then!” Reigen cries, throwing up his arms. “A dinosaur. A goddamn komodo dragon. Whatever the hell it is! Don’t get so caught up in taxonomy!”

“It’s not a lizard,” Serizawa says again, scrutinizing the titan in the distance. “It’s not an animal at all. It’s—” He winces as the beast lets out some kind of frequency, but Shinra’s advice and spare set of earplugs seem to be helping. “— some kind of psychic storm. It has an aura but not a heartbeat.”

“Can it be exorcized?”

“I have no idea,” Serizawa says. “I’ve never fought a psychic, uh, kaiju before.”

Reigen pulls at his hair nervously, shivering at the cold water around his ankles, flinching as the beast makes another thunderous footfall over the ocean floor.

“You’re not a superhero, Katsuya.”

“I’m not,” Serizawa agrees, stabbing the umbrella upright into the sand to pull Reigen’s hands away from his bangs. He squeezes them once, rubbing a thumb along Reigen’s black rubber ring. “I’m only going to play defense. I’ll buy time for backup before the thing reaches the shore. I won’t do anything crazy. I promise. Okay?”

Another crash of a footstep. The beast’s enormous strides propel it frightfully closer to landfall. Psychic energy crackles like lightning in the sky. Reigen feels the fine hair on his neck stand on end.

“I don’t like this,” Reigen says, cracking from the exertion of his vocal chords. He wants to keep arguing, but he knows against Serizawa’s strict inclinations around abuse of psychic powers — the moral code he’d developed as he integrated himself back into society — Reigen’s completely powerless. “I don’t want you to do this, but…”

Serizawa yanks the umbrella back from the sand, pointing the end of it toward the housing development on the cliff. “You need those union members living there to vote for you. So they need to not die or suffer irreparable property destruction!”

“I don’t give a shit about that, you idiot, I—”

“Don’t let my book get wet,” Serizawa says, warming Reigen’s aching cold fingers in his gentle aura. “It was the last copy and I need to know how the Affogato Arc ends. I’ll be back soon.”

“Then—… Ugh. Fine! But don’t you dare lose!” Reigen bellows, ripping himself away and poking Serizawa’s shoulder petulantly. “Or I’ll cut your pay!”

Serizawa takes off into deeper water, weightlessly sprinting over the tide with the help of his telekinesis. He stumbles once and recovers. Reigen presses his closed fist over his mouth, as if to cork in his thrumming anxiety.

Serizawa’s off his game, and that’s not the best case scenario when there’s a telepathic kaiju all but knocking on the city gates.

Reigen reaches for his phone.

.

“You’ve reached the voicemail inbox of—”

“…Kageyama. Shigeo.”

“—please leave a message after the tone.”

BEEP!

“Mob? Mob! This is Rei—”

…

“—know you’re at training c—”

…

“—a-an enormous giant psychic lizard—!”

…

“—zawa’s fighting it alo—!”

…

“—backup just in case he—!”

…

“—ask Dimple if he ca—!”

…

“—ignal’s terrible close up, but we need y—!”

…

…

…

BEEP! Message time limit reached.

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 12:07 | Basil Beach | Current Signature Count: 5

Reigen watches Serizawa dart around the kaiju in the distance, a bee buzzing around a dragon.

Shielding himself with the reinforced umbrella against swats from slow but forceful claws, Serizawa zips around an outstretched reptilian arm, turns into a front flip, and sprints up the length of the rugged limb — until a burst of neon green energy blasts through the space underneath the oceanic scales and sends Serizawa flying into the surf.

Reigen’s heart catches in his throat until Serizawa emerges back from the white-capped sea, cloaked in a shell of aura, not even wet. It’s a relief for the time being.

He’s holding his own, but Reigen knows he’s moving slower, stepping heavier, taking more hits from the oceanic debris than he normally would. Despite Serizawa’s efforts, the kaiju slows but does not stop its march toward Basil Beach.

Serizawa hurls a boulder from beneath the waves. The kaiju shatters it with a whisk of its tail, roaring all the while. A shard of granite ricochets and strikes Serizawa through a weak spot of his hastily constructed barrier, skidding him back meters toward the cliff before he catches himself with a blast of psychokinesis and narrowly avoids impact with the jagged rocks.

Visible as it passes over the Herbes de Provence Heights neighborhood atop the hill, a Coast Guard helicopter hovers over the ensuing battle, echoing evacuation orders for the area, “Approaching… Zone B… Evacuate… Now…”

It’s barely audible over the horrible grinding noise emitted from the kaiju. The helicopter bumps over the high wind speed — of little more use than a fly at a cow’s tail.

Mob’s not answering his phone the few times Reigen can get his call to go through the jammed-up phone line.

He’s not sure how to summon Dimple at will, tries shouting out the spirit’s name a few times like he’d summon the ghosts in stories told at childhood sleepovers. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work, and Reigen feels hysterically silly that this is the best he can do. He’s pathetic on his own while his psychic spouse turns an accidental aerial 1080 when the kaiju’s next assault flings him high into the air.

Reigen has to do something. He can’t stand here and watch Serizawa take hit after hit as the kaiju volleys bats him around like he’s nothing more than a ragdoll. Reigen grips the phone in his hand hard enough that the plastic groans in his palm.

He has to help somehow.

Serizawa finds his bearings at the top of the arc as gravity seizes him, turning to fire himself back down with his umbrella over his shoulder like a baseball bat. He nears the kaiju — a heat-seeking missile of a man, dodging incoming sonic waves emitted from the kaiju’s gaping maw and slamming the umbrella pulsing with his aura over the monster’s skull with earth-shattering power.

Reigen has to do something.

The umbrella shatters into pieces. Serizawa falls into the sea again as the lighthouse flickers overhead.

The lighthouse.

He has an idea.

While Serizawa fights the riptide, Reigen takes off running to the hill.

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @mezato_writes

Vote Reigen Arataka is live (follow)
@reigen_for_president • started 11 mins ago
🦖 KAIJU FIGHT LIVE STREAM!!!! 🦖

⏯️ —————————————— 🔈

77 comments • 24 retweets • 103 likes • 300 views

(auto-generated transcript:)

[A high school-aged girl in a yellow windbreaker, alien-themed sweatshirt, jeans, and neon green sneakers narrates the harrowing action from the vantage point of the overlook point. She wields a non-functional microphone that looks like it was cut from an old home-karaoke machine. The unfocused camera shakes, held up by another person who the girl occasionally addresses directly.

Behind them, Serizawa disappears beneath the waves. Reigen scrambles madly up a concrete staircase toward the lighthouse. Outside the frame, the evacuation warning echoes into static.]

Girl: — you getting this, Inukawa-kun? Make sure you thank the people tuning in by name. That’s part of a winning social media strategy. But don’t miss any of the action! And keep me on screen too, so we can develop a parasocial relationship!

Inukawa, presumably, off-screen: Stop moving around so much, Kurata-senpai! It’s hard to keep you in frame when Serizawa-san keeps darting around…

Kurata: That’s right, folks. If you’re just joining the stream, I’m Kurata Tome, press secretary for Reigen Arataka’s presidential run! And down there on the beach, our campaign is fighting a kaiju attack! You don’t see other campaigns fighting giant reptiles, do you? That’s one of the many reasons you should vote Reigen-san for Rising Sun Supernatural Union President—

Inukawa: I think it’s ‘spiritual.’

Kurata: What?

Inukawa: Rising Sun Spiritual Union.

Kurata: That’s what I said!

[Behind them, Serizawa disappears beneath the waves. He emerges a few seconds later from a cluster of bubbles. He’s sopping wet, his winter coat is missing, and his button-down shirt is torn across the chest.

He pulls a set of business cards from his pants pocket, unraveling them in his aura as a psychic katana — but the long sword flops limply in his grasp like a cooked noodle. The cards are too damp from his many dunkings to hold their form or slice through anything, even with the boost of telekinesis. He observes this development with disappointment before the kaiju’s tail swings and strikes his barrier, sending him skipping like stone over the peaks of the water and toward the lighthouse.]

Inukawa: Oof, that looked like it hurt.

Kurata: That was our campaign manager Serizawa-san! He’s probably okay. Don’t worry, everyone. He’ll have things under control in a moment. That’s why he’s the backbone of our office.

Inukawa: Is he going to be okay?

[Serizawa slams against the cliff and quickly rolls away before the kaiju can slam its claws after him. Its impact with the cliff rattles over the land, sending loose chunks of earth into the water below. Above Serizawa’s fight, Reigen huffs through the last of the stairs — swearing, probably kicking himself for years of chain-smoking — and breaks down the door of the lighthouse on his fifth attempt at kicking at it with his disintegrating canvas shoes.]

Kurata: Of course Serizawa will be okay! He’s the coolest person I know — er, except for Reigen-san, who’s going to be your next union president. Coolest guy ever! Right, Inukawa-kun?

Inukawa: Uh. Right. Oh wow — we have ten new viewers.

Kurata: Make sure to greet them by name.

Inukawa: How am I supposed to—? Oh crap, now there’s even more!

Kurata: Parasocial! Relationship!

[Splattered by sea water, Serizawa braces himself against the cliff face, creating a makeshift stone wall from the rubble to protect himself against the next incoming assault. Reigen scales the lighthouse, scarf unraveling from his shoulders as he barrels into the control room.

The kaiju approaches Serizawa on the warpath to attack. To finish the job. It steps forward thunderously. It raises a claw to attack.

It lets out a roar.]

Kurata: Serizawa needs to move! He’s… he’s going to...

[Reigen seizes control of the lighthouse’s spotlight, casting its brilliant beam through the dark, murky sky and directly at the kaiju’s head — a direct flash in its parietal eye atop its face — sending the kaiju reeling back in photosensitive confusion.]

Inukawa: Oh shit!

[Serizawa, startled by the development, takes advantage of the beast’s disorientation to gain a momentary upperhand, careening himself onto the kaiju’s scaly back with his hands out to wrap the kaiju in his aura and exorcize the spirit within while the reptile writhes at the effort.]

Kurata: Inukawa-kun, you shouldn’t swear on the official video. We’ll have to fix it in post.

Inukawa: It’s a livestream! We can’t fix it in post!

[In its terror at being vanquished, the tail lashes out and strikes the lighthouse, leaving a deep crater at its base. At the impact, Reigen’s face smashes into the metal railing around the lighthouse deck.]

Inukawa: Reigen-san—!

[The lighthouse’s foundation crumbles. Serizawa’s aura flickers, halting the exorcism as he sees Reigen — bleeding from the head — tumble through the air on board the lighthouse deck as it collapses into the ocean, stories below.

While Serizawa is distracted by Reigen’s fall, the kaiju takes the opportunity to blast Serizawa with psychic energy, sending him into the protruding rocks below. Serizawa reels from the hit, as the kaiju lifts a mighty clawed foot above him.

Kurata turns back to the camera in complete terror. There’s a flash of purple light, blotting out the video image. ]

Kurata: ...Oh my god. Serizawa hates feet—!

(This live stream has ended.)

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 12:21 | Basil Beach | Current Signature Count: 5

“Oi! Reigen!”

Reigen nearly swallows a gallon of seawater in surprise when the beads wrap around his waist, wrenching him away from the safety of the driftwood he’d been clinging to as he struggled to tread through the vicious, icy tide. He lands unceremoniously on his ass over the pebbly beach — too cold to care about the introduction of sand into his soggy jeans or the way the fragments of shell and sea-polished rock dig into his freezing backside.

His teeth chatter violently, nearly vibrating his skull, and when he brings his hand to his face to try to halt the chattering, it comes away bloody.

“God, Reigen,” Shinra says, unraveling the bead lasso from Reigen and wrapping it back around his neck. “You’re really stupid. With your set of pipes, you should have helped with the evacuation.” He shakes his head in disapproval. “Instead, you run off and bash your head in. And you’re probably hypothermic.”

“Haah?” Reigen struggles to enunciate, completely dazed, muscles sewn together.

Shinra sheds his down winter parka, layering it over Reigen’s soaking, shivering form to protect him from the galeforce winds over them. He presses a handkerchief to Reigen’s head wound. Reigen hisses at the contact, especially as it presses for sandy salt into the tender flesh.

“Now we’re in a whole other heap of trouble.”

Reigen struggles to unclench his locked-up jaw. “Wha—?”

Shinra gestures at the violent waterspout forming under the remaining stub of Lychee Lighthouse. Beside it, the corpse of the exorcized kaiju disintegrates into the coursing waves, washing ashore and leaking streaks of green ectoplasm over the sand.

It isn’t the kaiju.

So it must be…

Debris revolves around the churning funnel — pieces of the broken lighthouse, chunks of granite, shreds of clothing, clumps of seaweed and sand, the remnants of a beach umbrella. A bolt of magenta psychic lightning strikes out from within the storm. At its center, Reigen can just make out a familiar silhouette, surrounded in a corona of neon light.

“Your husband,” Shinra says with a sigh, “is having an episode.”

Reigen blinks into a more coherent consciousness at that.

“He’s what—?”

.

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mobtter — @reigen_for_president

For you | Following

Seasoning City Coast Guard @SCCoastGuard • 20 secs ago
Update: City officials still order code red, mandatory evacuation of oceanfront zones L, M, N, O and P in Seasoning City. They would like to clarify for accuracy — the kaiju threat is now a scientifically-improbable tornado. Please remain vigilant and close your window shutters.

Others in your network follow @roshuuto_official
Roshuuto Dozen @roshuuto_official • 40 secs ago
@dewpointdaichi You didn’t mention a BEACH TORNADO. You call yourself a meteorologist?? Where are your credentials?? #suspicious

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 2 mins ago
Breaking: Kaiju threat eliminated. Story incoming.

tknk @peachboy • 4 mins ago
so glad that’s over

(@YuzuPepperHSYodeler & @rkageyama liked this tweet)
Yuzu Pepper HS Student Council @YPSeitokai • 5 mins ago
Yuzu Pepper students should live enriching lives while maintaining the prestigious image of our school. As such, the student council is proud to announce updated guidelines on acceptable jobs & internships, including a list of banned ‘shady’ jobs forbidden for students effective immediately. See guidelines: https://…

.

??? | ??? | ???

Serizawa stands alone in a dark room.

It’s silent. Silent enough he can feel the blood pump in his ears.

“Hello?” he calls out.

He’s not sure if he even makes a sound.

The darkness doesn’t unnerve him though. Nor does the silence.

Sometimes, when he was still in his room, his mother would leave to visit her parents in the countryside overnight, and he would stay in his room with the door shut and the blackout curtains drawn and stare at the wall as if to will time itself forward faster.

He could still hear the neighbors though — they were loudly arguing about the paint color in the bathroom for the third time that week. Serizawa didn’t personally know the difference between eggshell and pearl.

So it wasn’t complete sensory deprivation, but it was as close as he could get to detaching himself from the curse of his body, the curse of his powers he couldn’t control.

This is different. He can’t hear, can’t see. He’s not even sure his body is there. Most jarringly, he can’t feel the thrum of his powers under his skin. He’s not sure if he’s corporeal at all.

That can’t be right. He was just—

Huh.

How did he get here?

“Hello?” he yells again.

Nothing. Not even his own echo.

He racks his brain, trying to remember something, but it feels like something’s missing, a magnet to a hard drive, frying his internals. Someone once told him the best way to remember anything is to retrace your steps.

“Have you seen my keyring?”

Where had he heard that?

“‘Tsuya.”

There’s a voice, but it doesn’t break the silence. An apparition, maybe.

It’s like it plays on a tape in his mind.

“I swear the keys were right here. You haven’t seen them, have you? Hm. Where was I when I left them? Let me see…”

The bookstore, the umbrella, the beach, the kaiju, the screeching, the cliffs, the lighthouse. It’s coming back to him in disconnected fragments of memory, a chain he links together one bit at a time.

There’s a pressure now, that breaks through the silence and hums in his ears.

“‘Tsuya!”

When he reaches to the memories in front of them, he feels nothing but fear. It’s such an abrupt feeling, a shot of adrenaline, he recoils in surprise. It worsens the more the memories string together.

Something horrible happened, he knows.

Terror creeps over him like frost.

“Can’t you do something with your telekinesis? Feel for the keys? I dunno. I swear I’ve looked everywhere in the apartment.”

The lighthouse fell into the sea. He lost something important in the waves. What was it?

It was his.

And the one who took it from him — he made them pay.

Was it those kids on the playground in middle school—? Was it the counselors, one after the other, treading into his room—? His mother, trying her best to coax him out—? The espers who insulted the president—?

Or maybe—?

“Katsuya!”

Oh. There’s someone. They’re outside the door. They’re alive. He didn’t think they had been. And they’re waiting for him.

Mumbling, loud enough to hear, muffled and unintelligible.

He strains to hear.

They sound a bit like—

Oh.

“Seriously? Telekinesis doesn’t actually work like that? Guess powers aren’t that useful after all! Ha!”

God forbid, Reigen had to hire a locksmith.

A light flickers on above him.

“Arataka, the keys are in your hand.”

Serizawa isn’t alone.

He won’t be.

Not if he can help it.

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 12:39 | Basil Beach | Current Signature Count: 5

“Katsuya. Katsuya!” Reigen pleads. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Please, calm down.”

Reigen grips onto Serizawa’s shoulders for dear life, riding out the outburst of energy as it arrives in bursts of wind and static shocks. It burns against his frozen skin. He fights against the rigidness of his lips to keep blathering on.

Serizawa stares at him, but his eyes aren’t seeing anything, completely painted over.

“It’s gone. It’s gone!” Reigen cries. “You did it. But now—you can come back here, okay?”

The wind whips around them, stringing along the debris like asteroids in orbit about the sun. Strangely, the objects repulse from Reigen, like he’s the same end of a magnet.

Reigen’s hands rise to rest beneath Serizawa’s chin, cupping around his face.

“You can let go of this and come back. Everything will be fine. Please, please, Katsuya. Come back to me.”

And it finally dies down.

Serizawa returns to consciousness. Searing heat over his skin lowers to pleasant warmth. His hair falls, coiling back into curls at his skull. Light returns to his eyes.

Lightheadedness catching up to him, Reigen heaves a sigh of relief, falling to his knees in the sand. Serizawa buckles over too when the impact of his exhaustion hits him. They’re both soaking wet. Reigen’s hands scrabble over the back of Serizawa’s ruined dress shirt, finding purchase in the soggy wrinkles. Serizawa hisses at the contact with the cold.

“See?” Reigen murmurs. He’s so far away from his body, like his mind has been colored outside the lines. “You’re fine, you’re fine…”

The ocean is finally quiet, save for the sounds of distant sirens. The sun overhead breaks through the dwindling layer of clouds. Serizawa’s aura cascades over both of them, seeping warmth to beset Reigen’s shivering.

“Arataka,” Serizawa whispers. “You’re bleeding so much. It wasn’t —”

“It wasn’t you,” Reigen replies immediately, almost aggressively.

“But I…”

“I’m fine. Nothing to worry about,” Reigen says, bleeding like a faucet into Serizawa’s shoulder. Serizawa smells like hot salt and sulfur. “You can help me patch up at home.”

Serizawa lifts his head, brushes Reigen’s hair off his forehead, fretting at the condition of the wound, the way it’s stuck over with sand and ocean grime. They’d have to get him seen before it got infected.

“More like the hospital,” Serizawa murmurs, chewing his lip.

Reigen’s a bit too dizzy to protest much.

“Arataka, I…I didn’t like fighting kaiju very much,” Serizawa says, resting his hand over Reigen’s shoulder. “I think…I might prefer politics.”

Reigen’s vision blurs entirely. His mouth feels a mile away from his brain, clumsy in its movements.

“Yes,” Reigen says. “Let’s stick to politics.”

And he keels over into the sand.

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 7, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #76

Reptilian monster outscaled, beach cyclone outrotated
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

A kaiju threatening Seasoning City today mysteriously disappeared before reaching the shore, followed by a tornado on the beach, which also mysteriously disappeared. One person was injured in the incident as of publishing time.

“I dunno,” said Kurata Tome, 18, who said she recorded the entire incident from the neighboring Herbes de Provence neighborhood. “It was cool to witness something on such a huge scale. It reaffirms my belief that there’s something much bigger out there. Oh, and I’m glad my colleagues are okay.”

Staff of The Yodeler is still currently reviewing footage submitted by Kurata but so far has not been able to confirm the validity of the tape.

Additionally, authorities representing the Seasoning City Board of Cultural Affairs are investigating the “structural failures” in the historical Lychee Lighthouse that led to its total collapse into the ocean. While they have not completed the investigation, their most recent statement “strongly suspects, based on evidence, that the damage is reptilian in nature.”

Emerging from the ocean, the kaiju was described by onlookers as “enormous,” “lizardlike,” and “ugly but strangely endearing.”

The corpse recovered by the Coast Guard was “obliterated,” per spokeswoman Lt. Noya Aoi, 28. Noya said a recovery team retrieved bits of what their scientists believe were scales along the kaiju’s body as well as samples of strange green goo nearby.

“Our researchers extracted and tested samples of the DNA recovered at the scene,” she said. “We’re not sure why, but it came up cruciferous.”

The kaiju attack was followed by the sudden onset of a beach tornado, which meteorologist Sato “Dew Point Daichi” Daichi said

YOU’VE REACHED YOUR MAXIMUM OF FREE ARTICLES. CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE TO THE YODELER — SEASONING CITY’S “PREMIER” NEWSPAPER*.

(*RUN BY TEENAGERS).

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 20:42 | Horseradish Hospital | Current Signature Count: ??

Serizawa stands outside a hospital room, speaking softly into Reigen’s flip phone while Dimple floats overhead.

“…The doctor said he’s fine… Yes, it’s a head injury. They wanted to monitor him for a while just in case, but the CT scan was clear. He’s sleeping now. Shinra-san and Kurata-san just left. … It’s fine. It was taken care of. … The noise — yes, that’s taken care of too, I believe. It’s a little fuzzy if I’m being honest —”

“You aren’t sure?” Dimple hisses over his shoulder.

Serizawa bats him away, pinching the phone between his cheek and shoulder.

“… Yes, I’ll remind him not to summon you out of the blue again. … Thank you for checking in, Shigeo-kun. He’ll call you when he’s ready. It might be a day or two. … Yes, yes. … Okay. Good luck with the rest of your training camp. Good night.”

He gently closes the phone, ending the call.

Dimple says, “Shigeo gave you an ear full, didn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Serizawa says, turning back to the door. “Not from Shigeo-kun.”

“He was worried enough to make me hoof it over here.”

Serizawa peers at Dimple’s form and its distinct absence of legs.

“Yes. I understand. He said Sho-kun sent him Kurata-san’s livestream.” He frowns. “I wish she wouldn’t have done all of that. It was incredibly dangerous.”

“Says the guy who fought the giant lizard with a parasol.”

“Let’s hope there’s no replacement fee for that,” Serizawa cringes. Reigen spent a lot of time concerning himself with the tragedy of losing his safety deposit. Serizawa absorbed the anxieties of the people around him like he had osmosis for neuroses. “I left some change at the rental stand just in case.”

“Don’t be so responsible. It’s annoying,” Dimple says. “They’re happy to still have a rental stand, Katsuya.”

“Maybe so.”

Dimple stabs a thumb toward the closed door. Next to it, there’s a panel bearing Reigen’s name, his attending physician’s name, and what Serizawa thinks says “traumatic brain injury” but it’s hard to read doctor scrawl.

“You think he’s up yet?”

“I don’t want to wake him up. He needs rest.”

“If he wakes up and you’re not there, he’ll be obnoxious about it.”

Serizawa chuckles. “That’s true.”

Serizawa wrings his hands outside the door for a while longer, not sure what to do. He finally elects to slide the door open, and Dimple takes that as his cue to leave.

“I’m not sticking around for this,” Dimple says. “I’m still haunted by the last time I hung out with you two at a hospital. No one should have to see that. Adios.”

Serizawa flushes at mention but proceeds into the room. Dimple disappears through the sterile ceiling tile. Inside the room, Reigen — head wrapped in gauze — stirs. Serizawa pads quietly over to the chair by the bedside.

“‘Tsuya,” he sleeps-slurs.

Serizawa takes his hand.

Two-and-a-half years ago, Reigen and Serizawa were at this same hospital. Maybe even in this same room. Serizawa doesn’t remember the details. Back then, their roles were reversed.

.

Saturday, April 13, 2013 — 19:57 | Horseradish Hospital

After Shigeo left to return to cramming trigonometry, Tome wandered off to the cafeteria to find herself some dinner. Dimple followed her while Reigen stayed behind in Serizawa’s hospital room, spreading calamine lotion from a tiny tube over the bug bites on his ankles.

(What a pain. The bug spray said it was 100% effective. How did they get off claiming that so flippantly? Didn’t they know malaria was the deadliest disease out there? They’re lucky Reigen isn’t litigious.)

Dimple didn’t vocalize it, but he seemed loath to leave Tome on her own. Even though the Mimic (and by extension, Rusty) had been thoroughly exorcized by Shigeo, Tome still seemed antsy, as if the pain of possession hadn’t quite left the front of her mind. Dimple seemed to forget how much he disliked babysitting in the moment, and Reigen was amused to watch as yet another insistent teenager domesticated the so-called high-level evil spirit. Dimple had a heart stowed away somewhere in that gaseous green cloud.

Reigen came to the hospital room with a bouquet of flowers and a box of band-aids from the gift shop. On the way upstairs, he couldn’t help feeling he was walking a plank.

The flowers were for Serizawa’s bedside — a “thanks for your efforts; please don’t sue me for my life’s worth” placation disguised as a gift. The band-aids were for Reigen, who did not want the hassle of proper medical treatment and cleaned up his cuts and scrapes in the hospital’s public bathroom with the soap from the wall dispenser.

Reigen listened as the nurse delivered the prognosis — a concussion, whiplash, various scrapes and contusions. There was a prescription for extra-strength acetaminophen, a week of rest in the dark, a note excusing his night school absences, and a strictly-enforced ban on video games.

She said, “He can go home tonight as long as someone’s with him. If he lives alone, he’ll need to stay here just in case.”

Reigen quickly agreed to watch over him before his brain could catch up to his mouth. Running his mouth, making promises, telling lies — all second nature as always. And he sat there as the consequences of that washed over him. A placid lake on the surface; an anxiety attack blooming in his chest.

She left him alone with Serizawa, who snoozed peacefully against a propped-up pillow. Or so Reigen thought.

“Is your plan to come over to my apartment?” Serizawa said after the door clicked shut, eyes still closed.

Reigen nearly fell out of his chair, making a choking noise. Serizawa gave a light chuckle.

“N-no, I was—I just…”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Serizawa said. “I thought you knew I was awake.”

“Yeah, well…” Reigen stammered, a tightrope walker losing his grip on the high line. “I-I was going to figure it out. I would come over if that’s what you wanted. Or you can sleep, uh, in my bed for all I care.” He coughs awkwardly, keenly aware of the suggestiveness of all of this. “Um, sleeping in my bed professionally! As colleagues. I mean, I’ll be on the floor, while you take the bed. All of this to say that—uh, that no one wants to spend the night in the hospital if they can help it!”

Admittedly, the landing wasn’t quite stuck. He wasn’t convincing anyone, least of all Serizawa, who opened his eyes to press into Reigen a doubtful look.

“I don’t want to burden you.”

“It’s not a burden,” Reigen said quickly. “Never. Not if it’s you. Uh, and… and not when you did this to protect us. It’s my fault this happened at all. I’m the one who forgot to lock the office. And I’m the one who lets the kids get involved in the business of adults. But it’s taken care of now.”

“What happened to the curse?”

“It’s taken care of,” Reigen repeated obdurately.

“Arataka,” Serizawa said, affixing Reigen with an inescapable stare. Reigen reeled — not sure if from the intensity of Serizawa’s attention or the unexpected and overly familiar use of his given name. “What happened to the curse?”

Reigen said, “I took care of it.”

“You… ‘took care of it.’ How?”

“With my powers.”

“With your powers,” Serizawa repeated doubtfully.

“Powers of spiritual persuasion,” Reigen clarified, an attempt to assuage Serizawa’s incredulity. It doesn’t go well. “And,” he quickly spilled, “I...may have fed Rusty to another curse. A bigger curse. Sort of a matryoshka doll situation. You understand. It’s common in this business.”

Serizawa squeezed his eyes shut. “Reigen-san, this hurts my head.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked! Ignorance is bliss, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s over with. Don’t overtax your remaining brain cells worrying about it. As they say, any landing you can walk away from! And actually, I think things went pretty great when you consider—”

“Please stop talking,” Serizawa said.

Reigen, in a move distinctly out of character, shut up — utterly floored.

Serizawa contemplated Reigen for a moment. Reigen wondered if this was what being a suspect in a police lineup felt like.

“Reigen-san, as deputy director of the office, I hope this isn’t out of line but…” His jaw set. “You need to get better at considering the feelings of other people.”

“I’m a consultant,” Reigen insisted. “I’m plenty good at—”

“Not clients. My feelings.”

Reigen’s heart thumped in his chest. Whether it was skipping a beat or launching him into cardiac arrest, he wasn’t sure.

Worst case, it was a good thing they were having this discussion at a hospital.

“…You’re mad at me then?”

“I…don’t know,” Serizawa admitted. “I might be. I think… It's natural to be angry when someone you care about puts themselves in danger, isn’t it? But I…”

“Tell me how you feel then,” Reigen said, leaning over the railing of the bed, as if his face was a target and he was inviting Serizawa to toss the darts. He was sure whatever came of that might sting less than whatever Serizawa had in mind. “And I’ll consider it.”

Reigen forced a smile over the crescendo of panic inside. Serizawa opened his mouth, and Reigen braced himself for impact.

Would Serizawa yell at him? Finally lose his shit after a year of watching him throw salt and lie about having powers? Finally scrutinize the man Reigen truly was under all the layers of misdirection and hate him for it? Or maybe he would regard Reigen with coldness, with disinterest, tired of following around the antics. Maybe he’d finally realize he was better off without participation in the bombastic circus of Reigen’s continued dishonesty. Maybe he’d quit on the spot. Maybe he’d—

Serizawa leaned forward and kissed him.

A simple press against his lips. Nothing fancy or steeped in technique. And yet, Reigen felt like he’d been zapped with static.

Serizawa’s good hand — the one without the IV line, came to rest where Reigen’s skull met his neck, fingers scratching through the scalp.

Reigen blinked as Serizawa pulled away for air seconds later. Serizawa, noticing his IV bag nearly floating off its stand, pulled back on his mercurial aura.

Reigen had forgotten to close his eyes in the shock of it all. He hadn’t even moved his lips in response — Serizawa probably felt like he was kissing some sweaty statue.

“Serizawa! I—”

“I wanted to do that,” Serizawa admitted, “for a while. I wanted to know what it would feel like. But I… I could never figure out…”

“How you felt?”

“How you felt,” Serizawa said. “You’re bad at listening, Reigen-san.”

“...Sorry.”

“I still don’t really know how you feel. And I hope I did okay, because I’ve never, um, done that with anyone before. So maybe you could tell me… What do you think?”

“I think,” Reigen breathed, “that you’re not thinking straight. That you need to take a moment and consider things.”

“According to the doctor, I have a traumatic brain injury,” Serizawa explained obtusely, inches away from him, staring intently. Their breath mingled together. “And you’re still not considering my feelings.”

“You’re not in your right mind,” Reigen replied, but his eyes remained glued to Serizawa’s lips.

“Do you not want this?”

“Of course, I do!” Reigen blurted before he could think better of it, loud enough that Serizawa winced at the noise. He quickly added, thinking better of it: “Sorry, sorry. But doing this with your boss? That can’t be—”

“If that’s your only concern, please take it up with HR,” Serizawa murmured, leaning forward to meet Reigen’s lips again.

When Tome and Dimple finally returned, they found Reigen pulled into Serizawa’s hospital bed with Serizawa’s fingers grasping at Reigen’s shoulder blades, inhibited only by the pulse monitor clamped over his index finger. The two were shamelessly locked together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, completely obtuse to the concept of visiting company if the mouth sounds were any indication.

Tome shut the door, glancing expectantly at Dimple as if she wanted to talk about it.

He didn’t really want to join in on the post-game play-by-play discussion following the revelation of his colleagues making out in a hospital bed but was unable to resist commentating long enough to avoid the bait.

“What?” Dimple said. “Don’t tell me you’re excited about third wheeling at work.”

“I don’t really care about that,” Tome said with a small, relieved smile. “I was going to apologize to both of them for... Well, you know what happened with Rusty-sama. I thought they would both be so angry with me for sticking my nose in their business again, but…”

“They’re too busy doing that.”

She snorted. “I’m glad everyone’s okay. I’m glad you’re okay too, Dimple-chan. It would be a real shame if you got eaten so soon after I met you.”

Dimple rolled his ghostly eyes. “If you want to thank me, then cut it with the ‘-chan’ already,” he grumbled. “And you should take this opportunity to stay away from the damn office. Between taking on curses and…” He gestured toward the hospital room, “…taking on whatever this is, it’s going to be a nightmare.”

“Nah,” Tome replied easily. “I’m not the kind of girl who gives up so easily. Besides, this is a perfect opportunity for me.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Love, Dimple,” she oozed. “People are way nicer when they’re in love. This is my best shot at getting Reigen-san to officially hire me as his secretary.”

“You’re kind of manipulative, aren’t you?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Her conniving machinations might have remained obscured had the hospital room door been properly soundproofed.

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 20:48 | Horseradish Hospital | Current Signature Count: ??

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” Reigen groans. “Are you sure they’re giving me the good painkillers? The government has been wracked with all sorts of budget cuts lately.”

“I can ask if you’d like.”

“Don’t phrase it like ‘the good stuff,’” Reigen directs. “That’s a red flag and it’ll go on my permanent medical record.” He huffs, “I hope I don’t look as bad as I feel.”

Serizawa’s mouth twitches — a very obvious indicator that Reigen, even through the fog of his concussion, notices immediately.

“Katsuya. Tell me.”

Serizawa hands him his phone with the front-facing camera open. “You look… Uh.”

Reigen sputters at the image. “God dammit.”

“Kind of like a tanuki?” Serizawa says, as Reigen glares at him through two black eyes. Luckily, his bangs will cover the worst of the bruising and stitches over his forehead and under the gauze wrap.

“Don’t tell Di—”

“He already visited. He started working on nicknames for you.”

“God dammit.”

“Hamburglar was one of them. Sorry.”

“Man,” Reigen says, snapping his phone shut and settling back into the taxpayer-expensed comfort of his starchy hospital pillow. “This isn’t doing the campaign any favors. We’ll have to hit the mall on the way home. I’ll need more makeup to cover all of this or I’ll scare away the voters.” He groans, pinching his nose between his fingers. “This really sets us back on the petition. We’ll have to work hard to make it in time for the ballot.”

“Actually,” Serizawa contradicts, reaching into his briefcase. He pulls out the petition from beside the still-pristine copy of his anticipated light novel release. “Shinra-san was able to collect signatures from union members he knew at the evacuation site. Apparently, they were very thankful not to have their mansions destroyed in a kaiju attack.”

“Good thing for them,” Reigen mutters. “I bet insurance would say it’s an ‘act of god’ and refuse to pay up. Wanna know how I know? C’mon. Ask me how I know.”

Serizawa knows enough to not ask, especially when he suspects the answer has to do with the antics of his previous employer. Instead, he passes the clipboard, nearly full of all requisite signatures, to his wounded spouse.

“These are real?” Reigen says, scrutinizing one barely legible signature associated with an address on Escargot Garth.

“It seems so,” Serizawa says, retrieving the clipboard back. He smooths the paper and stows it back in his briefcase, careful not to collide with the protractor. He smiles softly. “We have thirty-nine signatures now. We’re so close to having your name on the ballot, Arataka. I’m positive we can find one more without too much trouble!”

“All the signatures so far have been a surprising amount of trouble,” Reigen says, blinking at Serizawa through both of his black eyes. “It’s not like the last signature is going to appear out of nowhere.”

Lacing his fingers through Reigen’s, resting over the hospital sheets, Serizawa continues optimistically, “Remember what Shinra-san said earlier? There are plenty of people who don’t like the current union leadership. We have to convince them why they should like you instead. And I like you, so I’ll just explain that to them, and they’ll get it.”

Reigen coughs. “I think many of the reasons you like me might be a bit too explicit to share with constituents but…”

Serizawa painstakingly ignores the innuendo. “I have a great feeling about it, that’s all. That fortieth signature is—”

“Here.”

Hoshida Origo appears from nowhere to waltz through the doorway. Reigen startles in surprise, causing his heart rate monitor to beep in warning.

“Let me sign your petition please,” he says.

Chapter Text

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 13:13 | Shrink Your Fears Mental Wellness Office | Latest poll: 50%

Therapy had been Reigen’s idea, thrown at Serizawa at some point between Serizawa’s official renouncement of psychic terrorism and his first successful in-office exorcism.

“There’s no shame in seeing a professional,” Reigen had advised Serizawa.

It was impressive how clearly Reigen could enunciate through a mouthful of half-chewed takoyaki. His cheeks puffed out, a chipmunk preparing for hibernation. Serizawa spent a few cycles wondering whether Reigen’s mouth was bigger than average and then shelved that dangerous line of thinking immediately.

“Part of being a man,” Reigen continued, tossing the toothpick back into the empty carton, “is being forthright with your feelings. It’s the noble thing to do! Anyone who tries to shame you for having a therapist can shove off and get help themselves.”

Serizawa, still in his stenographer phase, hurriedly wrote down the proffered advice for safekeeping.

“Thank you, Reigen-san! I’m taking note. My mother invited a few counselors to see me a long time ago, but…”

“They didn’t work out?”

“No, sir,” Serizawa said, chewing his lip. “They didn’t. In…um, an aerial sort of way.” He frowned at the memory. It was a while ago. Still, he remembered every last infinitesimal detail of how it felt — before Reigen, before Shigeo, before Suzuki — when his powers coursed over the palms of his hands against his will, a fission reaction crackling through its containment.

“Well, don’t do that again,” Reigen said with an instructive finger, chopping through Serizawa’s internal turmoil with the ease of a freshly-sharpened cleaver. “You’ve got control over your powers now. You’ll be A-OK. I’d trust you even if I was only a normal person — which I’m obviously not, but you get the idea.”

“Thank you, Reigen-san!” Serizawa’s cheeks burned at the compliment. “I-is going to, um, therapy something you have a lot of experience with or…?”

Reigen’s finger wilted like a daisy in a drought.

“Ah n—! I mean, ye—! I mean…n—it’s a universal truth! Everyone knows this!” he cried, while Dimple chuckled behind him, floating over his head.

“Well-spoken, Reigen,” the ghost called.

Reigen swatted him away fruitlessly. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Not for an hour,” Dimple yawned. “It’s bingo night at the senior center, and I keep mixing in extra O-69 balls. They haven’t noticed yet.”

“That’s charming,” Reigen grouched. “Go bother Mob.”

“Shigeo has a geography test. Ritsu said he’d exorcize me if I screwed up his class ranking.” Dimple grinned menacingly at Serizawa, “Katsuya-chan, you don’t mind a bit of deadwood, do you?”

Serizawa wasn’t sure what Dimple meant by that. If Reigen did, he ignored him. Evidently unsatisfied with the lack of reaction from his crowd, Dimple floated through the ceiling and into the Hideaway Cafe to get a better view of the downtown Divine Tree with which he was so enamored.

“Anyway, what were we talking about, Serizawa? Oh, right. Talking things out. Uh, therapy. It’s bigger than any of us. A universal truth, as I said.” Reigen stabbed a finger into the desktop for emphasis. “The bravest thing someone can do is ask for help! Write that down too.”

For some reason, Reigen seemed to be looking at something below his desk. Maybe it was one of his tics?

“This is all part of being integrated into society! I— You should listen to your senior on this one,” Reigen finished, fiddling with his pockets and looking self-satisfied with what he clearly deemed a winning performance.

“I-I see,” Serizawa said.

Serizawa took the advice and mediated it with his government-provided healthcare plan. He was almost foiled by the hold music on the other end of the information line, but he powered through if only from the sheer fear of disappointing his new employer alone.

He’s still glad he did it.

It was hard to talk about everything when he first started — but talking through his feelings was a lot like controlling his powers. The more he practiced, the more capable and confident he became. Now, he’s not perfect. But he hardly ever flickers the lights anymore, and he immediately replaced the broken white noise generator. Most importantly, he no longer dreads his bimonthly appointments in the private office.

He even looks forward to the opportunity for introspection — even if it’s painful.

Dr. Sasaki’s office is full of snow globes — snow globes on her computer desk, snow globes on her side tables, snow globes perched between a dog-eared, spine-broken copy of DSM-IV and a fresher-looking copy of DSM-V. The snow globes range in shape and size — a tiny rattling Christmas ornament to a gargantuan, multi-globe castle occupying its own TV tray in the corner. The whole place smells like popcorn from many discarded snack bags crumpled into the wastebasket.

The collection is half the reason Serizawa picked her for their therapy sessions. She might be thrown by his psychic powers and paranormal experiences, but at least she wouldn’t blink an eye when he discussed his ever-growing Gundam collection.

“Was there something in particular that’s bothering you this week?” asks the kind-faced psychotherapist. “I’m wondering because over the past few years we’ve worked together, you’ve been forthcoming about our topics of conversation. But today, you seem a bit more reserved.”

“…Is it that obvious?” Serizawa says coyly, twiddling his thumbs. “I thought I might have gotten away with it. I’m not the best actor, I suppose.”

Dr. Sasaki laughs gently. “Are you nervous about sharing something with me? You don’t have to tell me at all. You could save it for another time. I wanted you to know that it’s always okay to bring whatever you need into this space.”

Serizawa taps his chin. “I mentioned to you that my partner has recently gotten into politics.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. How do you feel about that?”

“At first, I was strictly opposed,” Serizawa says. “I don’t like the union or anything it stands for. I know it’s hypocritical of me to say given my past, but I think the people involved in it are not good people. It’s not just a feeling. I’ve actually seen them do terrible things.”

“Was that something you voiced to Reigen-san?”

“Yes. We talked about it. But… I changed my mind after some consideration. In the end, I’m the one who told him to do it, so I feel I share some responsibility. One thing I learned from my friend —”

“Kageyama-kun?”

Serizawa beams, happy she remembers Shigeo from their previous discussions. “Yes! From Kageyama-kun. He helped me realize that…sometimes, change has to come from the inside out. So if Reigen-san wins, he might be able to fix all the broken parts. Like a leukocyte.” He cringes. “Sorry — I have a biology midterm this week. There’s a lot of stuff mixed up in my head right now.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” she says. “You have a lot going on right now. Do you think the presidential campaign is adding to that stress?”

“I don’t think it’s subtracting from it,” Serizawa admits. “Reigen-san just recovered from a concussion and two black eyes.”

Dr. Sasaki’s eyes widen. “From campaigning?”

“From consulting,” Serizawa clarifies, like it answers her question. “It’s a rough trade.”

She scribbles something down onto her clipboard at that. She seems to have a whole dedicated appendix in her notebook labeled ‘concerning Reigen.’ Serizawa appreciates her attentiveness.

“…Uh huh,” she says. “Go on.”

“Sometimes, I’m not so sure of myself,” Serizawa says, folding his hands together in his lap. “I’m not sure…if I’ve made the right choice or acted courageously enough. When things go badly, I wonder if I should have stepped in sooner to prevent them. I…need to act more decisively. This week felt like proof of that.”

“Not every problem in the world is your responsibility. This wasn’t related to the kaiju attack, was it?”

Serizawa shook his head. “No. Actually… I’d rather have fought the kaiju again if I’m being honest.”

Her pen pauses over the notebook. “It was that bad?”

“Indeed,” Serizawa says grimly. “I almost got Reigen-san killed.”

A moment of heavy silence passes between them. He weathers it by staring at a snow globe on her desk. It claims to greet him from the world’s highest altitude 7-11.

“Did you want to tell me the full story, Serizawa-san?” his therapist asks. She spares a quick glance at the wall clock. “We should have enough time left. If this has been weighing heavily on you, it might help to get it off your chest.”

“If I had to pick a moment things started to become difficult for me,” Serizawa reminisces. “I would start with Hoshida-kun’s hospital visit.”

.

the parachute candidate

chapter four: election introspection ~reigen’s week off~

.

Horseradish Hospital Concussion Discharge Instructions

You were seen today for a mild traumatic brain injury (TBI)! Even though your brain probably feels like knives right now, you can use this helpful sheet as a resource to help you recover.

When suffering from any mild head trauma, you should avoid the following four activities to hasten your recovery:

☑Looking

☑ Reading

☑ Counting

☑ Remembering

Please consider taking time off of work or other taxing activities. Be sure to schedule a follow-up appointment with your primary-care physician at your earliest convenience — we are assured that the new phone hold music is only mildly grating.

Please call emergency services without hesitation if any symptoms worsen — including headache, nausea, drowsiness — or if fainting or seizures occur. These could be a sign of a more threatening condition and should be addressed without delay.

Thank you for choosing Horseradish Hospital, where we “root” for your well-being!

.

Saturday, November 7, 2015 — 21:03 | Horseradish Hospital | Current Signature Count: 39

“Wow, Reigen-san!” Hoshida says as he approaches the hospital bed.

He hangs his bike helmet on a hook on the wall, and the plastic shell clatters against the plaster — the noise rattles the neurons in Reigen’s beat-up brain like the shake of a maraca.

“Kurata-san told me you were in the hospital,” he says, “but not that you were in such bad shape. Serizawa-san barely has a scratch on him.” He pauses thoughtfully a moment, before positing, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with two black eyes at the same time before. That’s really impressive!”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Reigen grumbles, sinking further into the shallow embrace of the cheap, fibrous hospital pillows. After suffering the cosmic injustice of two black eyes, a head wound requiring five stitches, and a surprisingly mild concussion given the circumstances — the last thing Reigen wants to endure is an outsider’s color commentary.

Serizawa melts Reigen’s icyness by tugging his lips into a polite smile as he regards their unexpected guest.

“It’s been a long day, Hoshida-kun. You said Kurata-san was in touch with you?”

“Yes,” Hoshida says. “I watched her livestream. It’s a shame that the lighthouse was knocked over. It’s a historic landmark, sure, but I wanted to bring a date to the balcony someday.”

“I’ve heard it’s a lovely date spot,” Serizawa replies.

Reigen’s pulse monitor beeps once in warning — he curses the finger clamp for another brutally-rendered betrayal.

“I wouldn’t say lovely,” Hoshida says, and then his voice lowers to relay his incoming conspiracy theory with the gravity he wholly believes it deserves, “Haven’t you heard the rumors about it?”

Serizawa raises an eyebrow at Reigen.

Against his better judgment, Reigen takes the plunge. “Rumors? Or are they real?”

“They’re real rumors,” Hoshida confirms gravely. “According to… Hm, I don’t remember. It was either The Asahi Shimbun or Occult Oddities. I get them mixed up sometimes. They use similar typefaces. Anyway, according to one of them, Lychee Lighthouse is haunted by a kid who fell off of the balcony during a typhoon. Now whoever touches the railing is cursed to do the same. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Serizawa bristles at that. Reigen shutters his bruised face with his hands as though he’s a market stall and he’s closing up shop for the evening.

“Um,” Serizawa says after an uneasy full rest note of silence passes. “Thank you for sharing that tidbit, but Hoshida-kun… You came here for the petition, right? We should talk about that instead since you came all this way.”

Hoshida nods agreeably. “Sure. I’d like to sign that petition. Immediately if possible.”

Serizawa slides the clipboard from his briefcase, depositing it in Hoshida’s waiting hands. Hoshida wastes no time putting pen to paper.

“I’m glad you’re interested in Reigen-san’s political ambitions, but I have to say, I’m surprised,” Serizawa says. “Aren’t you Roshuuto-san’s apprentice?”

“I was his apprentice,” Hoshida corrects, passing back the pair of clipboard and implement. “A while ago, I thought I’d give up the occult entirely. I thought I might dedicate my life to love or acts of charity! But Kurata-san set me straight. She reinvigorated my passion for all things supernatural! So I decided that my career is mine. I set off on my own solo journey.”

Serizawa grimaces. “You’re not working with anyone else?”

“I wanted to work alone,” Hoshida says. “That’s why I joined the union!”

Serizawa starts to say, “But you’re not a psy—” before he cuts himself off, as if suddenly and violently recalling who he’s married to. He coughs once, before continuing — and Reigen rates the recovery a generous six out of ten.

“Yes, well, it’s exciting you’ve kicked off your own career in the supernatural business!” Serizawa offers diplomatically. “Great to see ambition in young people! So tell me… what exactly is your, ah, specialty?”

This is something Serizawa has learned from years of observing Reigen in action — a special move, in which you confound your younger target with a barrage of compliments to coax them into admitting their transgressions.

It worked startlingly well when Reigen suspected Teru was heavily involved with unraveling an underground psychic drug cartel between cram school sessions. All Reigen had to do was repeatedly praise Teru’s taste in hair barrettes before he voluntarily spilled a whole dossier’s worth of vigilante work.

“Thank you, Reigen-san. It’s technically called a butterfly clip,” Teru had said, gesturing at the puce accessory. “Isn’t it stylish? I started wearing it to keep my hair out of my eyes when I was tracking down {redacted by Joseph from the Government} and found him hiding out with his buddies at a safe house in {also redacted by Joseph from the Government}.”

He’s not as good at working with people as Reigen is, but Serizawa hopes it’ll have the same effect here given that Teru and Hoshida seem cut from similar cloth as far as inherent humility goes.

“I mostly investigate urban legends that I hear about on the internet,” Hoshida explains. “I’m finishing a degree in occult literature, so I know a thing or two about storytelling tradition! Unfortunately, most cases amount to nothing. But I started getting into something new, so we’ll see how it goes! Someone on Mobbit posted that there’s a cursed podium in one of the university auditoriums. I’m stopping by to investigate this week.”

“A cursed podium?” Serizawa wonders. “What are the symptoms?”

“Excessive mic feedback. And if you touch the sides of it wrong, you get splinters.”

“So it’s just a cheap podium,” Reigen mutters from inside a sandwich of pillow.

“Oh! And sometimes if you stand close to the podium, it sounds like someone’s reciting something.”

Serizawa frowns. In his experience, recitations are never a good sign as far as curses are concerned. “What was it saying?”

“It was too muffled for the guy who posted the case to make out,” Hoshida says. “But he said it sounded lyrical. I read his description of it, and I think it might be—”

“Excuse me.”

A nurse walks in, bearing Reigen’s long-awaited discharge papers, which Serizawa accepts. She relays to Serizawa that Reigen should take it easy and refrain from strenuous activities. Serizawa acquiesces to her instructions, while Reigen gathers the change of clothes Serizawa fetched him from home.

“It’s after visiting hours,” the nurse says curtly to Hoshida. Serizawa apologizes profusely for the misstep as she removes Reigen’s IV catheter and wraps the wound with a gauze pad and some stringy adhesive tape.

“We’ll stay in touch,” Serizawa says as Hoshida grabs his bike helmet and scurries away — even in Serizawa’s gentle voice, it’s a demand, not a question. “Please don’t drag Kurata-san into whatever you’re doing.”

.

“—keep the message simpler this time, ‘Tsuya.”

“Yes, that’s my goal. Is it recording—? Oh…shoot.”

(Phone-shuffling sound)

“…Hi there! This is Serizawa Katsuya’s phone voicemail, Serizawa Katsuya speaking. I’m very sorry to miss your call. I’ll get back to you immediately. Once I’m done doing whatever it is I’m doing, that is. Not that your message isn’t important! I’m sure it’s important! So, uh, yes. Please leave a m—”

BEEP!

“Yo, Serizawa-san, Reigen-san. It’s Kurata. Either someone’s talking about me a whole lot, or I’m coming down with something.”

(Sneeze)

“Do you guys think we can get diseases from space? I spent some time reading about this. I wonder if the Mud Boat Mountain aliens would submit to phenotype testing. Can you give medical consent telepathically? I’m not so sure...”

(Tissue-blowing noise)

(Sniffle)

“Anyway, Mom thinks it’s just that cold that’s going around, so I have to go to the doctor. I can’t make it to the office today unless you want my germs, human or alien. Sorry for the bad timing! I’ll keep working on our social media presence though! I get my best creative ideas when I take cold medicine. Over and out.”

(Sneeze)

.

Sunday, November 8, 2015 — 19:56 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B | Latest poll: ??%

Serizawa ponders the contents of his weekly planner, tapping his pen against the page.

Nearly every line of the week is full of something. There isn’t an ounce of space left. Confronted with the excess of ink, he feels a bit like an ant staring up at a mountain peak. He has no idea — short of cloning himself — how he’s going to accomplish all the listed entries, especially given how many of them are outside his wheelhouse.

Sure, most of his homework is under control. Winning the Galaga tournament would come easier than breathing. He could listen to the reading club selection at 2x speed on his audiobook app while commuting. As for the shared work calendar, expelling a curse from a tea kettle wouldn’t be a problem as long as he remembered to bring cream and sugar.

But there’s all the other stuff.

Midterms loom over him, particularly trigonometry — and he hasn’t spent years completing his compulsory education only to be foiled by two-dimensional shapes. Those shapes would be conquered. The only thing worse than taking one math class is having to take it again. Graduation is around the corner, so studying has to be a priority.

Keeping up his customer service persona for eight hours a day without breaks is guaranteed to be frightfully exhausting. But the office’s reputation (and rent payment) rests on his tense shoulders. Reigen does it with such skill and practice. It’s hard not to feel completely inadequate in comparison.

Serizawa used to try emulating Reigen’s techniques as Reigen allowed him to lead on more clients — copying the hand motions, the vocal cadence, the scintillating smile. He gave it his best shot, but he felt a bit like an amusement park animatronic. Instead of imitation, over time Serizawa developed his own style. Introverted as he is, it takes a lot of energy to keep up the act. He vows to drink an afternoon coffee.

And then there’s the campaign.

Serizawa had hesitantly dropped the completed petition into Bubblegum-chan’s waiting tentacle, and Matsuo said, “Oh my god, thank you. I’m gonna send the press release. I was worried he’d run unopposed.”

“Roshuuto-san would?”

“I’m supposed to be impartial,” Matsuo explained in a harsh whisper, as if someone outside the door was listening, “but he sucks. I’m forbidden from voting in the election, but he won’t stop sending me his campaign’s promotional items.”

Another grotesque ghost tentacle dropped a box full of junk over Matsuo’s desk, unfolded the flaps, and rifled through the contents. Hats, shirts, flyers, magnets, stickers, water bottles —

“A bunch of mason jars with ventilated lids? It’s like he’s making fun of me!” Matsuo cried. He tossed one of the glasses at Bubblegum-chan, who crunched through it with its fearsome… Fangs? Baleen? Eyelashes? It was hard to tell. The sound was chillingly otherworldly. Serizawa wondered what business a spirit had with glass shards. He’d never seen Dimple sample the office flatware.

Serizawa lifted and examined a branded set of colored pencils from the box. In tiny font etched into the wood, they said ‘Roshuuto 2015: Destined 2B RSSU President’ and ‘Make your Mark — Vote Roshuuto 2015.’

Well, that’s no good, he thought. Especially because you’re required to vote in pen.

There was another problem too.

He asked, “And all of this—?”

Matsuo beat him to it, “His face is on every last bit of it, yeah.”

Sure enough, the pencils were covered in tiny smirking Roshuuto faces.

“I’d take these off your hands,” Serizawa said, “but I don’t think Reigen-san would want them in the office.”

“Roshuuto had to put his face on the end you don’t sharpen,” Matsuo grouched, tossing a ‘Thirsty for Roshuuto 2015’ insulated water bottle back into the box. “How wasteful. I ought to feed that guy to Jawbreaker-chan.”

Serizawa left shortly after that. He wanted to get back home and check on Reigen’s condition. Also, he was not interested in meeting Jawbreaker-chan.

In reflection, Serizawa’s experience in Matsuo’s office brings forth an obvious deficiency of their campaign — marketing.

Serizawa hasn’t ever considered marketing before. He went to great lengths to avoid or block digital pop-up and pre-roll video ads when he was in his room. His mother peeled off the tankoban jacket wrappers from manga she slid under his door. He didn’t see a single billboard or bus shelter ad for fifteen years. When he worked for Suzuki, most of the marketing was performed by the pointy end of Serizawa’s umbrella. Reigen handled the Spirits and Such marketing, and Serizawa — while he was the furthest thing from an expert at graphic design — wondered if there were improvements to be made.

Serizawa considered his recent read of Winning your Supernatural Election Campaign: A Primer Chapter Five: “Putting Face to Name.”

If no one knows who you are, wrote Dijon Kori, then how will they possibly vote for you? Marketing is everything. The goal is to be annoying, but not so annoying that their interest turns to ire. The sweet spot for an ad is around nine impressions, depending on the medium. Like a cat, you must make careful use of your nine lives. Again, nine times. Ten times is asking for trouble.

(There are probably scientific studies about this somewhere, but you bought this book because you think I know what I’m talking about, so I don’t know what you think you need a citation for!)

So in conclusion, Serizawa has no idea to start with any of this. His tea cup levitates at his elbow. He guides it back to the coaster.

He knew that his leaning Jenga tower of obligations — school, extracurricular, Reigen (work), and Reigen (not-work) — would make his commitment to campaign management taxing, but he thought he’d be able to manage it. That calculation, of course, had been made under the impression Reigen would be well enough not to flinch at the warning bell of the train gates at the level crossing down the street.

And speaking of Reigen —

Serizawa hears a yawn from the other room. Then a mess of blond hair and pajamas slides open the bedroom door and stumbles into the living room. Serizawa would be loath to vocalize this to his spouse, but between Reigen’s general dishevelment, twin black eyes, and kitchen forage for instant noodles, he really does look like a raccoon.

“We’re out of beef,” Reigen complains, looking forlornly at a cupboard full of spicy chili chicken cups. He had bought it on fire sale, forgetting in his fit of frugality that Serizawa despised spicy food.

Beef, Serizawa scrawls into the planner margins, seriously wanting for whitespace. He considers if he should buy a supplementary planner for the overflow as Reigen rifles through a few more cabinets, leaving all of them disappointed.

Reigen fills and starts up the tea kettle. While he waits for the water to boil, he settles at the table next to Serizawa, peering curiously at the overextended agenda.

“You’re not supposed to read,” Serizawa says, closing the book.

Reigen frowns petulantly. It draws his eyebrows together, tugs at his tender forehead stitches, and in turn, he winces. “I’m perfectly fine. They made a huge deal of nothing at the hospital. I could even go to work tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to work tomorrow.”

“Right, I know, I know. But I could.”

“The house is dark, you’ve slept all day,—”

“Isn’t that the dream of a married man?” Reigen counters. “To sleep in on a Sunday?

“—and an hour ago, you asked me if I could flush the toilet more quietly,” Serizawa finishes. “I think you need a few more days before you’re ready to deal with the office.”

“Okay,” Reigen concedes with a huff. “Fine. You’re so by the book, Katsuya.”

“Being part of society means obeying society’s rules,” Serizawa says, laying his hand over Reigen’s. “Let me take care of things. The less you extend yourself, the sooner you’ll feel better. That’s what all the informational packets said.”

Across the room, his powers lift the kettle before it can hiss, pour it over the dry noodles, and rest a set of chopsticks from the drawer to keep the lid flap from rolling open against the stream.

“I want to be someone you can rely on,” Serizawa says, threading their fingers together.

“I already rely on you plenty. You’re dependable at work, and you’re tall enough to reach the top shelf of the pantry.”

“I’m being serious, Arataka,” Serizawa says. He reaches out with his other hand to cup Reigen’s face, brushing his thumb to flutter away a stray eyelash from Reigen’s cheek. His hold is gentle, like he’s cradling a porcelain doll, scared to aggravate any of Reigen’s smorgasbord of facial injuries. “Take a break. Work will be there when you’re ready. I’ve already responded to all your voicemails.”

Reigen says, “And the MBNE messages? The emails? The urban legends message boards?”

“Yes, those too. I know your routine.”

Serizawa wisely does not mention that Tome plans on handling the social media, because he wants Reigen to recover from his headache.

Reigen sits with this a minute, opens his mouth as if to protest again, but apparently fails to pull a single thread of an argument from Serizawa’s well-woven reasoning.

Instead, he turns his head, presses his lips to the pad of Serizawa’s thumb. It tingles down every nook and cranny of Serizawa’s median nerve, leaving behind a pleasant pulse of warmth. Serizawa could melt in it.

“God, I’m brilliant,” Reigen sighs into the skin. “Hiring Mob. Hiring you. Somehow convincing you to marry me.” He glances at Serizawa with a smug grin. “It’ll come any day now.”

“What? Your recovery?”

“No—Well, yes, that too,” Reigen says, as Serizawa’s thumb rests at the corner of his mouth. “But I meant my Mensa acceptance. For my obvious transcendent genius.”

Serizawa kisses him — carefully, so as not to further imperil the requisite brain cells of Reigen’s “obvious transcendent genius.”

“Let me take care of you, ‘Taka,” he murmurs.

At the growling of Reigen’s stomach, Serizawa reluctantly relinquishes his hold long enough to summon the cup noodles and chopsticks with his telekinesis. He peels off the lid and whirls away the steam so Reigen can’t burn himself inadvertently as he’s so wont to do.

Reigen usually rolls his eyes at this — as if he asked for a bandsaw and Serizawa handed him a pair of safety scissors. But, as he lifts his chopsticks and hungrily slurps his oily noodles, he seems content to let Serizawa spoil him rotten. For now.

Serizawa floats over a napkin from the counter. He watches Reigen attack the meal voraciously — all the while wondering if there’s a way to slow down time with psychic abilities.

Serizawa isn’t alone, but sometimes, he feels he needs to do more to earn the life he’s living. Right now, Reigen needs him. Serizawa wants to do enough this time around.

He wants to be enough, no matter what it takes.

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 9, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #78

Roshuuto for president? ‘Nay!’ says dark horse candidate Reigen Arataka
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

Local “psychic” Reigen Arataka, 31, threw his hat in the ring today in the ongoing race to replace current Rising Sun Spiritual Union president Jodo Kirin, 84. Having secured his petition signatures, Reigen is now on the official ballot for the election to be held December 1.

As of writing, Reigen will run head-to-head against RSSU member Roshuuto Dozen, 35. Dozen announced his campaign last week and remains ahead in the latest polls by a wide margin.

Since he opened it nearly eight years ago, Reigen has been the owner and proprietor of Spirits and Such Consulting Office, a local supernatural advisory firm. He claims such accomplishments as defeating the Dragger, the Yokai King, and the Player Killer. In a video and follow-up tweets from an unverified campaign-related Mobtter account, Reigen claims to have prevented casualties during the kaiju attack at Basil Beach this past weekend.

These assertions have not been confirmed by the Yodeler fact-checking staff. Relatedly, staff have been so busy fact-checking Roshuuto’s most recent campaign speech that they’ve had time for little else, including their families.

Reigen is not registered as a member of the RSSU. We were not able to reach him or his campaign manager Serizawa Katsuya, 33, for comment. We were, however, reached several times by his press secretary Kurata Tome, 18.

“The first thing you need to know about Reigen-san is that he’s an outsider,” Kurata said. “He’s a bit strange and hard to get along with. He doesn’t fit in with the rest of the crowd. That’s why he isn’t in the union. And that’s exactly why he’s the kind of person you need in charge. ”

Kurata said that Reigen harnesses the hopes of union members seeking a change of leadership direction. She went on to disparage the Roshuuto campaign.

“Roshuuto-san isn’t working for the people,” she said. “He charges super-high prices and only sees celebrities. Don’t you think he’s out of touch? Reigen-san would run the union like he runs his business — with spiritual expertise, kindness, and a lot of discount specials.”

We also spoke with Black Pepper High School student Kageyama Shigeo, 17, who, after having a one-sided conversation with the air, told us he has worked for Reigen for seven years.

“I don’t know much about politics, but people should consider voting for Reigen-shishou,” Kageyama said. “He’s a genuinely good person. …I’m a bit worried he’ll be inconsolable if he loses.”

Jodo was rendered completely speechless by the news of Reigen’s candidacy, offering Yodeler reporters a garbled choking noise and

This story continues as GALLOP POLL on page 7C.

.

Monday, November 9, 2015 — 12:03 | Spirits and Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 11%

“…And you see,” Serizawa tells the customer, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “I, um, don’t doubt the possibility that your body might be haunted, but…”

The customer presses, “You’re a psychic, aren’t you? Shouldn’t this be obvious? Your sensor must be broken.” He folds his arms over his chest, looking completely anguished. “What a shame Reigen-sama isn’t in this week. They don’t make apprentices like they used to.”

“I’m actually the deputy director,” Serizawa says. He’s not offended, because he feels the furthest thing from a professional in this particular matter. “I can offer you the same advice Reigen-san would.” He pulls out a flier from the desk drawer, folds it discreetly, and slides it over the desk to the client. “Please follow his instructions to a T to complete the exorcism. This is his own, uh…spiritual word. Heed it accordingly.”

The client scours the instructions with a frown. “You’re sure about this? I can show you the curse again if you aren’t sure.”

“Please don’t show me the curse again,” Serizawa says quickly. “Just complete the steps and then follow up with your medical professional so they can go over the…side effects of the curse. Okay, sir?”

The client doesn’t seem completely convinced but still pockets the flier and settles the payment on his way out. Serizawa tucks the bills into the metal cash box as Dimple pops in through the wall.

“What was that guy’s deal?” the ghost asks.

“I’m supposed to keep things confidential,” Serizawa says. “Reigen-san values the privacy of all of our clients. They trust us.”

“That’s cute,” Dimple grins. “Cursed hemorrhoids again, wasn’t it?”

Serizawa swings the cash box shut. “They weren’t cursed.”

“Rough.”

Dimple floats to the desk, peering over Serizawa’s shoulder as the latter opens his planner and checks off the appointment from the mammoth collection of weekly obligations. Serizawa chews the end of his pen. Across the room, his powers wash the dirtied teacups from the last appointment and refill the kettle for the next brew.

“You know, Katsuya-chan,” Dimple spills in an overly scheming tone, “most first marriages—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—end in divorce in ten years, so maybe—”

“Dimple.”

“—you’re just an early bloomer.”

Serizawa sets down his pen and affixes the ghost with a glare to end all glares.

The ghost pales. “You know I’m kid—”

“Don’t joke about that,” Serizawa snaps, hair fluttering. He takes a deep breath, pauses a moment to reel himself in, and adds quietly, “And…don’t call me Katsuya-chan either.”

“Alright, alright, geez, I’m sorry,” Dimple says, sauntering away. “You know, you’re normally a lot more thick-skinned. I don’t think a guy deserves to be exorcized for a bad joke.”

“…Sorry.”

“It’s whatever,” Dimple says. “Did you call Shigeo already?”

“He’s coming this afternoon.”

“Uh huh. Any ghosts I can take off your hands? I’m kinda hungry.”

Serizawa regards the chicken scratch of the incoming afternoon. “Unless you can do political strategy, palm reading, or Pythagorean identities, I don’t have anything for you.”

“Don’t say I didn’t offer,” Dimple says, phasing through the wall to do whatever it is he usually does during the day. Serizawa suspects he either hitches rides on the Shinkansen or interferes with ensuing play at major sporting events.

The next client isn’t set to arrive for fifteen minutes, and in the absence of walk-ins, Serizawa scarfs down a convenience store bento and steeps the next pot of complimentary sencha tea. All the while, he considers the campaign.

Before taking on his role as campaign manager, Serizawa’s experience with voting was limited to one general election for the federal government and dozens of best character polls for various Jump comics. After finishing Dijon Kori’s treatise on the morning train and devouring several more Mobipedia articles of questionable validity, he’s a bit floored by just how much still needed to happen to get Reigen’s campaign off the ground.

Reigen can’t simply coast to the ballot on his Spirits and Such reputation alone. In the most recent Yodeler polling, Reigen managed only 11% of the pool of voters. Those are landslide numbers! Serizawa suspects it’s a combination of his non-member status tangled together with remaining notoriety from his unfortunate television debut. Something would have to be done. More likely, many somethings would have to be done.

For starters, a campaign needed a platform. What promises would Reigen make to sway the constituency to his side? How would he prove his worth over Roshuuto? Once he had that, he needed all the eyeballs he could get, and that’s where marketing would come in — social media targeting, paper mailers, apparel and other swag, fliers on the pinboard of Jodo’s favorite coffee shop. Serizawa would need to plan campaign appearances once Reigen was back on his feet. And then to power all of this, they desperately needed to fundraise.

So many steps, and —

Serizawa freezes up when he notices.

The storage closet across the room is reorganized, the dirt from the floor swept and discarded, the dust over the shelves removed, the trash tied and floated to the street — but how?

During the last client, did Dimple—?

Huh.

He hadn’t known their ghost companion to be so charitable or observant. Now he feels a bit guilty dismissing him. Then again, this was always how Dimple worked — a give and a take, always in balance. Serizawa would thank him later. For now, back to business.

Without cleaning tasks to attend to, a memory strikes him.

Reigen had spent some time working on the campaign website a few nights ago. Of course!

Serizawa feels a burst of encouragement. Maybe he can piggyback off the existing work! If Reigen had laid everything out, then all Serizawa needs to do is update the copy, maybe add a donation link. With a task completed, he could ride the wave of positive reinforcement through the rest of the day. His therapist always tells him to check off the easy tasks first for this reason. Once one domino falls, the rest come more easily.

Serizawa swivels around in Reigen’s desk chair, opens Reigen’s beat-up laptop, and proceeds to the browser, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 13:28 | Shrink Your Fears Mental Wellness Office | Latest poll: 50%

Dr. Sasaki finishes a note and looks up. “So…how was Reigen-san’s website?”

“I’m not sure how to put this…” Serizawa begins.

He stares at his shoelaces in deep contemplation. He’s a man preparing to describe the indescribable — as if he had gazed into some monstrous abyss, and the Japanese language doesn’t quite give him the tools he needs to regale the horrors with adequate credence.

This lasts at least ten seconds.

“Since I’ve returned to society,” he says finally, sounding a bit choked. “I’ve been surprised and humbled by how much everyone has accepted me for who I am — both the good and the bad. Because of that, I’ve been trying to see the good in the different experiences of my life, even when they don’t go the way I expect.”

“Impressive, Serizawa-san!” she replies with a cheerful swoop of her pen. “And how are you applying that to this situation?”

He grimaces. “I’ll…have to get back to you on that.”

She lowers her clipboard, offering a sympathetic smile. “It was that bad, huh?”

“In hindsight, I should have learned to code when I was in my room,” bemoans Serizawa. “I had all that time! I never thought of spending it on JavaScript… What was I thinking?” He lowers his head into his hands and mumbles, “Sensei, I-I…think my husband might have bad taste.”

He swallows and adds, “And severe color blindness.”

“What do you mean?”

Serizawa pulls out his phone, brings up a screenshot he took of Reigen’s first attempt at his campaign website, and offers it to her. She squints, as if she’s looking at the corona of a solar eclipse and her corneas are burning at the exposure.

“Oh,” she says, averting her eyes almost immediately. “Yeah. That’s no good.”

Serizawa dispatches the screenshot to the shadow realm of his phone’s virtual wastebasket and re-pockets the device. “I don’t know what he was thinking. And this was before the concussion.”

“It sounds like you had a lot on your plate, Serizawa-san,” remarks Dr. Sasaki. “I want you to know, it’s completely normal to feel overwhelmed in a situation like this. Anyone confronted with all of this would feel the same way.”

Serizawa sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s counted at least four new grays in the mirror in the last week alone. He attributes the first three to each sine, cosine, and tangent respectively — but the fourth and longest is Reigen’s alone.

“Respectfully, please let me continue,” he pleads. “There’s a lot more.”

.

Monday, November 9, 2015 — 15:01 | Spirits and Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 11%

Shigeo drops by just in time. He takes over the teapot exorcism, flicking the spout spirit into the next dimension with an easy wave of his fingers, which frees Serizawa to catch up with the day’s invoices and polish off the last of his literature essay.

Once Shigeo cleans the cream and sugar from the office walls, he settles on the couch, reading yesterday’s issue of Weekly Shonen Jump. Serizawa watches jealously — avoiding spoilers on Mobtter this week has been killing him. But bravely, he returns to the fray of his ink-stained notebook, scratching kanji into their appropriate boxes to complete the assignment.

Shigeo is Serizawa’s first friend. One of the things Serizawa most appreciates about Shigeo is that he feels no need to fill the space with chatter. Their conversations ebb and flow naturally with no pressure to otherwise dam them into being. Shigeo will speak when he wants to, and Serizawa will do the same.

The office is quiet without walk-ins save for the scratch of Serizawa’s pencil to paper, the brush of Shigeo’s turned pages.

It’s companionable. Shigeo occasionally sneaks glances at Serizawa, presumably between Jump chapters.

Serizawa has no idea how many different manga Shigeo actually follows. Personally, he finds it hard to tune into the battle shonen chapters unless he’s up to date. The power systems are incomprehensible otherwise.

On the other hand, he can usually offer a chuckle or two to the gag manga even if he doesn’t know all the characters. Then again, if Serizawa could spare the time, he’d try to keep up with the gag manga runs too. It’d give him something to talk to his class friends about. And now that he has money, supporting others following their dreams is important.

Not to mention, Jump is a cutthroat business, the way they throw promising manga out the window at the first sign of trouble — even things Serizawa enjoys reading. He also tries not to get too attached to things, but sometimes it’s hard to avoid the excitement of it all. And right now, humor manga is having a bit of a renaissance in Serizawa’s opinion, and —

“Are you having trouble focusing, Serizawa-san?” Shigeo asks, mostly because Serizawa’s eyes are glued unblinkingly to the spine of the Jump volume. Meanwhile, Reigen’s extensive PhotoShop instruction manual collection is floating off the bookshelf and the office fire extinguisher — past its expiration date, Serizawa notes — is clunking against the ceiling tiles, raining dust to the carpet.

Serizawa drops his pen, raises his hand, and returns the office to its proper configuration. Shigeo sets down the absolute textbook of a magazine to the coffee table. He doesn’t mark his page, which gives Serizawa anxiety.

“I can go home if my presence is distracting,” Shigeo offers. “Unless there are clients left on the calendar.”

“I…” Serizawa says, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I don’t…”

Shigeo leaves the couch, walking over to the side of Serizawa’s desk, and examining his essay.

“You wrote the same phrase twice,” he says.

It’s never a good sign when Shigeo points out mistakes in your essay. Serizawa’s eyes drop to the page, and then the eraser end of his pencil follows suit.

“Shigeo-kun, do you remember—” He pauses to blow the eraser bits off his muddied page. “—when you were so focused on the cultural fair that you couldn’t think of anything else?”

Shigeo studies Serizawa for a bit.

“Are you handling the campaign yourself?” Shigeo astutely asks.

“Only until Reigen-san bounces back,” Serizawa replies, scribbling in the final edit of his paper. He closes the notebook and slides it between his math textbook and an energy drink he bought to chug before night school. “After the brainstorm last week… I thought it might be easier not to burden the rest of you. You have more important things to work on. You have school and extracurriculars.”

“You have those too, Serizawa-san.”

“Yes, but I only have to handle things until Ara—until Reigen-san is back. That won’t be long, provided he listens to his discharge packet.”

Across Seasoning City, Reigen sips from a medically-forbidden cup of coffee. His ears tingle.

“I can manage things for now,” Serizawa continues against a sinking feeling. “But I appreciate your concern.”

“I know Reigen-shishou is dependable,” Shigeo says, “…most of the time. But Serizawa-san, he’s not the only person you’re allowed to depend on. You and I are friends. It’s okay to ask friends for help when you need it.”

“You and Kurata-san already said you don’t know much about elections,” Serizawa counters. “Helping would require too much onboarding.”

“It’s true that I don’t know anything about that,” Shigeo says, blissful in his ignorance. “However, I do know someone involved in government. He gives great advice too. I’d trust him with anything.”

Did Shigeo’s parents work in government? Come to think of it, Serizawa’s not even sure he remembers their names. Reigen must have known, given how long he’s been Shigeo’s teacher. Still, Serizawa’s surprised it hadn’t come up yet. Maybe Reigen was hesitant to ask for help for some reason? Too proud? Or because he thought he had things under control? Leave it to Reigen to be so stoic, Serizawa thinks fondly.

“That would be amazing, Shigeo-kun,” Serizawa confides. “I’d love a mentor.”

“I’ll bring him by tomorrow,” Shigeo promises with a nod. “He should be free then.”

.

“Hello there! Sorry we missed your call! Due to, um… extenuating circumstances, Reigen-san isn’t available to answer his phone this week. I’m the deputy director of the office, so I’ll take your call. Oh — Serizawa Katsuya is my name, by the way. If you’re calling for a massage appoint—”

“Massage exorcism!”

“…Yes, right, sorry. If you’re calling for a massage exorcism, please note we will need to reschedule for next week. Same goes for aromatherapy, exorcisms of family reunions, and divination with Reigen-san’s iPod shuffle. I think those are all of them…?”

“Close enough!"

“Anyway, all other appointments are unaff—”

BEEP!

“Katsuya-san dear, it’s your mother-in-law. I hope my son isn’t giving you too much trouble.

“I was just telling my husband — it’s about time we paid you two a visit, especially before the weather goes bad and my knee acts up. It’s been a while since we last dropped by. Arataka never invites us.

“You two are still living in that neighborhood, aren’t you? I always say, if you two worked a real job like my daughter does, you could move up in the world. But to each his own.

“I’ll get to the point.

“I read in this morning’s Yodeler that Arataka intends, not only to continue in that shady supernatural business he’s dragged you into, but to run for president? It’s one thing to dabble in all of this, but he has to know this is a mistake, yes? He’s too committed! Think of all the consequences of legally binding your name to such a scheme? They keep claiming they exorcize evil spirits, but we all know evil spirits don’t exist!

“Anyway, please tell Arataka to call me already? Today on the job forums, someone posted a sales position in the envelope glue industry, and I just know Arataka would be perfect as—”

BEEP! Message time limit reached.

.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015 — 15:03 | Spirits and Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 11%

Serizawa stares across the table. His guest stares back. Shigeo watches amicably from beside the bookcase.

“Um, Shigeo-kun,” Serizawa says. “What exactly did you have in mind here?”

“Like I said,” Shigeo says brightly. “I know someone in politics.”

Ritsu grimaces from his seat. “I’m the treasurer of the Yuzu Pepper student council.”

“School politics,” Shigeo clarifies. Ritsu types something into his phone and pockets it.

Serizawa says nervously, “I, um, don’t think this is exactly—”

“Serizawa-san,” Ritsu says, folding his hands over his lap. He regards Serizawa intently, as if sizing him up. “Let me ask you a few questions about your campaign.”

“Oh. Uh. Sure. Go ahead.”

Shigeo excuses himself to his daily run, leaving Serizawa and Ritsu alone in the office. Serizawa sweats at his temples, feeling distinctly like Shigeo abandoned him to the wolves. Ritsu’s face is placid, but his aura seems hungry.

“Have you done adequate research on the political landscape? Attended union meetings or read the notes? Run focus groups? Surveyed constituents about policy expectations?”

“…No.”

“Have you determined your target voter segment? Do you know how it compares to your opposition’s target voter segment?”

“…No.”

“Have you crafted a fundraising plan? And estimated the costs of all functions of your campaign? Have you properly separated expenses of the campaign from office expenditures?”

“Kageyama-kun,” Serizawa sputters. “I…”

Serizawa is a man completely lost at sea — somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle perhaps, where things are strange and the faulty SS Reigen is rapidly taking on water and Serizawa’s compass is spinning out of control and —

Ah, nevermind, that’s his pencil on the desk doing all the spinning. He nabs it from the air and drops it into the safe containment of Reigen’s pen cup before it pokes someone’s eye out.

Implement settled, he says, “Are high school elections really this extensive…?”

“You have no idea,” Ritsu says, completely deadpan. “Yuzu Pepper is wracked with scandal and spectacle. Politics can be absolutely vicious. You have to be ready to abandon your humanity completely.” He lowers his voice. “I know Reigen-san’s got that covered, but are you truly prepared, Serizawa-san?”

Ritsu’s not possessed by an evil spirit, but Serizawa scans over his aura anyway just to be sure.

“…I’d like to be,” Serizawa says. “For Reigen-san.”

“Good,” Ritsu says. “Next question then. Do you have a website?”

“Yes!” Serizawa says, excited to give an affirmative.

Ritsu lifts himself from his perch on the chair to join Serizawa behind the desk. He gestures at the closed laptop. “May I see it?”

“No!” Serizawa blurts immediately, adding, “It’s… It’s in need of construction.”

In need of destruction, he thinks glumly. A sledgehammer, perhaps, or better yet a wrecking ball.

Ritsu raises an eyebrow but proceeds anyway. “How about campaign events?”

“I had thought about promoting the campaign at a table near the train station.”

“Make sure you get proper permits for that,” Ritsu advises. “But what about organizing a larger event?”

“I’m definitely interested,” Serizawa says.

He’s skittish at the idea of dealing with so many people at once, but it’s the sort of place Reigen might thrive, so Serizawa will figure it out.

“You should host it at Seasoning City University,” Ritsu says. He types the url into the address bar, making a face at the state of the keyboard. “You shouldn’t eat over your computer.”

Serizawa says nothing, because, while it’s obviously not his sin, he’s learned how to pick his battles. Instead, he pointedly watches the rental page of the website emerge.

“Events at the old auditorium are cheap right now since they’re planning to remodel,” Ritsu explains. “But you should book something soon. Voters value in-person events. They feel more connected to their representatives that way, like you’re not looking down on them from some pedestal.”

“I should call them and reserve…?”

“Sooner than later,” Ritsu says. “Reigen-san’s best trait is his ability to talk. A lot. At length. You should make use of that if you can. If” — Ritsu puts heavy emphasis on this ‘if’ — “if he does well, then it might unlock other doors like fundraising.”

They both startle out of focus when Ritsu’s phone vibrates with an incoming message and another and another and…

“This guy,” Ritsu grouches, setting it to silent mode. “He says he found your website.”

Serizawa’s brow furrows. “Who exactly…?”

“Suzuki of course. And now he won’t shut up about it.”

“Sho-kun did?”

“Great, he saw I left him on read and now he’s sending me snapchats,” Ritsu says, dismissing the app prompt. Across the room and at the kitchen setting, one of Reigen’s pudding spoons curls. “I’m not opening them in public. He’s always so loud.” His phone lights up again with a new notification. “He says he’ll design a new site for you but he’ll only do it if you get us in an R-rated movie next week.”

“Deal,” Serizawa agrees instantly, excited to be useful.

Serizawa doesn’t know much about Sho’s programming ability, but he’s seen bits and pieces of Sho’s sketchbook — mostly drawings of fire, fishing trips, and Ritsu frowning. He’s confident that Sho won’t assault site visitors with his artistic vision.

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @reigen_for_president

For you | Following

Vote Reigen Arataka @reigen_for_president • 30 secs ago
Are you ready to GO with Seasoning City’s BRO? Join us for a meet-and-greet event on Wednesday November 18th at SCU’s Asagiri Improv Theater. #Reigen4President #Reigen4RSSU #DefeatRoshuuto

RSVP via our MobBook event: https://…

✨an average guy✨ @teru_fic • 4 mins ago
Omgggg just got the best text from my friend!

└ edano @edano • 2 mins ago
@teru_fic does this mean you’re on board to help us take on miso high

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@edano No, not you. Go away

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ANIMALS ARE NOT OURS! Upset about the events at Basil Beach this weekend? Thought the kaiju was kind of cute? Sign our petition here -> https://…

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what is the point of a sick day if they still make you do the homework???

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Is your audio equipment DEEPLY HAUNTED or simply INFESTED WITH TERMITES??? It’s easy to confuse the two. Take this new quiz to find out: https://…

…

.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015 — 00:31 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 13%

Serizawa toils through the final gamut of a particularly troublesome math assignment over the dining room table while Reigen sleeps in the bedroom.

It’s quiet in the apartment, but not too quiet. There’s the hoot of an Ural owl, the rumbling train over the nearby tracks, the rustling tree branches against the window. He’s always worked best in pleasant white noise.

He twirls his mechanical pencil over his thumb, proud that he can keep it off the table without reliance on psychokinesis.

There are far too many ways to analyze a triangle, Serizawa thinks, and only a few of them are actually useful. This is far too much time to spend regarding the conjunction of three measly lines when he’s so desperate to accomplish his other work. Maybe he could skimp a bit and hope for partial credit…

He thinks about finishing this equation solve with a bunch of made-up values and a couple exasperated question marks. But he remembers a conversation he had with Reigen three years ago when he first started night school.

Shigeo had left work early, citing urgent middle school business. Serizawa couldn’t imagine — in his own short stint at middle school, the only thing he did with any urgency was leave the place. Reigen and Serizawa closed up shop and strolled to Reigen’s usual ramen stand.

It was Serizawa’s first time eating alone with his new employer, and he was so terrified of violating the unfamiliar culinary etiquette of the outside world that he could scarcely hold his chopsticks.

The server set two wide-mouthed bowls of tonkotsu ramen in front of them. Reigen slurped up a bundle of noodles while Serizawa stared down at the steaming broth — the slices of chashu, the sprinkle of julienned green onion, the wilting nori hanging over the rim. His view was interrupted with a plop, as Reigen deposited half of his marinated egg.

“If you’re going to study, you’ll need extra protein,” Reigen explained, mouth smeared shimmery with oil. “Feed your brain and all. They say it’s harder to learn new stuff after 25. Something about your brain not being plastic, I dunno.” He grinned impishly. “Since you’re already 30, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Serizawa blinked at him. “Reigen-san, you don’t have to—”

Reigen thrusted his chopsticks, pointing at Serizawa between the eyes. “If you’re going to do something, then see it through. If I don’t get a ticket to your graduation, I’ll be disappointed.”

Serizawa nodded emphatically, picking up his own chopsticks. “Then I…I won’t let you down!”

The egg was a bit cold in the middle, but he remembers it fondly all the same.

…And that’s enough procrastination.

Serizawa shakes out the remaining dregs of introspection, scratches a hand over his scalp, and glues his eyes back to a page full of formulas. He’s almost finished. If he could just zero in and power through—

There’s a quiet clicking noise.

Then silence.

Then that delicate clicking noise again.

Serizawa sighs and raises a finger.

Reigen yelps as his laptop wrenches out of his grasp, levitating across the room in Serizawa’s telekinetic hold until Serizawa drops it on the living room couch.

“I was in the middle of something important!” Reigen whines, guilty mug poking out past the bedroom door jamb.

Serizawa glances at the still-open laptop. Reigen was in the middle of something — and that something is a video compilation of dogs dressed up like salarymen.

“You’re not supposed to look at screens, Arataka,” Serizawa says. “You’re bad at following directions.”

“The Bernese mountain dog in the striped tie kinda looks like you, doesn’t he?” Reigen says.

“…Taka, I need to focus,” Serizawa says, hesitantly smoothing a hand over his textbook.

Still, he steals another glance at the screen. The fastidiously-dressed hound has deep-set eyes and a tiny set of plastic business cards that read “Paw-ffice Director, Branch Office.”

“…Maybe a little,” Serizawa admits, snapping the device shut with his powers.

.

mobbit.

r/AmITheAsshole — posted by u/number_one_psychic 2 years ago

AITA for leaving my apprentice in the haunted woods?

I (33M) run a consulting business in a major metropolitan area. I am known as the best in my business with an incomprehensibly high spiritual level (if you know, you know). I am relied upon by many of the city’s elite, including but not limited to pharmaceutical executives, oil barons, idols, and the guy who decided to make packages of hotdog sausages six-count but hot dog buns eight-count. Brilliant, wealthy people, you see. Their continued patronage is of the utmost importance to me.

I was attending a training event for my union at a haunted woods in the outskirts of my city. My apprentice (18M) accompanied me. He isn’t the brightest, but he fits in my budget and listens without interrupting me. He also brought his girlfriend (16F) who I tried to recruit.

After the training, the two ran off into a forbidden area by themselves for some reason. Another set of lesser psychics went after them. I figured they had it handled and left to make my upcoming appointments after the training, because my time is extremely valuable.

My apprentice was AWOL for hours. When he finally texted me, he said he was upset that I didn’t go after him. The lesser psychics also had to gall to chastise me for “negligence.”

I don’t think I’m at fault here. I’m not responsible for babysitting my apprentice; he’s nearly finished high school! And I didn’t tell them to go deeper into the haunted woods. They could have tried NOT falling off the cliff.

I think the answer’s obvious, but I’m still obligated to ask, AITA?

EDIT: To clarify, no kids died in the woods. The kids were injured with MILD abrasions and mosquito bites, although I don’t see how that’s relevant.

EDIT2: No, I didn’t pay my apprentice for the time he spent lost in the woods. He was supposed to be working. He can get lost in the woods on his own time.

all 1723 comments - sorted by: top

u/techn0kinesis (moderator) — pinned comment — 2 years ago

This post has been locked, because the consensus for YTA was immediate and nearly unanimous. On top of that, the story was so egregiously asshole-y that we suspect it might be fake.

u/yokai_hunter — 2 years ago

yta…….the job of one…in the spiritual business…….is to dispel the power of evil……and you failed at that…..duty……..

the great yokai king will be revived if you…continue to willingly sow………discord…….

u/strikingly_blessed — 2 years ago

YTA for writing like this!!!! It’s impossible to read!!!! Get to the point already!!!

u/gunpla_collector_1982 — 2 years ago

YTA. It’s a terrible thing to willingly let children come to harm! You don’t even seem remorseful about it. You should reflect on your actions and try to be a better mentor. A mentor figure can make all the difference in someone’s life.

I’m not sure why, but this story seems familiar.

.

Thursday, November 12, 2015 — 14:57 | Stitchcraft Seasoning City | Latest poll: 13%

“I was so excited when Kageyama-kun told me! I knew Reigen-san was running for union president, but I never thought I’d get to be involved. What an honor! Oh — yes, let’s grab that one too.”

With the help of his psychic powers, Teru effortlessly flips another bolt of fabric into the cart, which is filling up quickly. Luckily, most of his fabric comes from the sale section.

Serizawa is no fashion expert. He’s not completely clueless either. Since rejoining society, he’s procrastinated from time to time browsing western dress and fashion advice on Mobbit to make department store visits less harrowing. In hindsight, this pursuit might have been less about impressing clients and more about impressing his boss.

“I’m thinking of a cosmic theme,” Teru says, throwing a few bobbins of yellow thread into the cart. “Space is all the rage these days. I think it’ll remind us that the political process — like the universe — is bigger than any of us, you know?”

Serizawa doesn’t really know, but he proceeds on course anyway.

“What are the pom-poms for?”

“Not sure yet,” Teru admits. “But they add a certain je ne sais quoi that I simply couldn’t ignore. You want people to actually wear Reigen’s merch, don’t you? If we play our cards right on the design, the looks will survive far past the end of the campaign.”

A few aisles later, and Teru’s spinning the cart to the front checkout with a lazy wave of his pointer finger, a smug look plastered over his face.

“I think this’ll do,” Teru says. “I have a busy week ahead — a few exams, a soccer match, a bike race, and then I’m hunting down a terrori—”

Serizawa’s eyes widen and Teru coughs and quickly corrects himself.

“—tiramisu. A tiramisu. I’ve had a hankering. Then once I’ve cleaned that up, I’m teaching Kageyama-kun to play the trumpet.” Teru grins in anticipation.

“Do you know how to play the trumpet?”

“No,” Teru says. “So I have to make time to learn first.”

“I see. And this isn’t too much…?”

“My parents mailed one of those automated sewing machines for my birthday last year, so it’s hardly a burden. I can set it and forget it. Isn’t it amazing what you can accomplish even without the use of psychic powers?” He sets the contents of the cart to the counter. “I should have the campaign swag done some time next week.”

“Are you sure all of this is necessary?” Serizawa asks, hesitantly drawing his wallet from his pants pocket. He pulls his credit card from its place between his train pass and an expired coupon for Himalayan rock salt at the local grocer.

“Trust the process!” Teru says cheerfully. He grabs his own wallet. “Making things yourself is cheaper than trusting some manufacturer who’ll screw it up or water it down. More room for creativity too. And hey — can we put this on my Stitchcraft card? One more visit and I get a free pack of tailor’s chalk.”

.

Stitchcraft Seasoning City
Address: 100 Grainline Lane
Date: Nov. 12, 2015
Served By: Hanako

************************

STORE VISIT RECEIPT

************************

Purchase (20 items)
Sale Fabric………………….6 x 2000 ¥
Sale PomPoms……………..4 x 150 ¥
Sale Fabric Letters…………4 x 1000 ¥
Sale Fabric Dye…………….2 x 250 ¥
Thread……………………….4 x 300 ¥
Subtotal………………………18300 ¥
Member’s Discount Applied (5%)
Subtotal After Discount……17385 ¥
Tax……………………………869 ¥
Total………………………….18254 ¥

CREDIT SALE VISA
Approved

************************

Thank you ‘sew’ much for your business!

We aim to provide Seasoning City with the cheapest-made fabrics at below market rates! How did we do today? Take our survey at https://…

************************

.

Saturday, November 14, 2015 — 11:23 | RSSU Seasoning City Branch Headquarters | Latest poll: 14%

Serizawa loves Reigen dearly. But he doesn’t always love his judgment.

“Oh yeah,” Reigen told him that morning as Serizawa departed, “there should be a table in the back of the office closet. Mob and I used to use it to advertise all the time. Works great!”

For example, he can’t be serious about this table. It barely rises past Serizawa’s ankles. Somehow, it looks more ridiculous with the dedicated table cloth as Serizawa sets it across the street from the local union chapter. He swipes the tablecloth away with his powers, folding it neatly into his briefcase.

That…doesn’t really help.

Serizawa had intended to get some campaigning done. The union supposedly had a meeting Saturday mornings, and the branch office was on his way to his book club. Still, he feels an itch at his subconscious, like he’s forgetting something important.

He regards the diminutive table, wonders how to bend the expanse of his big-and-tall body about it while avoiding severe injury to both. He lowers himself into a squat, but his knees protest at the effort. That’s no good. He could kneel on the ground, but he hates to grind pavement dirt into the knees of his suit pants or crease his leather shoes.

This is untenable.

He sets out a stack of Reigen’s business cards and a handful of fliers on the table top and stands next to it like an awkward statue. He shields the handouts against the wind with the help of his powers.

He’s not sure how to entice any passerby into engaging with him. That is, until—

The two cops walking down the street show him some interest. One wears a hat. The other doesn’t. The one in the hat looks friendlier.

Serizawa is wary of police — the way someone who used to whack law enforcement with an umbrella for three years would be. Reigen is also wary of police, but Serizawa knows that’s more to do with Reigen’s very expired driver’s license.

“...Can I help you two?” Serizawa says.

“Do you have a permit to set up here?” the one without the hat demands.

Serizawa suddenly remembers what he forgot.

“I… Uh…”

Serizawa sweats.

“You can’t set up here without a permit.”

The one with the hat makes a tsk-ing noise.

There’s a red-hot spiky ball in Serizawa’s throat, like he’s swallowed a rambutan with the skin on. The cop with a hat takes out a pad of paper and a pen and asks Serizawa his name.

He forgets his name. He forgets where he is. He forgets that the worst thing that will happen is a contestable fine. In that moment, the adrenaline takes over, and Serizawa, in a complete state of panic, sweeps up the entire affair in a snowball of aura and flies away at least three city blocks before he gets his breathing under control again.

An effort to hide any evidence that may jeopardize the campaign, Serizawa leaves the tiny table beside a city dumpster. Reigen hasn’t used it in years anyway.

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 13:39 | Shrink Your Fears Mental Wellness Office | Latest poll: 50%

Dr. Sasaki looks a bit frazzled as Serizawa pauses for a breath.

“This,” she says, “is a long story.”

“There’s still more,” Serizawa warns sheepishly. “You’re not charging extra, are you?”

She looks at him, looks at the clock, and then looks back at him.

“I’ll reschedule my next appointment,” she says.

“You don’t have to—”

“No,” she interrupts solemnly, “I do.”

She jumps up to clack the keys of her desktop keyboard. Then she opens up a desk drawer, fishes out two bags of popcorn, and offers one to him. He accepts. She settles back to her seat.

“Now, please go on.”

.

Sunday, November 15, 2015 — 10:23 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 14%

Reigen’s stitches are nearly dissolved, only the faintest hint of an icy scar across where the edge of the lighthouse railing met his forehead. Only a speck or two of greenish yellow sit below his eyes, the last remnants of the bruising.

Reigen picks up two pink ties, holding them side by side in front of the bedroom mirror while Serizawa sits in bed reading a book. Reigen talks to Serizawa intermittently, as though Serizawa isn’t reading a book. But over time, Serizawa’s learned to work through Reigen’s endless internal monologue.

“Dunno why I have two of these,” Reigen says, scrutinizing them both to no avail. “They’re identical.”

He’s setting out his outfit for the next day. Serizawa’s never observed him doing that before. But the last two days of Reigen’s recovery, Reigen’s been pawing at his enclosure like a gerbil who finally discovered the existence of the outside world.

“One’s matte seashell,” Serizawa says without lifting his eyes from his in-progress paragraph. “The other’s rose quartz with a satin finish.”

Reigen blinks at him. “How did you—?”

“A lot happened this week,” Serizawa explains. “Also, if you look at the credit statement in the mail, uh, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it under control.”

Reigen regards the stiff bunch of Serizawa’s shoulders against the headboard. Even under his baggy sweatshirt, Reigen can tell Serizawa’s muscles have the texture of a rubber band ball with none of the elasticity.

Serizawa’s never been exactly forthcoming about what’s on his mind — and probably less so this week. He’s allowed to have privacy, Reigen figures, but he can’t help the thick spike of guilt that pierces his gut and ties Serizawa’ stress inextricably to Reigen’s sudden leave of absence.

“Hey,” Reigen says, setting down the ties. “Katsuya?”

Serizawa reaches the halfway point of his paragraph. “Hm?”

Reigen turns, approaching the bed. “Are you paying attention to me?”

Another sentence. “Mm.”

“You sure?”

“Hn.”

“Take off your shirt, big guy,” Reigen says, reaching into a nightstand at their bedside. “Let me take care of you.”

Serizawa drops the book before he can finish the last sentence, blushing at the unexpected forwardness. “What? Right now? I mean, I’d love to! But I really need a shower first. And I have all this hom—”

Reigen snorts, wrenching a bottle of massage oil from the drawer. “Cute, but not what I meant. I have clients tomorrow, remember? A week without massage therapy—”

“Exorcisms,” Serizawa corrects quietly, reflexively.

“—and I’m feeling a little rusty.” Reigen pumps the oil into his hands, scrubbing them together. “You don’t mind if I practice on you, do you? Like I said, I’ll take good care of you. I don’t know what you did, but those trapezius muscles look absolutely haunted.”

Serizawa cannot strip off his shirt fast enough.

Reigen hums as he presses the pads of his thumbs along Serizawa’s shoulder blades. Serizawa groans into the pillow as Reigen’s fingers travel along the rock-hard knots like a path of stepping stones.

Reigen really does mean to practice ahead of a full week of massage clients. At least, that’s his honest intention.

But if he mouths along the knobs of Serizawa’s spine as his hands press across the width of Serizawa’s lumbar, if he drags out all the little noises settled deep in Serizawa’s diaphragm, if Reigen unravels Serizawa completely — Serizawa will have to forgive the unprofessionalism.

.

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Herbes de Provence HOA @HDPHOA • 30 secs ago
The HDP HOA has released a formal statement, condemning the untimely destruction of Lychee Lighthouse. The irresponsible actions of vigilantes lowered precious home values, says HOA president Roshuuto Douzen. “Surely, there were other ways to deal with the kaiju.” Agree? Join the anti-esper vigilantism movement: https://

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lore lover @ohoshida • 2 mins ago
Learned today that a famous poet once bombed his poetry reading so hard at the improv theater that he died. Isn’t that wild? Anyone want to scope it out with me??? @OccultOddities #HopelessRomantic

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WSJ Leaks @wsj_weibo_123 • 3 mins ago
Exciting chapter coming this week! #WSJLeaks
[twt_img.jpg] [alt text: The page from the climax of a battle shounen manga fight Serizawa was incredibly invested in. There’s friendship, swords, and a lot of blood. It’s a huge plot twist, and also, Serizawa’s favorite character died. Again.]

└ sho @sho_not_tell • 3 mins ago
this chapter was sooooo good!!!!!! lol lol id hate if someone spoiled it for me

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 8 mins ago
Police raise concern about proliferation of unlicensed street campaigning. They are asking the community for information about a man in his 30s wielding a tiny stool who appeared to fly to the top of the RSSU building. Read more in today’s downtown police blotter: https://

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Monday, November 16, 2015 — 15:24 | Spirits & Such consulting office | Latest poll: 15%

Serizawa studies at his desk with his headphones in.

With Serizawa occupied, Tome plays chess across the coffee table with Dimple. And again with Serizawa occupied, it can only be categorized as a game of chess by the most mechanically-relaxed of taxonomists. Dimple makes two moves in one turn, and one of them involves moving a pawn backwards. Tome nods in reverence to his strategy.

Reigen snaps his phone shut as he returns to the office. “That was Hoshida,” Reigen says. “He said he’s planning to investigate that podium on Wednesday.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tome blurts. “I’m going wit—I mean, I’m not going with him. Definitely not. He didn’t tell me anything about a cursed podium.”

“I didn’t say it was cursed,” Reigen tells her, expression utterly unimpressed. “And you’re supposed to be taping the conference for social media.”

“...Right.”

He turns his gaze at Dimple. “I assume the lactic acid bacterium can make some room in his busy schedule to make sure Hoshida doesn’t electrocute himself?”

“I’m not your errand boy,” Dimple protests.

Tome crosses the board with her knight.

“King me,” she says.

Dimple reluctantly does.

“Why can’t one of you do it?” Dimple demands.

“That’s the same night as the campaign event,” Serizawa explains. Evidently, his colleagues are talented enough to overpower the noise-canceling promise of his headphones. He leaves an earbud on the table. “Reigen-san and I’ll be occupied, and Shigeo-kun has Body Improvement Club activities.”

Dimple grumbles, “Fine. But you two owe me big time. I hate babysitting. And I was looking forward to another stellar press conference from the shitty conman.”

“Oi, language around the kid,” Reigen barks.

“It’s a meeting about politics,” Tome says flippantly. “It’ll be boring, Dimple-chan. Reigen-san’s gonna wax poetic about insurance or something.”

“Exactly,” Reigen says, prancing over to his desk.

He looks down at his laptop.

“Hey,” he says. “Did someone clean my keyboard? It looks nice.”

.

mobtok

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@sho_not_tell rating things i found in my friend’s room
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(auto-generated transcript)

[A short high school boy with shockingly red hair styled in a buzzcut wears a vintage varsity letter jacket, a tie-dyed t-shirt, and a pair of faded jeans with holes in the knees. He grins at the camera.]

Sho: Yo! This is Sho. I broke into my friend’s bedroom. He’s cool with it. I’m gonna rate his stuff.

[He holds up a textbook.]

Sho: This is his homework. Boring. Trite. I’d give him a 1 out of 10, but he actually did the assignment. Loser. 0 out of 10. Next.

[He holds a handful of spoons, all bent at the handles.]

Sho: This is more interesting, but still predictable. 3 out of 10.

[He holds up a tall stack of paper money.]

Sho: He says he’s the school treasurer, but I bet it’s a front for something. This has potential. 8 out of 10.

[He holds up half a maid outfit.]

Sho: This? This is priceless. I’d rate it a—

Ritsu, off-screen: Suzuki? The hell are you doing in my room?

Sho: Oops, gotta go.

[Sho suddenly vanishes, but the phone’s still recording. Ritsu appears and glares into the viewfinder.]

Ritsu: It’s not a front for something. It’s the Juggling Club’s allocated budget. Oi—

[Behind Ritsu, the window wrenches open. The camera cuts as Ritsu appears to grab an invisible ankle.]

.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015 — 17:21 | Mirin Adult Learning Center | Latest poll: 17%

Tonight’s the night.

Not that night.

That’s tomorrow.

Tonight’s the other night.

Midterm night.

Serizawa’s vibrating in his seat, a can of Mountain Dew someone vigorously shook and left straining against its tin seams. It’s harder to control his powers when he’s this activated, and it’s even harder to remember math formulas.

Unfortunate timing. Aggravating too. He didn’t spend the whole week up at all hours only to completely blank out on everything of relevance when it actually mattered.

Reigen isn’t his mentor anymore. Not formally. But Reigen was his mentor for a long time, and when he isn’t sure what to do, Serizawa speculates about how Reigen might handle the situation, however sticky it is. How would Reigen handle working on a group project? How would Reigen handle calling the landlord about the ceiling leak? How would Reigen work up the courage to ask the dentist for more novocaine? And so on.

How would Reigen handle this?

He pictures Reigen sitting at the high school desk — the kind where the half-desk is screwed into the uncomfortable metal chair. Reigen would read over the problems. Reigen would spend a moment thinking. And Reigen would promptly pull out his phone and bring up Wolfram-Alpha to solve the test questions.

He snorts to himself. The proctor chides him for the noise.

Actually, Reigen would be sly enough to ask for a bathroom pass and then look up the answers on his phone. He isn’t a novice.

He remembers one of the formulas and scratches it into his scratch paper. That’s one down.

If speculating about his spouse’s hypothetical penchant for academic dishonesty is the thing that helps Serizawa pass his test, then so be it. He grins to himself.

He’s allowed a few secrets.

.

The Black Pepper High School Body Improvement Club
invites you to our 16th Annual Fall Charity Fun Run!

A community only thrives when everyone in the community thrives! That’s why our mission is to give back this year and improve the quality of life for the less fortunate in Seasoning City through increased access to education, healthcare, shelter, food, apparel, and – in the case of latent abilities – psychic counseling.

5K and 10K events on November 30.

All runners will receive a complimentary crystal ball reading from a member of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union before the race.

We thank our sponsors!

MobDonald’s
Snow Problems Ice Cream Emporium
Seasoning City University Asagiri Department of Kinesiology
The Asagiri Institute for Societal Improvement
The Rising Sun Spiritual Union

.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015 — 14:53 | Seasoning City University Asagiri Improv Theater | Latest poll: 19%

Despite years of practice, Reigen struggles to complete the loop of his half-Windsor knot. Serizawa steps forward and replaces Reigen’s hands with his. Reigen’s fingers are freezing. Serizawa tugs the knot taut, rearranges Reigen’s stiff collar, and smooths down his lapels.

“I had it handled,” Reigen murmurs, as Serizawa comforts his hands in a fuzzy shroud of aura. Reigen’s shaking like he’s had too much caffeine.

“I don’t mind tying it,” Serizawa says, pressing Reigen into a kiss in the safety of the backstage darkness. Reigen’s lips are cold too, but Serizawa doesn’t mind. “It’s one of my talents now, because I had a great teacher.”

Reigen sighs, basking in the warmth for a while before he pushes Serizawa away and brushes the wrinkles out of his suit jacket. “Don’t rev me up so much or I’ll be too tongue-tied to give a speech.”

Despite Serizawa’s best efforts, he’s never actually been able to distract Reigen to speechlessness for long. And he’s tried. But he says nothing, just enjoys the feeling of his lips left fuzzy from the contact.

Reigen squeezes Serizawa’s shoulder and flashes him the one-two punch of his dazzling customer service grin and a bombastic thumbs up.

He enters the fray stage-left.

“Everything will be fine,” Serizawa quietly reassures himself, waiting in the wings as Reigen emerges and waves to the modest crowd. He hears the snap of a camera shutter. He nervously twists his ring over his finger.

“I dunno about that, Katsuya-chan.”

Serizawa startles as a familiar face phases through the backstage exit door. Hoshida and Kurata file in after him.

“Wha—?” Serizawa cries, then remembers to modulate his volume. Luckily, his exclamation is muffled by murmur from the audience. “You!” He says to Hoshida. “And you! You’re supposed to be recording!” he says to Tome. “What are you three doing here?”

“Why are you here, Serizawa-san?” Hoshida replies earnestly. “This is an extremely active paranormal area.”

This, Serizawa has to admit, is sort of true. But all older buildings, particularly comedy clubs for some reason, are a bit haunted.

Hoshida points beyond the edge of the curtains. “We were here to investigate the cursed podium, remember? The one I told you and Reigen-san about. Supposedly, it possesses you when you speak into it.”

Serizawa blinks dumbfounded. Then his gaze slowly leaves his immediate companions, trails over the unfinished wood paneling, and finds center stage.

Reigen taps the dusty microphone on the podium. “Is this thing on?”

There’s a flash of light only Serizawa and Dimple can see.

“Oh,” Serizawa whispers. “Oh no.”

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 13:58 | Shrink Your Fears Mental Wellness Office | Latest poll: 50%

“—and that’s how Reigen-san got cursed by the podium,” Serizawa says.

The clipboard’s on the floor. Utterly riveted, Dr. Sasaki devours a handful of popcorn. Some of it flutters out of her fist and to the floor. There’s a bag next to Serizawa on the couch. It’s unopened, because he hasn’t had a chance to stop talking yet.

She stares Serizawa down with a brilliant intensity as he pauses to take a sip from one of the complimentary water bottles sitting beside a snow globe from Sicily. Serizawa didn’t know it snowed in Sicily, but the flakes gather over a thick slice of pizza nonetheless.

“Then what?” she frets as he recaps the bottle. “What happened next? You can’t leave me on a cliffhanger like this!”

Chapter Text

Wednesday, November 18, 2015 — 15:00 | Seasoning City University Asagiri Improv Theater | Latest poll: 19%

“Tell me everything you know,” Serizawa begs, eyes darting between Reigen under the spotlight fiddling with the microphone and Tome, whose nose is running like a broken water main.

She blows her nose into a tissue, pockets it, and then frantically catches Serizawa up to speed.

“Hoshida-senpai told me earlier,” she says, waving her arms. “A while ago, some poet guy died in the middle of his reading, and now his ghost haunts the place! Rumor is, if you speak into the podium in front of an audience, you get possessed.” She glances at Hoshida with a sniffle. “Did I get it all?”

“More or less,” Hoshida says, and it’s obvious even to someone as contextually-illiterate as Serizawa that Hoshida would have agreed with Tome regardless of the actual veracity of her statement.

Dimple barks, “And you weren’t going to mention it was the same podium?”

“There are lots of haunted podiums,” Hoshida says, pulling out a manila folder from his bag. It was labeled ‘Date Ideas’ — but that was since crossed out and replaced with ‘Work Research.’ He flips through it. “Actually, they’re mostly in the business school. At least seven on this campus alone.”

Serizawa bleats, “Seven?!”

“That we know of!” Hoshida says, snapping the folder shut. “Could be more.”

“You — Kurata-san, this is way too dangerous!” Serizawa chastises, throwing Dimple a withering glare for his failure to chaperone. Dimple shrugs, as if to say you think she listens to me? “You should have been out there recording!”

She waves her phone at him. “For the record, I am recording.”

“Well, don’t record now! Reigen might be possessed!”

She hits the stop button. “Okay, okay! Sorry.”

Serizawa wrings his hands. A psychic wind ripples through the costume rack against the wall, scraping satin and tulle against the cinder blocks. He glances again at his spouse, who’s retrieving a set of notecards from the breast pocket of his suit.

Reigen seems normal.

Spiritually, the theater is noisy with a supernatural static. And Reigen’s always had a strange patina to him — not one of his own power, but full of interference from a combination of all the espers and spirits he regularly convenes with.

Mostly, he’s painted in traces of Serizawa’s own aura, which Serizawa normally finds titillating but now regrets deeply. Tracing the energy on Reigen feels like scraping off layers of oil paint from a canvas without any turpentine — messy and fruitless.

Reigen’s acting normal too — shuffling his cards together and readjusting the microphone to his speaking level. He might be annoyed if Serizawa screws up his campaigning on an inkling. But he might be more annoyed if a ghost screws up his political ambitions overall, twisted as they may be.

And then there’s the possibility of something far worse.

“Welcome, everyone!” Reigen greets the crowd.

No, Serizawa thinks.

Serizawa’s fists clench, nails biting into the meat of his palms. He promised himself he’d be more proactive, that he’d protect the things dearest to him — and yet here he is, hesitating again.

No more waiting around.

“I-I’m getting him out of there!” Serizawa declares, his mind finally made up.

“I’m Reigen Arataka, Seasoning City’s rising psychic star, and I’m running to be your next pr—aah!”

Flexing a hand from behind the curtains, Serizawa yanks Reigen off the stage mid-sentence with a telekinetic Vaudeville hook. He figures it’s better to needlessly delay the speech in an excess of caution than to allow Reigen to risk life, limb, or favorability rating.

Unauthorized accessory to Serizawa’s improvisation, Tome bellows, “technical difficulties, please stand by!” at the top of her lungs to the murmuring crowd in the seats below the stage. She launches immediately into a coughing fit. Hoshida flits next to her nervously — not sure if he’s supposed to provide a handkerchief or the Heimlich maneuver.

“Oi, what’s the deal?” Reigen hisses, brushing the wrinkles out of his suit. “I was in the middle of something! Let me back out there.”

Dimple lifts a ghostly eyebrow. “It sure sounds like him.” He lowers his voice to Serizawa’s ear. “But it might not be. Ask him something only the real one would know.”

Serizawa chews his lip. “Arataka? I…”

“What?” Reigen says impatiently, crossing his arms over his chest. His foot taps on the ground, an impertinent metronome.

“But don’t be gross about it,” Dimple amends, wearing a queasy face — a real accomplishment for a spirit already so aggressively green.

Serizawa stares at Reigen carefully, searching for the right thread to pull. Reigen spins a finger, an impatient gesture, and doubt tugs at Serizawa. He wonders if he’s making a mistake, wonders if he’s taking things too far, wonders if he’s forgetting his place.

Forgetting, he thinks.

And an idea dawns on him.

Serizawa says, “Did you remember to wash your dishes from last night before you left for work?”

Reigen ponders for a moment, staring up at the catwalk to the light rig above them. It’s dusty, covered in the strings of a cobweb. He clicks his tongue.

“Huh,” he says. “Damn. I must’ve forgotten. Sorry, Katsuya.”

Hoshida and Tome relax at that, absolved of their remaining doubt. Tome, after all, has never once witnessed Reigen washing the tea set at the office.

“Maybe it wasn’t haunted,” Tome says, poking Hoshida’s arm. “I knew your sources were questionable. Guess we should check out the theater where they do all the TED talks next.”

But Serizawa stiffens, rigid as flash-frozen ice.

“Dimple, I’m certain he didn’t do the dishes,” Serizawa says slowly, finding his ghostly companion in the corner of his eye. “But that’s not him. Because he would never admit to it.”

The not-Reigen-entity blanches, and now that Serizawa is certain, he can pick details he missed before. It’s the way the expression doesn’t quite fit at home on Reigen’s face — uncanny, the cover of a rubber mask stretched over the skin.

“I’m on it.”

Dimple surges forward, intent on leaping into Reigen’s body, until he crashes abruptly into a brick wall of a shield and ricochets away like a basketball off the backboard. He catches himself mid-air a few meters later, wracked over with painful static.

At the same time, Serizawa clears the way. With one hand, he scoops Hoshida and Tome with his powers and all but tosses them unceremoniously out the backstage door, pulling the latch lock shut. He holds the other in a rigid palm strike in front of him to knock the spirit out of Reigen by any psychic means necessary.

Before Serizawa can lash out, the ghost pops from Reigen’s chest, an ugly swirling chaotic mass of gray smoke. It collects itself into a humanoid shape. While Serizawa and Dimple can see its ghostly form from face to torso, the rest of its body remains tethered to Reigen’s core.

It’s holding onto something. Something substantial.

Something moving.

Serizawa squints.

Pulsing.

Alive.

Trapped in the ghost’s gnarled hand is Reigen’s heart.

“Don’t fight me,” the intruder orders, “or I’ll kill him.”

Serizawa lowers his hand — but his face remains bunched up in anger. His hair floats in a halo around his head. His aura sizzles around him, jagged ends sharper than knives.

Dimple floats in front of Serizawa’s face, eclipsing the grotesque view in his opaque, viridescent smoke.

“Don’t panic, Katsuya,” Dimple orders. “Keep a clear head. You know it’s a projection.”

“I… won’t let him…”

“If you blow up, you’ll kill Reigen too.”

It aches to hear.

But Dimple’s right.

Even though Serizawa feels tense enough to snap in half completely, he manages to rein in his powers by the skin of his teeth. His curls fall back to his forehead. The angry, pent-up energy surges against the edges of his skin red hot, desperate to unleash itself on Reigen’s intruder. His throat aches like he swallowed sandpaper.

“Close enough,” Dimple says.

He turns toward Reigen, whose body is slumped over backwards, a discarded marionette, while the intruding curse keeps a guarded eye on Serizawa.

“Whatever your deal is,” Dimple tells the curse, “can it wait an hour? My guy here has an important event. They rented this auditorium for it, and trust me, they can’t afford it. Also,” he adds with a revulsed expression, “you mind putting that away? It’s gross.”

The curse obliges them as if it too agrees. Reigen’s heart floats from the curse’s grasp, phasing back into the cavity of Reigen’s chest. Serizawa’s teeth are so clenched, they feel like cracking. But he’s at least relieved by the rise and fall of Reigen’s chest with his breathing. He’s alive; he’s just asleep.

“I’ve been waiting for a crowd,” the curse hisses. “I’ve been waiting for my time.”

“Starving artists make the worst ghosts,” Dimple groans to Serizawa. “All drama and no sense of reality.”

The curse cries, “How dare yo—”

“This isn’t some open mic night,” Dimple interrupts, slapping his forehead. “You can’t just usurp the whole function and expect an applause! What do you even want a crowd for anyway?”

“Life prevented me from speaking my truth!” the curse spews with an evil grin. “Now I live to stifle others!” It rubs its wispy hands together, practically salivating over its own dastardly plot. “This body is a means to an end — my revenge on this cruel world.”

“I’m gonna tell you, bud,” Dimple says, pointing to Serizawa, who’s all but steaming from the head, “if you take any longer to get to the point, you’re gonna have a powder keg to deal with. They’ll have to scrape us all off the walls. This guy’s nuts. He almost exorcized me the other day for saying the d-word.”

“The D-word?” repeats the curse in revulsion. “Death? Or something more vulgar?”

“Divorce.”

Serizawa’s aura blazes with a fearsome intensity.

Dimple says, “See what I mean?”

“You’re hardly in a position to bargain with me!” the curse declares with gleeful malice. “He’ll have his turn with the mic. But if he tells the truth once, I’ll kill him.”

Dimple and Serizawa glance at each other.

Dimple asks, “So… Reigen will be in the pilot’s seat?”

“Yes.”

Serizawa pipes up, “And he’ll be aware of this rule?”

“Yes.”

Dimple says, “And all he has to do is lie?”

“He can only lie.”

And Serizawa says, “And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Dimple shrugs. Serizawa’s aura shifts from a tangle of razor wire to an ambient rippling pond around his limbs. He’s not relaxed, but the angry fog clears enough to think with more clarity.

The curse, still protruding out of Reigen’s chest, vacillates focus between the two of them in confusion. “You’re supposed to tremble in fear! This is supposed to be an impossible challenge!”

“Yeah,” Dimple tells Serizawa. “I think this’ll be doable.”

.

the parachute candidate

chapter five: the tall-tale heart ~sodium for the podium~

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Mobipedia - The Free Encyclopedia

This article is about MASATO (Kimura Masato), the poet known for dying under particularly odd circumstances. For the professional clown, see Masato (professional clown). For the celebrity sex therapist, see Kimura Masato, MD PhD.

[Attention: This biography needs additional citations for verification. Please help by linking reliable sources. If we get sued for libel, we’re going to have to hold another one of those fundraisers you all hate.]

Contents
Strange Circumstances of Death
Bibliography
Critical Reception
See also
References

MASATO (born: Kimura Masato; March 27, 1994 - September 13, 2013) was a Japanese artist and author of four collections of poetry. He was best known for dying under mysterious circumstances at the Seasoning City University Asagiri Improvisation Theater.[1]

Strange Circumstances of Death
On September 13, 2013, MASATO performed at the Seasoning City University Poetry PunchOut — a fierce literary competition co-sponsored by the SCU Theater and FineArts Union (STFU) and a local kickboxing club. While he was at the podium, delivering a hastily-written haiku, a player piano fell through a weak spot in the floor of the concert venue two stories above, killing him on impact. At time of death, he only completed six of the requisite 17 (seventeen) syllables.[2]

The pianola also flattened the podium, a notable antique. The podium was later restored by the campus’s Woodworking Club. [3]

Bibliography
List of self-published poetry collections: [citation needed]

• The Dark Embrace
• The Void of My Heart Beckons
• i am empty
• M.A.S.A.T.O: A Collection of Acrostic Poems

Critical Reception
According to MASATO’s department advisor, MASATO’s poems were “hackneyed,” “tolerable at best,” and “not as good as [his] brother’s.” [4]

See also

• Seasoning City University Department of Literature
• Seasoning City University Department of Occult Literature
• Seasoning City Building Approval Commission v. Asagiri (2014)
• Asagiri v. Seasoning City Building Approval Commission (2015)

References
[1], [2] ^ Mezato, Ichi (September 13, 2013). “Player piano plunges into poetry performance.” The Salt Middle School Shaker. Retrieved April 12, 2014.
[3] ^ “We restored the improv podium! (with bonus how-to termite extermination).” Mobtube. Retrieved April 14, 2014.
[4] ^ This critique was compiled from a series of email threads between MASATO and his university advisor that MASATO angrily posted to his Tmoblr account in early 2013. Retrieved April 14, 2014.

.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015 — 15:06 | Seasoning City University Asagiri Improv Theater | Latest poll: 18%

The podium on stage remains empty.

To engage the waiting crowd, the Reigen 2015 campaign press secretary sits on the edge of the proscenium stage and takes questions she’s not at all qualified to answer as an opening act. Asked in the form of a command for his assistance, Hoshida films the spectacle, balancing Tome’s phone on the back of a chair as a makeshift tripod.

“The question from the audience was ‘will Reigen-san consider female suffrage within union elections?’” Tome says into the viewfinder. “Of course he will! Reigen-san is a feminist! He’s always been forward-thinking about gender roles in our office. For example, I’m female, and I suffer just as much as any of my male colleagues.”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch:

Two high-level evil spirits — one “reformed” as self-described, the other still undeniably evil — and an overclocked psychic campaign manager continue their back and forth with the fate of Reigen’s heart in the balance. Dimple, gifted at rhetorical persuasion as he is from years of cult leadership, takes the lead.

Serizawa can be plenty convincing and inadvertently terrifying when he needs to be, but he’s distracted by his careful watch over Reigen — scanning repeatedly for any indication that his spouse might be damaged by the possession. Any sign of trouble, any broken capillary, any shifted hair on his head. The reassurance that Reigen’s fine is the last Atlaslike pebble holding back the landslide of explosive ESP within him.

“—you made a deal earlier! Reigen lies and he lives,” Dimple says, pointing an accusatory finger at the curse. “Don’t backtrack now! That’s a sign of weakness in a curse. The best evil spirits stick to their guns.”

“Isn’t it better to take in new information and adjust your views accordingly?”

“No! You should remain firmly anchored to your original purpose!” Dimple insists without an ounce of shame. “And never deviate!”

Within all of this, Reigen stirs back to consciousness. Relief courses through Serizawa when he notices Reigen’s eyelids twitch back open, his eyes shimmering with wakefulness. He stares confusedly at the catwalk above them and curls a lip in disgust at the dirty collection of cobwebs knitted between the metal battens and light fixtures. Serizawa is ecstatic to observe the more characteristic behavior.

The curse attached hasn’t noticed Reigen’s regained consciousness yet either — too distracted in its verbal sparring match with Dimple.

Reigen picks his head up against the backwards pull of gravity.

“Don’t look down,” Serizawa warns.

Immediately, Reigen looks down.

“What the fuck is this?” Reigen exclaims in horror at the spirit impaled through his torso.

He beats at it with open palms, slapping over his chest like he can press it back into himself. Like it’s a pest from a Whac-a-Mole board or maybe a hernia. He phases right through its otherworldly body. The curse regards the windmill of flapping limbs unimpressed.

“Get it out! Get it out!” Reigen splutters. “Get it—Katsuya! Melt this thing off me right now! It’s freezing! And it feels super weird!”

Serizawa’s heart breaks. He blinks firmly, an attempt at quelling the tide as his eyes well up in frustration. “I…can’t. It said it would kill you if I tried anything.”

Reigen ceases the beating, tilting his head to regard his spouse with incredulity. “Seriously? Things threaten to kill me all the time! Don’t let that stop you! Remember that email I got last week? The one—”

“Arataka, that’s different and you know it—”

“—that threatened to both curse and then doxx me for a subpar seance?”

Serizawa’s jaw clenches. “You didn’t mention that one.”

“Didn’t I? Huh. No, I could’ve sworn I brought that up. It’s a non-issue. Some people need to learn to leave a lukewarm Yelp review and move on with their day.”

Reigen’s assessment isn’t even true. Serizawa has seen Reigen bellyache over anything less than five stars. Repeatedly.

So this is definitely Reigen.

“Dimple and I are working on getting it out of you,” Serizawa tells him. “But it might take a few…extra steps.”

Reigen’s eyes widen. “The campaign event! One minute I was at the podium, and then…”

“Yeah,” Serizawa says. “But Kurata-san is handling things.”

Outside, Tome addresses her captive audience, “The question was ‘How would Reigen-san allay city noise ordinances when dealing with loud screaming exorcisms?’” she says. “And the answer? Obviously, he’d tell the spirits to be quieter. Next question!”

“Honestly,” Reigen says. “That’s how I would have answered that too.”

The curse peers at Reigen utterly stupefied, as if its exposure to the conman — regardless of its brevity — completely shattered its extremely limited worldview.

“I understand,” the curse says, nodding. “I get it now. You’re saying that there are people out there who don’t tell the truth on purpose. This man —” It gestures at Reigen’s bisected solar plexus. “— is a liar. That’s why you aren’t afraid of my challenge.”

“I’m not a liar!” Reigen lies indignantly.

“I’m inside you,” the curse replies. “I can feel all the physical changes you go through when you lie. Your pulse, your breathing, your brain waves. You won’t beat me, so I’ll make a new challenge for you.”

Reigen groans. “It’s hard enough to perform in front of all these union freaks without extra rules.”

“Performance? I see,” the curse says happily, retreating into Reigen’s chest like a turtle to its shell. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You’ll perform in the form of poetry. And if you screw any of that up, then I’ll kill you.”

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @mezato_writes

Vote Reigen Arataka is live (unfollow)

@reigen_for_president • started 8 mins ago

REIGEN 2015 CAMPAIGN EVENT LIVESTREAM!!!!!

⏯️ —————————————— 🔈

89 comments • 32 retweets • 108 likes • 512 views

(auto-generated transcript:)

[…]

[The viewfinder is trained on Reigen, who’s giving a speech at the podium and sweating profusely. He’s speaking slowly and cautiously, and his hands are working overtime to drive home his points.]

[Tome stands off to the side in the foreground, occasionally wiping her nose on the back of her hand, because she lost her handkerchief at some point when Serizawa unceremoniously bounced her and Hoshida out the backstage door.]

[Hoshida stands next to her just out of frame, although his arm can be seen holding up the recording phone in selfie-mode.]

Reigen: …The choice is simple. Don’t be under any illusion. A vote for me? That’s a vote for small business in this town. If we burden budding entrepreneurs with these laws, we’re only punching down. So what’s more important? Hopes and dreams? Or this pointless collusion?

Tome: Is he…rhyming? About the Rising Sun Spiritual Union’s oligarchic hold on local legislators?

Hoshida: I think that was an inverted quatrain?

Tome: Hah?

Hoshida: It’s kind of like a rhyming sandwich. The bread rhymes. And then the uh…inside parts also…like the tomato and the lettuce, they rhyme, and—no, you know what? Maybe that’s a bad analogy.

Tome: How do you know this?

Hoshida: I’m an occult literature student, remember? Poetry is a whole focus area. Half of class is spent reciting chants, and the other half is checking whether it summoned anything.

Tome: …You don’t think Reigen-san is…?

[They both peer at stage and then at each other. A few reactions roll in — mostly thumbs up emojis. One commenter asks for ‘more of the hot guy plz.’]

[Reigen continues lyrically in the background, though the audio is too broken to completely capture it.]

Tome: Huh. The numbers are pretty good on this stream. We can work with this.

[Reigen opens up time for questions, and a few union attendees line up at a provided stand microphone at the edge of the stage. The first questioner wears dark sunglasses, a thick coat, and most notably, a macaw on his shoulder. The macaw asks the question.]

Tome: Can the viewers hear what they’re asking him? No? Okay. The bird wants to further clarify his thoughts on business licensing restrictions.

Hoshida: Oh yeah, Roshuuto wants to petition the city to forbid anyone outside the union to operate legally.

Reigen: On that stuff, I happen to disagree. And this part of my platform is the key: That we shouldn’t crack down on a psychic in town, just ‘cause he’s not a union devotee.

[A few fire emojis and one poop emoji come into the livestream chat comments in response.]

Hoshida: That was a limerick… Kind of inappropriate for a political conference, don't you think?

Tome: That was pretty polite, in my opinion. We’re up against Roshuuto-san, remember? Reigen-san’s remaining civil! His restraint is yet another reason people should vote for him!

Hoshida: Well… Historically, that form’s supposed to be inherently offensive.

Tome: Offensive? I’m sure his platform is gonna piss off his opponent. That’s a good thing!

Hoshida: No. I mean… They’re normally about, how should I put this?

[Hoshida blushes furiously, trying to find his phrasing. Meanwhile, a ton of eggplant emojis come tumbling in through the chat.]

Hoshida: …I guess the limerick was good for engagement.

Tome: Exactly! Voters should feel like Reigen-san is really speaking from his chest.

[Another union member steps up to ask a question. He sheathes a hypnosis metronome into his pocket and mutters his question into the mic.]

Tome: They’re asking him about his thoughts on employee insurance coverage.

[Reigen nods at the incoming question, tapping his fingers pensively over the podium. The curtain on stage-right flutters unnaturally as though there’s a strong gust.]

Reigen: …Shall I compare short- and long-term coverage? You must think of the needs of psychic staff. Ask, are you a dangerous type of brokerage? An owner should act on workers’ behalf—

[Hoshida counts the stressed syllables on a hand and marvels.]

Hoshida: Whoa. I think Reigen just described human resources decision-making in iambic pentameter.

Tome: In what?

[Reigen prattles on behind them, insisting that psychic business owners compare plan outlines and pricing and engage together in negotiations.]

Hoshida: That…was a full sonnet. It’s really impressive that he managed to rhyme ‘supernatural jargoning’ and ‘our collective bargaining’ within iambs. You didn’t tell me Reigen-san was such a scholar!

Tome: Of course he’s a scholar. Reigen-san said he has a degree in liberal arts!

Hoshida: Which liberal arts?

Tome: …All of them! Probably. And that’s why he’d make such a good president.

[Their chat is blowing up now, mostly an assortment of emoji vegetables. In the comments, there are several requests for ‘getting the poetry boy more into the frame.’ (Other comments could not be included in the transcript due to the platform’s teen-rated content restriction.)]

Tome: Wow, the chat’s going off…

[Her expression twists.]

Tome: Are they really saying this about Reigen-san…? I don’t want to insult the fans, but… I think that’s questionable.

Hoshida: Yikes. You might not want to read some of these.

Tome: They’re super into him, aren’t they? Is that why we’re going so viral? It’s… It must be the parasocial relationship! It’s not exactly what I was hoping for, but… Wow, it’s actually working! I can’t believe it!

[Hoshida sneezes. The chat blows up with mask emojis.]

Hoshida: Uh, Kurata-san, I think they’re talking about—

[The stream cuts off, as Tome’s phone runs out of battery.]

[…]

.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015 — 15:56 | Seasoning City University Asagiri Improv Theater | Latest poll: 31%

With the question session finished in a few more couplets, Reigen retreats from the podium and exits stage right where Serizawa and Dimple wait. Dimple picks his nose, while Serizawa picks the skin off his thumb.

“Well, I gave that all I had,” Reigen says, enunciating carefully over each syllable. “I don’t think it went so bad. Given that I’m still alive, odds are decent I survive.”

The curse scoffs from his chest cavity. “Your verse isn’t particularly inspired.”

“Too bad,” Reigen replies sardonically, “You get what you hired.”

“I’m so thankful you’re okay,” Serizawa breathes, hugging Reigen tight against his chest once Reigen crosses past the shadowy threshold of the hanging curtain. Reigen — uncomfortable with public displays of affection as he is — still allows it, flushing and patting Serizawa over the back.

“Wasn’t so bad, I’d say,” Reigen says, muffled in the crush.

“I’m so glad, Arataka,” Serizawa babbles, so relieved he’s nearly giddy. “The way you handled that — You’re amazing. I’m so sorry. I didn’t stop it, and... I never should have let it get this bad. I’m terrible, aren’t I? A terrible husband.”

Reigen’s hand stills over Serizawa’s back.

Serizawa pulls back.

Reigen wears an expression of abject terror — a flopping fish taking his turn on the chopping block.

“Oh,” Dimple says. “Shit.”

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 14:15 | Shrink Your Fears Mental Wellness Office | Latest poll: 50%

“Nothing rhymes with ‘husband!’” Serizawa informs Dr. Sasaki with a deeply pained expression. “Nothing at all! Did you know that? I didn’t know that. It’s such a common word! ‘Husband’! I thought it would be benign.”

“Serizawa-san…” Dr. Sasaki says gently.

“Plenty of things rhyme with ‘spouse.’ He could have made something work with ‘partner.’ Or even ‘consort.’ But I had to say ‘husband’ — what was I thinking?” Serizawa rests his forehead in his hands in total exasperation. “I could have killed him. It would have been my fault entirely. I…thought I could do better this time around. I thought I could protect the things I love, but…”

“Serizawa-san,” she says more firmly. “It’s snowing.”

“Snowing?” he asks, lifting his head.

All around the room, Serizawa’s powers have vibrated through the entire snow globe collection, causing white-out blizzard conditions in every individual submerged diorama — from Angola to Zimbabwe and every real-life and fictional setting in between. The slab of Sicilian pizza in the globe closest to him is buried under off-white flakes.

“Ah,” he vocalizes in understanding. “It’s not snow. It’s Parmesan cheese. That makes more sense.”

“It’s Parmigiano Reggiano actually,” Dr. Sasaki says. “Not that it matters. And do you mind…?”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, reeling his aura back. The furious snowstorms across the room quell into peaceful flurries. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Dr. Sasaki says, offering a small smile. “And I don’t mind. You’re supposed to give them a good shake every so often or the snow inside clumps up, so you’re doing me a favor.”

“Sort of like these powers,” Serizawa says, flexing a hand. “They’re tied to my emotions. For a long time, I thought the best way to control them was to feel nothing. If I kept everything locked up, then all the danger would go away.” He clenches his hand into a fist. “It took me time to learn that I had to use them to understand them. My control is usually perfect. But when it comes to Arataka, I…”

“It’s natural to feel upset when someone you love is threatened,” Dr. Sasaki says. “You’ve gone through a lot of stress this month. It’s okay to feel things, and it’s okay to make mistakes. You haven’t hurt anyone with your powers, have you?”

“No,” Serizawa says, still eyeing his fingers.

Despite everything he’s done with them, despite how dirty he’s gotten them, he doesn’t bear a single record of a scratch or a scar. Another esper thing, he supposes. Healing fast, like nothing ever happened at all.

“No. I haven’t,” he says. “That’s not the man I am anymore. Powers are my responsibility, even if they weren’t my choice. It’s my job to use them the right way. But someday, I might take it too far and —”

“It’s fine, isn’t it? You and Reigen-san got hurt because of the actions of other people. Or…entities,” she says.

She’s still getting the hang of normalizing the paranormal within the office. When he was still in his room, this was the sort of thing that made him paranoid — all those counselors his mother brought in pointing out all the ways in which he coped made him different and weird.

Now, Serizawa appreciates her effort to reach out to him, even if it’s something she’ll never truly understand. She’s building a bridge from her side.

“It’s just part of who you are,” she says. “You’re learning along the way.”

“I suppose, but…”

“Serizawa-san, your partner was fine, wasn’t he? You wouldn’t have come to therapy this week if he wasn’t,” says Dr. Sasaki, picking her clipboard back off the floor from beside three discarded popcorn bags. She clicks her pen. “Your anguish… I’m not sure if it's about the possession. I’m not sure if it's about the kaiju either. I think it’s about Reigen-san.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me ask you a question. When you consider who you are, Serizawa-san — are you Reigen-san’s protector? Or are you his partner?”

Serizawa blinks. His hand drops to his lap.

“I don’t understand.”

“Which part?”

“I’m…” he starts to say. His eyebrows scrunch together. “Am I not supposed to protect my partner?”

“Let’s keep that thought around for later,” Dr. Sasaki implores. “In the meantime, why don’t you finish the story from where you left off?”

.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015 — 15:59 | Seasoning City University Asagiri Improv Theater | Latest poll: 31%

Reigen opens his mouth – an attempt to pull some sort of rhyme out of his ass — but Dimple rushes in front of him to intervene, poking a finger at the curse in his chest.

“He doesn’t have an audience anymore,” Dimple asserts, depressing a ghostly phalange into Reigen’s pectoral like it’ll activate the spectral Jack-in-the-Box lying in wait within him. “You should be satisfied.”

The curse slaps Dimple’s hand out of the way, emerging from Reigen to regard them all. At the sight, Reigen gives an involuntary shudder.

“I had audiences smaller than this,” the curse says with a hungry expression. “I would still consider them audiences.”

Reigen’s face reddens like the mercury bulb of a thermometer. Like there’s something he needs to get off his chest.

Dimple says, “You need higher standards!” while Serizawa’s mouth tosses over the word ‘husband’ in desperate pursuit of any literary escape hatch. To his horror, he finds only assonance. That’s no good. The curse, gleeful at the prospect of violence, is unlikely to accept a near rhyme. Unless they can conjure the impossible, Reigen is headed toward an untimely—

“Footnote!” Reigen belts out. “You never said I couldn’t call footnote! The footnotes in poetry don’t have to rhyme!”

The curse, furious as it is, seems equally dedicated to the sanctity of academic annotation.

And Reigen can use that.

“Listen for a sec,” Reigen says. “I don’t think you want to do this. We can give you something else you want. You liked performing didn’t you? My heart was racing, but I don’t think that was just me.”

Serizawa recalls what Tome and Hoshida told him earlier — the story of a life cut short by factors outside human control.

“A real audience,” Serizawa suggests breathlessly.

“A real audience,” the curse repeats doubtfully. “Like you would know anything.”

“You want someone who will listen to you, don’t you? Without interruptions this time,” Serizawa says. “We’ll listen to you. And…if we gave you our audience and they listened to you, would that be enough?”

The edges of the curse soften into smoke at Reigen’s ribs as it appears to mull this over.

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 18, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #87

In contest ‘verse’s Roshuuto, Reigen spotlights obscure poet
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

AGAIN, YOU’VE REACHED YOUR MAXIMUM OF FREE ARTICLES. CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE TO THE YODELER — SEASONING CITY’S “PREMIER” NEWSPAPER.

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THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 18, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #87

In contest ‘verse’s Roshuuto, Reigen spotlights obscure poet
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

HEY YOU! YOU’RE NOT THAT SLY. WE USE IP ADDRESS TRACKING, NOT JUST COOKIES, TO KNOW YOU’RE TRYING TO GET AROUND OUR PAYWALL. WHY NOT JUST PAY US IF YOU WANNA SEE OUR STUFF SO BAD? HUH? WHY NOT?

[…]

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[…]

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 18, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #87

In contest ‘verse’s Roshuuto, Reigen spotlights obscure poet
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

Seasoning City resident and business owner Reigen Arataka, 31, held the first official event of his campaign this afternoon at the Asagiri Improvisation Theater on Seasoning City University’s main urban campus. The event, targeted at rallying his political base, featured both prose and poetry.

After a shaky start, Reigen laid out his plans for the Rising Sun Spiritual Union presidency, including his opposition to many of the key facets of his opponent’s platform. His talking points were echoed by his press secretary, Kurata Tome, 18.

“Reigen-san is fighting for a new kind of union!” said Kurata. “The kind of union where instead of banding together, they all get to do their own thing. He’s a pioneer in this political space. He’s someone everyone should be watching.”

While Reigen didn’t call out Roshuuto Dozen, 35, directly by name, his tone was often fairly accusatory as he described his disdain for many of Roshuuto’s signature policies.

“You can’t pay nothing to your office staff,” said Reigen. “That’s what others in this gig are doing. For overtime, it’s at least time-and-a-half. And they should have vacation hours accruing.”

The event was attended by an audience of union members in good standing, union members in probationary standing, and a handful of confused but thoroughly-engaged performing arts students. Live streams of the event trended across social media, although some parental watch groups expressed concern with some of the comment section’s community behavior.

Reigen closed the event by offering a poetry reading from a relatively obscure source. The Yodelers Lexical Forensics team was able to identify the poetry’s author as MASATO or Kimura Masato, a former student of Seasoning City University. MASATO had performed on and off during his time as a student until he tragically passed away during a freak accident in 2013.

Watchers described the performance as “unexpectedly edgy,” “a strange choice for a political event,” but “wholesome” nonetheless.

“I recognized MASATO’s work instantly when I heard it,” said Dr. Miura Isao, a visiting professor of creative writing at Seasoning City University, who accidentally attended the event on the way to his tenure track review board. “I’d first heard it years ago. But this time around, I think something changed. Maybe I changed. I enjoyed the reading. It felt as though it was truly spoken from the heart.”

As of writing, while Reigen jumped in the polls, Roshuuto remained ahead with a small lead.

Corrections: November 17, 2015
Our headline “Yuzu Pepper High School biology department frog croaks” was insensitive to the tight-knit amphibious community. We have since rewritten the headline to instead celebrate life: “Leap of glory: The ribbeting tale of Yuzu Pepper’s beloved class pet”

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 00:12 | 123 Anise Lane Apt. 2B | Latest poll: 33%

He holds it together through the recitation, through the subsequent hand shakes and bows, through his night school classes, and through the commute back home.

He stays together as he leaves his shoes by the door, sheds his suit and tie, and takes the bath Reigen left drawn for him.

He remains even-keeled as he yanks on his pajamas and gargles mouthwash while Reigen flosses next to him.

He thinks he’s made it, that he’ll be fine as he climbs into his side of the bed and his weary head hits his pillowcase.

It’s not until he sets down his phone on the nightstand and Reigen turns off the lamp that Serizawa falls apart.

It starts silently.

He can feel the warmth of Reigen’s body shift beside him even in the dark. He’s alive. Relief shouldn’t hurt, but there are tears pooling in Serizawa’s eyes, spilling over like an overfull well. He’s okay. It aches that he’s okay.

The tears soak into the pillow. It’s cold against his neck. His sinuses burn like he’s snorted pool water. He plays the events over the past week in his head — everything he did, everything he failed to do, and every time he stopped and thought, it should have been Reigen doing this.

The ceiling blurs away. His thoughts veer into spiral beyond him.

The whole week went by bookended by two near-death experiences, neither his own.

Reigen’s nonchalance about it all.

The way his powers spun out of control — as enormous as the beach tornado, as small as the spinning pencil over his desk.

Maybe he hasn’t learned how to fit in with society. Maybe he’ll never turn off the worst impulses in his brain. Maybe he’ll always be someone who has to think as hard as he can so he doesn’t hurt people. Maybe he hasn’t changed at all.

When he looks at the amazing people around him, when those same people treat him as though he knows what he’s doing, as though he can handle the world around him, as though they can trust him to get it right. People depend on him. People believe in him.

Reigen believes in him.

And he’s not enough.

His throat tightens.

He’s drowning.

He’s choking.

Reigen’s arms wrap around him.

“Katsuya,” he whispers, pulling Serizawa’s face to his bare chest like he could press him back down to earth. Reigen’s grip is firm and insistent, and for once, Reigen’s fingers are actually warm. “Hey… Don’t do this…”

Serizawa opens his mouth.

“Shhh…” Reigen says.

He’s going to let out the torrent of incomprehensible emotions caught inside the blender of his chest. It’ll be utterly incoherent, finding the words to describe a twisted scribbled mess — a jumble of scrapyard debris. Hopefully Reigen will understand to pick out the heftiest shards, the “I’m sorry” and the “please stay with me” and the “I love you.” And maybe that would be enough to piece Serizawa back together again.

He pulls away, opens his mouth to surrender to the incoming deluge —

— and all that comes out is one pathetic hiccup.

Reigen and Serizawa stare at each other for a moment.

Silence

Then, a passing train whistles in the distance outside their window.

And Serizawa hiccups again.

Even in the dark, even with the fog in his eyes, Serizawa finds the undulating line of Reigen’s mouth.

He’s trying his best to keep it at bay but…

Serizawa’s mouth breaks into a sniveling smile as Reigen descends against his best efforts into stifled laughter.

“I’m not…” Reigen murmurs breathlessly between chuckles, “laughing at you… It’s just… Your hiccups… Are weirdly cute.”

Serizawa struggles through the simultaneity of an earth-shattering sob, a crack of a laugh, and another painful hiccup.

“Arataka, I feel like I’m going insane,” he says, shaking.

Reigen reels him back in, smothering Serizawa’s shuddering into his core, like he could smooth out all the stubborn wrinkles under his palms.

“I read once,” Reigen tells him, lips at his ear, “that there was a guy who had the hiccups for 70 years straight. He got them one day and they didn't go away. 70 years of —”

Serizawa interrupts with another hiccup and says, “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, so he had the hiccups his whole life, but he still lived like he always did. Didn't change anything. And the guy had, like, ten kids.”

“…Ten kids?”

“Or something like that. Some ridiculous number of kids. That guy had plenty of game despite it all. It didn't stop him! Can you imagine?”

He doesn’t have to imagine, because Reigen makes a wildly suggestive noise, and Serizawa can't stifle his punctuating hiccup.

“I’d want you, hiccups and all,” Reigen clarifies quickly. “So I guess it makes sense to me. I'd want you no matter what happens.”

Serizawa snorts a messy laugh into Reigen’s skin and then realizes his mistake.

“Oh god. I’m sorry. That’s gross…”

“Who cares?” Reigen says easily as Serizawa, still hiccuping, wipes Reigen down with the damp collar of his sweatshirt. “I’d rather this on me than have that spirit again.”

Serizawa swallows thickly. “About today. I—”

“Nah, we’re not gonna talk about today,” Reigen says, flicking his shoulder. He turns and pulls at the hem of Serizawa’s sweatshirt. “We’re going to get some sleep. So take this off. You don’t want to sleep in this thing. It’s all wet and snotty.”

Serizawa relents. Reigen drags it up off his arms and over his head. Serizawa shivers when the cold air in the dark bedroom hits his skin until Reigen shephards him back into an embrace under the thick winter quilt.

“I want to talk about something else actually,” Reigen says. “Remember when you told me you never went to the beach?”

Serizawa sniffs. “I remember you were appalled.”

“You made a list on your phone,” Reigen says. “You typed out all the things you wanted to do with your life. What else was there?”

“…I’m not sure I remember all of it.”

“Try.”

.

Monday, June 16, 2014 — 10:03 | Spirits & Such consulting office

“Really? Never?” Reigen said with his jaw dropped.

“Never,” Serizawa confirmed from his tiny desk in the corner. “I’ve never been on an airplane. It’s not that weird, is it? I read in the newspaper that lots of people haven’t been on a plane before.”

“Not even…?”

“When I did go places, I was teleported,” Serizawa answered, figuring Reigen was broaching the topic of his former occupation. “I understand they check for liquids and batteries in the security line, but they should really check for espers. It’s a lot harder to ride a plane when you might destroy it with your mind. Kind of a hazard, I suppose.”

Reigen coughed awkwardly into his hand. “…Yes, well, I understand.”

“Arataka,” Serizawa said with a coy smile. “I’m joking.”

“Right. I knew that.”

Serizawa closed his textbook, sensing the abrupt end of his deep academic focus by way of managerial interference. Especially since he could still feel Reigen’s curious gaze affixed to his forehead.

“What’s it like?” Serizawa wondered.

“Hm?”

“Riding a plane?”

“I’ve only been on a few. Okinawa for a class trip. I flew to Hokkaido in college. And when I was a kid, my parents took my sister and me to Paris.” Reigen shrugged. “It was okay. The Eiffel Tower is smaller than the Culture Tower here, so it was underwhelming. And you know what’s wild? They put trash cans everywhere in Europe, but there’s still litter.”

“And the plane?”

“Loud. Imagine a train but with more mildew.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I think you need higher standards,” Reigen laughed.

Serizawa wasn’t so sure. In the ads on TV, plane travel looked like an enormous luxury. The leather reclining seats, the complimentary cocktails, the in-flight television channels with on-demand movies. Long-distance travel interested him greatly. He could fly without the engineering, sure, but there was something romantic about the view of the stratosphere from a porthole window. It’s why he loved trains so much — the feeling of being enclosed and between.

“So you’ve never been to the beach, you’ve never been on a plane, you’ve never graduated from high school,” Reigen said, counting on his fingers as Serizawa nodded. “Sounds like you have a whole list of things you’d like to do. Like… A bucket list.”

“A bucket list?”

“All the things you wanna do before you die. Or in your case, all the things you wanna do now that you’re living,” Reigen said. He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Oi, toss me your phone. I’ll take notes. Tell me, Katsuya — what are all the things you never got to do? We’ll mark ‘em down and then you’ll do them all.”

After a moment of hesitation, Serizawa tossed Reigen the phone. To his credit, Reigen only fumbled the device once before stabilizing it into his grasp and opening the note-taking app.

“Alright, fire away!”

Serizawa stared at his hands. “I’m not sure—”

“I said, fire away!” Reigen said. “We’re at work. Consider this a work assignment. To clarify: I’m absolutely abusing my authority here. Now fire away or you’re fired.”

“Um,” Serizawa said. “I’d like to get conveyor-belt sushi.”

“Overrated!” Reigen replied instantly and then froze at Serizawa’s dampened expression. “Or maybe not! I know a place, and you can be the judge. …Sorry, I won’t—well, let’s just keep going.”

“How about…climbing a mountain?”

“Added. Next?”

“Going snorkeling.”

“Yep. Faster. I can keep up.”

“Watching a baseball game. Riding a ferris wheel. Seeing a play. Visiting a grocery store on its first day opening.”

Reigen peeked up from the phone screen as he typed. “Really? A grocery store?”

“My mom said they have good coupons,” Serizawa shrugged. “I thought you weren’t giving commentary.”

“Hm. A good deal’s a good deal,” Reigen relented. “Anything else?”

A beat passed as Serizawa shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Earnest as he was, Reigen could read him like a book.

“C’mon, you don’t have to be so bashful,” Reigen grinned. “Is it something you can’t say at work?”

A flush bloomed over Serizawa’s face. “I, uh…”

“Somewhere you want to go? Or maybe… Something you want to try with me? Maybe on me?” Reigen grinned, raising a suggestive eyebrow. “You don’t have to be shy, Katsuya. I won’t judge you! The worst I’ll say is no, and knowing me, I probably won’t say no.”

“I…” Serizawa stammered. “I think someday… I’d like to…get married.”

The phone slipped from Reigen’s sweaty grasp, clattering over the desk.

“Huh?”

“I’d like to get married. Eventually.”

“Married,” Reigen repeated. “Like, legally?”

“Is there…another way?”

“I dunno! …Married, geez. Married to, uh, whom?”

Serizawa stared at him.

Reigen threw up his hands. “I had to ask!”

“…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Serizawa said. An understatement. Reigen was shiny and practically purple, like a radish. Serizawa would spare him. For now. “I think I’d also like to see an idol show at some point.”

Reigen didn’t respond, tapping something into Serizawa’s phone. Serizawa dearly hoped he wasn’t going through the browser history. He could explain, but he sure didn’t want to.

“It’s…surprisingly cheap,” Reigen said after a moment.

“An idol show?”

“Getting married.”

“Oh,” Serizawa said. “…Wait. Does that mean—”

“It doesn’t mean anything!” Reigen blathered quickly, clapping his hands together.

He rose to his feet and tossed the phone back to Serizawa. Even without warning, Reigen knew Serizawa would catch it in his ever-present aura.

“Today, we’re going to the beach,” Reigen jabbered on, refusing to look Serizawa in the eye. "I have a lot of stuff in the closet costume box. What size swim trunks do you think you wear?”

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 00:23 | 123 Anise Lane Apt. 2B | Latest poll: 33%

Reigen’s fingers scratch an itch above Serizawa’s ear. Moments like this make Serizawa think Reigen has some supernatural ability to hone in on all his sensitivity. Or he might just be able to see the stubborn dry spots on Serizawa’s scalp, the curse of his coarse and curly hair.

Either way.

“I don’t remember all of it,” he says. “But…”

“You went to a theater. You saw a show. It was a play, wasn’t it? There was a stage, lines were delivered, and there was a handsome male lead for you to swoon over,” Reigen says, but he breaks into a goofy grin before he can finish delivering the lines. “It was a farce at least. I don’t see the difference.”

“Just okay,” Serizawa says.

“What was?”

“The male lead,” Serizawa clarifies. “He was just okay. He wasn’t the sexiest psychic alive though.”

Reigen sputters, “Excuse me?”

Serizawa laughs into Reigen’s chest with his ear pressed against Reigen’s heartbeat. Still gasping, he wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, brushes the dampness left behind over Reigen’s bare skin.

“I’ll get you a glass of water” Reigen offers, scratching over his shoulders.

Serizawa settles back down, finally letting his muscles relax for the first time in hours. He’s exhausted, the covers are heavy and soft, and Reigen’s warm. Reigen’s lips are in his hair, fingers stroking over his back under the cover of their quilt.

Serizawa lets his heavy eyelids drop.

“No,” he murmurs, feeling himself fall.

He hadn’t noticed that the hiccups subsided a while ago.

.

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TRIVIA NIGHT FUNRAISER TOMORROW 11/20!
[twt_img.jpg][alt text: A man in a long, curly Isaac Newton wig poses under a clip art tree. In one hand, he holds a half-eaten apple; in the other, he grasps a microphone. He sneers at the camera. Underneath his visage is some text: TRIVIA NIGHT! Pay to play! Categories include: Spiritual Level Analysis, Celebrity News, and The Life and Times of Roshuuto Dozen. Open bar. Proceeds support Roshuuto 4 RSSU.]

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@roshuuto_official Correction: FUNDRAISER*

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@roshuuto_official To clarify, the point is you give me money. You might have fun, but that’s not specifically part of the transaction.

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Chapter Text

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 07:03 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 42%

Even with only a few hours of sleep, Serizawa wakes feeling lighter than he has in days. It’s as though an enormous weight’s been lifted from his chest — though this might simply be Reigen squirming off of him.

After he leaves the crease of covers, Reigen shrugs on the orange hanten draped over the dresser and ambles over to the kitchenette. Serizawa rolls over, curling into the warm indent left behind in the sheets. He’s pleased to be roused gently by sunlight and motion and not the abrupt intrusion of Vocaloid music from his phone alarm. They say you should never set music you like as your alarm tone — in hindsight, Serizawa wishes he’d heeded the warning.

It’s an hour later than their usual routine, which means Reigen let them sleep in. Reigen specifically — Serizawa could sleep through an airplane crash-landing on the roof if he was tired enough. And after the events of the past week, Serizawa feels as though he was run through a heavy-duty clothes wringer.

He picks up his phone from the nightstand, scrolling through the notifications — calendar reminders, social media updates, gacha game temptations, and group chat messages from Kurata Tome.

“I’m making eggs and rice,” Reigen calls from the kitchen.

The pans clack around in the kitchen. Serizawa wipes sleep from his sore, puffy eyes before he taps in for the updates.

“Due to, uh, unforeseen circumstances,” Reigen amends, “I’m now making fried eggs and toast.”

Serizawa chuckles under the sheets. The last thing either of them had wanted to do was clean the rice cooker pot or any of the rest of the dishes in the sink. Reigen had been exhausted from the possession and the impromptu poetry; Serizawa, from the associated panic and his commitment to perfect attendance. Reigen’s minor chores oversight saved his ass too — and with that considered, it’s hard for Serizawa to be annoyed about a few crusty plates.

Serizawa can hear the thrum of the electric kettle as it warms on the counter, the click of the induction cooktop raising to temperature, the open-and-shut of the kitchen pantry door, and Reigen’s quick-slippered feet over the kitchen tile. Then there's the nutty, roasted smell of coffee grounds spooned into a paper filter and thick slices of bread toasting on a pan.

“Oh! Kurata-san said we got thirty donations last night,” Serizawa reads from his messages. “That’s much better than we anticipated.”

“Guess the talent was that good,” Reigen brags, as he flips the bread onto a waiting plate. It’s melamine and Kuma-bear themed. Reigen won it after far too many attempts at a UFO catcher. On plates or pajamas, Serizawa doesn’t care for the character’s unblinking, lifeless stare. He told Reigen that, and Reigen couldn’t help a laugh. At least Serizawa’s figurines posed on the living room shelf have delightful, detailed expressions.

“She said she’d email the receipts over later. Kageyama-kun was right that the auditorium would pay for itself. I’m glad I listened to him.” He closes his phone screen, setting it back to the nightstand. “There’s a lot happening today. Hanazawa-kun said he’d bring over his swag designs, and Sho-kun’s nearly done with the website.”

“And school?”

“Another midterm session tonight, so I’ll need to study between clients. And there’s the Galaga tournament,” Serizawa says with a yawn, and adds cheekily, “I won’t need to study for that.”

He wills himself out of the warm nest and into the cold morning air, stuffing his feet into his house crocs and traipsing into the kitchen.

“How many?” Reigen asks.

“Two please.”

Oil shimmers in the pan, coffee drips into a ceramic mug, and Reigen hums to himself. Standing over the cooktop, Reigen’s dressed in nothing more than boxers, the too-big hanten falling off his shoulders, and over it all, an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ in bold typeface. It’s tied in a bow around his waist. He’s a man who’s singed his own wispy chest hair enough to learn not to cook shirtless.

But why the apron? one might suggest. Just put on clothes. Make him wear a shirt.

And to that argument, Serizawa would respond emphatically: No.

Reigen cracks two eggs one-handed into the sizzling pan one-by-one, tossing the shells into a bowl on the counter. He’s talented with his hands and eager to demonstrate to his audience. And said audience drapes his arms over Reigen’s shoulders from behind, pressing a kiss into Reigen’s sandy hair. As Reigen presides over the emerging Maillard reaction, armed and dangerous with a plastic spatula, Serizawa’s hands wander, fingers mapping out the bare skin under the apron.

“If you distract me like this,” Reigen rebuffs with a fond sigh, “you’ll find your eggs harder than you’d like.”

Serizawa retreats to the dining table.

A perfect yolk is nothing to be trifled with.

Despite his penchant for fast food and his near-encyclopedic knowledge of Smile Mart’s to-go inventory, Reigen’s a talented chef. He’s never made a meal Serizawa wouldn’t happily scarf down. Neither of them is a picky eater. Reigen’s only held back by his own inconsistent attention span and his distaste for cleanup.

In this case, Reigen fries eggs in oil hot enough that the edges of the eggs turn brown and lacy. He bastes the whites in oil with a spoon until they’re just set. It’s a perfect accompaniment to thick pan-fried toast — added crunch to each bite without sacrificing a delightfully-runny yolk. He said he figured it out himself, but Serizawa watched him browse plenty of cooking videos on Mobtube.

As Serizawa waits for company, he admires the view of Reigen in the kitchen — bare legs and bedhead and swamped in Serizawa’s clothes. On the other side of an utterly harrowing couple of weeks, Serizawa seizes this moment. Snaps the candid shot into his memory. He’d spill it if you asked him — tell you that he’s the luckiest man alive, sharing a home (albeit rented, not owned) with someone he loves so desperately.

There are pieces of them everywhere.

They’re observable even as Serizawa’s viewfinder centers unshakably over Reigen — a fancy butcher’s block they picked up from the consignment shop; a cup for loose pens Serizawa fashioned from Reigen’s childhood Lego blocks; Stephanotis flowers Reigen clipped for their wedding and pressed under the weight of a month’s worth of Weekly Shonen Jump copies; and a framed photo from a Seasoning City Spirit game when the two found their own startled faces captured on the KissCam during the seventh-inning stretch.

Reigen joins him at the table with both plates and two mugs of coffee. They’re expertly balanced over his arms. Not a morsel spilled. No utensils or napkins though — and Serizawa finds that ambitious, because Reigen somehow already has a smear of soy sauce beside his lip. Serizawa would reach out and kiss it away if Reigen wasn’t already occupied, blabbering a quick appreciation for the meal over the press of his hands and then leaping facefirst into his breakfast.

Serizawa’s about to tear into his own meal when they’re interrupted by the buzz of Reigen’s phone in the hanten pocket. After wiping his greasy hands on the apron front, Reigen checks the caller ID and groans.

“Kind of early, isn’t it?” Serizawa says.

“It might be a client. I should probably take this.”

Reigen wanders to the balcony but leaves the sliding door cracked open. The conversation is audible but muddied.

Serizawa dips the corner of toast through his delectable golden egg yolk and flips open his school planner as he chews.

He’s pleased to observe just how many items from his agenda he was able to complete. Appointments checked off. Midterms mostly finished. Other school obligations taken care of. With that satisfaction — even though the day's jam-packed — he’s optimistic.

Oh, he thinks. That egg is really good.

Even polling numbers are better than expected after footage of the event performed well on social media. And with marketing and a published campaign platform, they’d be well-positioned for the last ten days before the arrival of Election Day.

Outside, Reigen’s volume escalates.

While the conversation remains mostly obscured, Serizawa can make out one key word:

“…Overdraft?!”

And Serizawa tightens his grip on that optimism the way a field meteorologist might cling to their inverted umbrella through a vicious summer typhoon.

Reigen snaps the phone shut and swipes the door open. He returns sweatier than strictly necessary for a morning phone call. There’s a forced smile stretched over his face like a crack through a front windshield.

“What’s wrong?” Serizawa asks, midway through a sip of coffee.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Reigen says, frantically shuffling to the coffee table for his laptop. “Tome-chan said we received 30 donations, yeah?”

“Yes. …Why do you ask?”

“Hm? No reason in particular.”

Serizawa returns to his meal, absolutely white-knuckled over that earlier optimism.

Reigen flings open the computer, takes an aggressive bite of toast, swallows prematurely, coughs once, beats his chest, and after the whole performance, finally wheezes out, “New pop quiz for you, Katsuya.”

Serizawa pauses his eating, fully-dressed toast in hand. “…Okay?”

“What’s 30 times 100 yen?”

“That’s easy,” Serizawa says, happy to work through a math problem bereft of Greek letters. “Three thou—”

He halts. The grim realization sets in. His half-eaten egg drips onto his plate.

“…’Taka, please tell me you’re joking.”

Reigen flips the computer shut and flops face first onto the couch.

“Remember how you said you wanted to go mountain climbing?” Reigen says into the upholstery. “I found a mountain.”

.

the parachute candidate

chapter six: a trivial pursuit ~(fund)raising hell~

.

Herbes de Provence Heights HOA Official Minutes — Nov. 18, 2015

I. Call to Order
Roshuuto Dozen called the meeting to order at 21:03 after a guest member extinguished the incessant alarm of their 2014 Subaru Impreza parked next to the window.

II. Roll Call
Board Members Present: President (HOA) Roshuuto Dozen; Mitsuura Kenji; Asagiri Masashi; Prime Minister (Japan) Yabe Hiroshi; Sazama Tomiko

Board Members Excused: Jodo Kirin, Takane Shuji

Additional Guests Present: 23

III. Approval of Minutes from the Previous Meeting
Following review of the previous meeting’s minutes, Roshuuto voted to approve the minutes from October 21. Asagiri protested but realized he was thinking of the minutes from an HOA of one of his other fifteen properties and retracted the protest.

Sazama seconded the motion for approval. The meeting minutes from October 21 were approved.

IV. Old Business
Sazama gave an update on last meeting’s motion to repaint the welcome sign outside the gated, guarded, and barbed-wired entryway from emerald green to azure blue. Sazama said a calming color will make the neighborhood feel much more inviting and noted that bids from a handful of contractors should be in by the end of the month.

V. New Business
Roshuuto launched a discussion on home devaluation due to the recent collapse of the historic Lychee Lighthouse. He relayed concerns that tourists are now avoiding Basil Beach because of the negative press.

Mitsuura pointed out that tourists are avoiding Basil Beach because it’s November.

Flipping the calendar over, Roshuuto said that the destruction of the lighthouse speaks to a wider societal issue — psychic vigilantism. Yabe agreed, saying that the few espers he’d met seemed too comfortable with vandalism and kidnapping. He added that they also lacked respect for women’s progress conferences.

Mitsuura again objected, saying that espers are a wonderful part of society and should be treated like any other citizen. He expressed gratitude to the members of the Spirits & Such consulting office for protecting his assets from annihilation. Roshuuto countered, saying that any psychics worth their salt would have known to contain the kaiju’s giant thrashing tail.

Mitsuura said that this motion seemed hypocritical, given the number of self-identified psychics within the committee. Asagiri hesitantly agreed that psychics like Psycho Helmet-sama deserve respect.

Roshuuto cut in, clarifying that union members and revered cult leaders would not be considered vigilantes. On the other hand, he said, Spirits & Such should be held directly responsible for going rogue, allowing property destruction and resulting astronomical insurance premium hikes.

Yabe asked if that included the umbrella guy from that one time. Roshuuto said he wasn’t familiar with an umbrella guy. Yabe responded that he was pretty sure it included that umbrella guy. Roshuuto said, “will you vote for my motion if I agreed that it included the ‘umbrella guy’?” And Yabe said yes.

The motion to condemn esper vigilantism in the neighborhood passed by majority vote. Mitsuura was the only dissenter.

VI. Conclusion
The meeting was adjourned by the President early at 21:13. Asagiri suffered an episode of gastric reflux at a brief mention of corporate taxation, and Mitsuura said he forgot to tape the newest episode of ‘Detectives of Mystery’ and didn’t want to miss it.

Next meeting date: December 23, 2015.

(Signature of Roshuuto’s unpaid office secretary)

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 10:12 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 42%

Reigen didn’t want to tell Dimple for good reason. Serizawa ultimately agrees. But by the time he comes to this realization, it’s too late — he’s already spilled the beans.

When he hears their news between massage clients, Dimple guffaws, hands popping out of his cloud body to clutch at his cloud stomach. The laughing fit trembles through his entire gaseous form.

“Seriously? All that happened? And all you got for it was three thousand yen?”

Reigen seethes at the jab, while Serizawa carefully explains, “As it turns out, there was a 100 yen donation ceiling by default on the app we used. Kurata-san and I had no idea. It’s an understandable mistake…”

Dimple’s episode continues: “And tell me… How much was the rental?”

“It was—”

“You don’t have to answer him, Katsuya,” Reigen grumbles.

“…More,” Serizawa finishes.

Dimple only crescendos.

“He almost died to the Daiso-version of William Shakespeare, and the audience only gave him 100 yen each?”

“It was by default,” Serizawa says. “They didn’t actually choose to give so little… It was the only option.”

“100 yen’s more than zero yen,” Reigen adds insightfully.

Dimple goes on, ectoplasmic tears in his eyes. “You can’t even buy a popsicle for 100 yen! Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. I mean, even for you two… This is too much. You guys are way too p—”

Then, without warning, he poofs into thin air.

Reigen lifts an eyebrow. “Care to finish that thought?”

Serizawa starts.

“Oh! I think Dimple just—”

But their nebulous office spirit reappears quickly, wild-eyed.

“…Whoa,” Dimple says, patting himself down as if to take inventory on all his parts. “You gotta be more careful, Reigen. You made me laugh so hard I almost passed on.”

“Too bad you didn’t stick the landing,” Reigen returns, with a derisive throaty noise. “And don’t be so dramatic. It’s still a solvable problem. I’m sure there’s a way we can spin this in our favor and get the money back in spades.”

Serizawa taps at his phone.

“Maybe there is? Roshuuto-san’s online fundraiser says he’s made about a million yen from just 75 donors. That means, he makes about 13 thousand per donor, give or take, right?”

“Sure,” Reigen says.

“By contrast, if we count the earlier money from Tanaka Kenji, your average donation is about, um, 258 yen.”

He sets his phone down as Dimple wheezes in the background and Reigen deflates like a punctured tire. Serizawa’s pleasantly surprised at how many numbers he’s successfully crunched already today — and it isn’t even lunchtime.

“Put more plainly,” Serizawa continues, “Roshuuto-san caters to a wealthier base while you’re more of a…a man of the people! We could use that in our branding. For example, hmm… If I was a voter, I might find him more relatable. Does that make sense?”

Reinvigorated back to full egotistical turgidity by this new framing, Reigen beams. “Yes. Yes! That’s good,” he agrees. “I’m the candidate who won’t demand your whole paycheck.”

“More like your kid’s lunch money,” Dimple says.

“Oi, would you can it with that already? I need to think for a second.”

Reigen rises from his desk chair to pace around the office, an effort to spark some creativity. Serizawa floats him a cup of freshly-brewed sencha — loose-leaf today, not crushed in a tea bag — because caffeine seems to help Reigen focus his thoughts. Sencha, in Serizawa’s experience, is only second to MobDonald’s Diet Coke in this regard.

Reigen stops at the windowsill, poking around the greenery he’s collected the past few years — a collection of terracotta pots, plastic dishes, foliage plants, a half-full watering can, and a spritz bottle. He grabs a tissue and wipes dust from a monstera leaf.

“Even if you do something with this ‘man of the people’ idea,” Dimple remarks, “it sounds like you’re still screwed if you don’t make some money pronto. You need a way to get cash now. You could sell a kidney.”

“Or take out a short-term, high-interest loan?” Serizawa suggests.

“Or rob a guy,” Dimple says.

“No, no, and no. We’ll come up with fundraising ideas,” Reigen says, contemplating aloud as he tips the watering can over his creeping pothos plant. “If we have to throw something together last-minute, we could run another campaign event. I’m happy to talk my ass off for hours if that’s what it takes.”

“Because that went so well for you earlier,” Dimple says.

“There’s no way lightning strikes twice like that.”

“You wanna bet?”

Serizawa does not want Reigen to bet when he’s already in the red in financial and probably also karmic accounting.

“We’ll have to be careful with our approach,” Serizawa says, flipping through the pages of his now well-loved election strategy primer for reference. “Your audience gets desensitized the more you expose them to the same strategy. Apparently, retaining donors is quite difficult even if they didn’t donate much the first time. This is a real predicament, since the union isn’t huge.”

“You said we can take donations from outsiders though, yeah?” Reigen asks.

“Yes, that was in the bylaws.”

“In my cult, I always brainwashed a couple of investors first. That’s basic technique,” Dimple says. “How’d they make money in your old gig, Katsuya-chan?”

“I don’t know the details,” Serizawa says, tapping his chin. “But if I had to guess… I think Hatori-san hacked the National Mint. And Shibata-san once ran his fist through an ATM. Did you know they actually put the money inside those things?”

“Where else would it have come from?” Dimple says. “You thought it magically appeared? You think they keep gold bars in the vault in the back too?”

Serizawa hesitates, an incriminating move. “I…guess I didn’t think about it that much.”

Reigen grimaces. “That’s all irrelevant. The simplest way forward is to stick with something we’re already good at. We’re an office full of talented people.”

Serizawa contemplates that. Dimple gazes beyond his companions as if still searching out where those aforementioned talented people might be.

“My powers don’t help much with politics,” Serizawa says.

“I could probably brainwash some guys for you,” Dimple offers.

“Oh. No, I think there’s a bylaw forbidding that explicitly,” Serizawa says.

“Then I could brainwash those guys too.”

“I didn’t mean ESP specifically,” Reigen clarifies.

As tempting as it sounds, brainwashing investors plots negatively on Reigen’s convoluted code of personal ethics. Plus, he has no idea what column of his balance sheet such a transaction would fall under.

Dimple says, “Then what does that leave?”

“We have plenty of other talents,” Reigen says. “I could wash cars or walk dogs. I’m pretty slick with PhotoShop. Or…I know! We could offer complimentary foot rubs.”

“Um,” Serizawa objects quickly. “No thank you.”

.

— SPIRITS & SUCH CONSULTING OFFICE COMPLIMENTARY READING —
(PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THIS MAGAZINE FROM THE BATHROOM)

OCCULT ODDITIES • NOVEMBER 2015 EDITION
Cover Story: Tipping the Scales for Kaiju Preservation!

[image] [alt text: Five group organizers of various shapes and sizes pose in homemade green t-shirts, which all read in black-painted lettering — PETPA: People for the Ethical Treatment of Psychic Anoles. Together, they hold up a poster board sign. The previous message “All Hail Psycho Helmet-sama” was pasted over with strips of printer paper but still bleeds through.

The new message, scrawled in permanent marker, reads “What did I do to deserve this?” Underneath that, there’s a taped, blurry image of a flying man shattering a rainbow beach umbrella over the head of a giant psychic lizard. Notably, they shelled out for color printing.]

image caption: A new activist group PETPA petitions the government, calling for endangered species-style protections for psychic zoomorphic conjurations. They said they are mourning the brief, but tragic life of the Basil Beach kaiju, who they have affectionately named “Lizzy the Lizard.” They encourage fellow enthusiasts to take to the streets and demand rights for other rampaging reptiles (pg. 34).

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 14:24 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 42%

“I can’t wait to see what you think of these,” Teru says, hefting a cardboard box over Reigen’s desk without the help of his powers. “It was my first time making shirts with the standard number of sleeves, but I think they came out perfectly. Not to brag, but this is some of my better work.”

“Make sure you lift from the knees and not the back,” Reigen advises.

The advice is futile. It’s obvious Teru doesn’t need help with the task. Years of group sports and gang fights have conditioned him well — he seems barely fazed by the weight; it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He’s far more focused on elaborating on his design choices to his gathered audience: Reigen, Serizawa, and Shigeo.

Bored at the lack of clients with actual spiritual troubles, Dimple had excused himself to float around town in search of an early supernatural dinner. Tome said she’d drop by later after her classmate’s cricket-themed birthday party. Reigen had asked if the cricket theme was for an upcoming professional game. Tome clarified that the cricket theme was for eating. Reigen refrained from additional follow-up questions.

The box thwumps over the desk, shifting all of Reigen’s loose items three millimeters from the impact zone. Teru shakes the residual tension from his arms and winks at Shigeo. Serizawa wonders if he’s missing some inside joke between them.

“I tried to incorporate a mix of your political stances and your personal branding. There are designs promoting your proposals for employee benefits, licensing laws, and female membership,” Teru continues. “There’s a variety. This way, your supporters can pick the issues they care about.”

Reigen peels off the packing tape and peers at the contents — mostly shirts, but some accessories too, like baseball caps, tote bags, and calf-length socks.

Reigen sheds his jacket and tie, plucks the first shirt in his size from the pile, and yanks it over his head. Fiddling around with his dress shirt collar, he pulls the clothing taut over his chest, tucking his chin to glance over the embroidered design. This shirt, the first of Teru’s many creations, reads “BEST CANDIDATE IN THE COSMOS” in stacked English block letters.

On the back — “Vote Reigen Arataka for RSSU President” with all of his contact information. The fabric itself is black with tiny dots of stars and galaxies. Some of the stars are connected in thread — a constellation on the left sleeve.

“Libra, eh?” Reigen observes.

He’s no stranger to astrology — it’s one of the many services he lists on the back of his business cards, slotted between audiobook hypnosis and lexical exorcism (a special move where Reigen corrects 98% of the grammatical errors in drafted school papers). Serizawa can attest to the effectiveness of both.

“I know it’s your sign, but I thought it was good symbolism for your candidacy too. You’re balanced and rational, and you’ll put a lot of consideration into your policies. Overall, I used a cosmic theme. You say you’re the rising star of the psychic world, so I built on that. And the space-themed fabric was all on sale.” Teru pauses for breath. “So… What do you guys think? Be honest.”

“I think they’re amazing,” Shigeo says.

He admires a shirt bearing "MISOGYNY-FREE UNIVERSE" in one hand and "SEASONING CITY'S TWINKLING STAR" in the other.

“I don’t know much about fashion, but I think they really suit Reigen-shishou. And I didn’t realize your English was so good.”

English is one of the few subjects Teru hasn’t spent time coaching Shigeo in — mostly, because it’s one of the few skills Reigen can reliably cash in at a moment’s notice for exorcism assistance. It was one of the liberal arts among the hodgepodge of credits Reigen completed toward his frankensteined bachelor’s degree.

“I go abroad a lot,” Teru replies, glowing under Shigeo’s compliment. “For missio—”

He freezes at the resulting curious looks from both Reigen and Serizawa.

“By missions, I mean admissions!” He gestures frantically at his Yuzu Pepper school uniform. “Part of attending my high school is the study abroad program, remember? It’s important to practice for admissions interviews and be prepared.”

The adults are only lightly convinced at the lackluster recovery.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, Hanazawa-kun,” Serizawa applauds. “These are striking. I can see this being a major trend.”

Reigen wanders behind his desk, fiddling with a drawer as if he’s got something important to do, but Serizawa can see the glossiness in his eyes at Teru’s commentary. It squeezes in his chest. Reigen blinks the emotion away, redonning his usual unaffected visage.

“You’ve outdone yourself, kiddo,” Reigen praises, tossing Teru a candy bar from the secret stash in his drawer that he hides from Tome. The throw’s a bit wide — perhaps a product of Reigen’s not-so-subtly trembling fingers — but Teru catches it effortlessly nevertheless. “Take this for now, but don’t let me forget to bring you for yakiniku after we win the election.”

Reigen’s overpromising a bit for a guy in debt, Serizawa muses, especially where Teru’s expensive taste is concerned. Last time Reigen took the kids for barbecue, he came home deeply distressed and nearly despondent. Then again, Teru’s designs are stellar — and might very well be the remedy to assuage their financial woes.

Separately, if their assault of praise continues, maybe Teru will fill them in on all his troubling secrets by the time they go out to eat.

“Of course,” Teru says, soaking up the compliments like a bone-dry sponge. “I’m happy to help. Personally, I think catching people’s attention is one of my many, many specialities.”

.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Reigen Arataka, the psychic of the century and your next Rising Sun Spiritual Union president! Sorry I missed your call, but I’ll get right back to you. If you’re looking for a spiritual consultation, leave us a message. If you’re looking to offload a significant sum of money to a great cause, please leave us a message. Thank you for your patronage.

BEEP!

“…Even in your voicemail message, Arataka? Really? Can’t you see people are taking advantage of you? You have to pull yourself out of this. I thought exposure to a well-adjusted, hardworking guy like Katsuya would set you on the straight and narrow but I guess I was wrong.

“You have to understand, the neighbors are talking about this. They asked about you at my water aerobics class the other day. They said, is your son really running for president of that creepy organization?

“I didn’t know what to say! And you know how rare it is that I’m rendered speechless! I know you take after me.

“At the end of the day, you have to think about other people. Think about your father’s job! He doesn’t want to answer questions about this. He has work to do. As you might have heard, the Federal Register for Activities and Urban Designations has been angling to rename Seasoning City Square to Seasoning City Circle for weeks now. As you can imagine, some people are bent out of shape about this, so he’s very stressed. That’s why I’m drawing a line.

“You need to change course, Arataka. Before it’s too late. But you know, you can always count on your mom for help. I already reached out to—”

BEEP! Message time limit reached.

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 15:32 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 42%

After Teru literally jets off to attend debate team practice and then a computer hacking seminar, the office resumes its usual pace.

Serizawa studies for a biology midterm to a nightcore playlist. Faster music, he’s decided, makes him study faster. Shigeo snaps together a well-loved jigsaw puzzle of a Shiba Inu wrapped in a picnic blanket on the office coffee table. Dimple tries on one of the youth-sized campaign baseball caps. Fully horizontal, Tome flicks through a circuit of Mobstagram Stories with her legs kicked up over the couch arm.

Cramped up in what little remaining space Tome leaves him on the couch, Hoshida flips through Serizawa’s office-delivered copy of Businessman Monthly. Serizawa’s not sure why Hoshida’s present — and if his fidgeting is any indication, Hoshida doesn’t seem sure why Hoshida’s present either. But Tome’s occult curiosity is usually the common denominator, so Serizawa doesn’t think much of it.

At his desk, Reigen unabashedly advises a client that the best way to exorcize his haunted gut is a “spiritual diet” rich in “spiritual soluble fiber” and “spiritual probiotic supplements.”

“But not brown rice,” Reigen adds with the anguish of a man well-versed in bowels of an irritable nature. “Brown rice is a product of hell itself.”

Serizawa rises from his desk to handle the invoice and show the client out. Shigeo finds the missing border piece he requires squished between the couch cushions. Reigen checks his phone and grumbles about excessive voicemails.

Struck with sudden inspiration or perhaps FOMO from her tour of social media updates, Tome shepards Reigen back behind his desk with a fistful of different shirt designs.

“Let’s take a photo for social media, Reigen-san,” she instructs. “All my posts with pictures and videos perform better.”

“Fine,” Reigen says. “But make sure you get my good side.”

“What good side?” Dimple jabs.

“We have FaceTune,” she says. “Every side’s your good side.”

Serizawa smiles, tickled by the way they pick up each other’s habits over years of exposure. Across the room, he starts brewing the next batch of tea with his powers. The waft of the blend he uses in the office is a comfort. Hoshida blows his nose and steps outside to take an incoming phone call.

Settling in his task chair, Reigen scooches in flush with the desk and folds his hands in the professional pose he practiced in the mirror when he first took headshots for his website. His laptop sits open in front of him, as if to demonstrate his work ethic. He dons his brightest whitening-strip smile while Tome snaps the photo and gives him a thumbs up.

“Nice, you look better than usual, Reigen-san. You’re not making that other face you sometimes make.” She crops the photo, types up a post, and continues on before he can properly digest that. “Maybe we can offer a t-shirt giveaway on Mobstagram! I think Teru-kun’s a genius. This’ll catch people’s attention for sure. Maybe it’ll inspire people to give us their savings.”

She revolves Reigen through a few more wardrobe changes at breakneck speed.

“If you need other fundraiser ideas,” Hoshida suggests quietly as he returns to the office and stuffs his phone into his jacket pocket, “you could consider attending Roshuuto-san’s trivia night tomorrow to see how he does things. I can get you in.”

“I’m interested,” Tome says, fingers hovering over her Mobtter draft. Tome rarely says no to an occult-adjacent event or a trainwreck; in her quick analysis, this could go either way.

Speaking of which, she’s midway through a barrage of hashtags, hoping to improve Reigen’s organic search discovery. She has her work cut out for her, because canceling out years’ worth of memes from Reigen’s ill-fated TV appearance has proved a formidable task.

Hoshida frowns. “It’s a drinking event, Kurata-san, so unfortunately only people over 20 are invited. I’m really sorry. But if you wanted to go out with me, we could—”

“Nah.” Tome shrugs. “Whatever. I didn’t want to hang out with gross old men all night anyway.”

Hoshida sags at the dismissal. He turns to the adults. “What about you guys?”

Reigen scoffs, “Please. I wouldn’t be caught dead at that guy’s—”

“Actually, I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Serizawa pipes up.

“You—” Reigen peers at him incredulously. “...Really?”

Serizawa has always learned best from example. He learned technokinesis from watching Hatori mess around with HAM radio sets at Claw headquarters. He learned spiritual awareness and exorcism techniques from watching Shigeo handle case work. And he learned how to get two drinks out of a vending machine for the price of one from Reigen’s tutelage. As little fun as he’s had at previous union events, he doubts a trivia fundraiser poses much danger of bodily or psychological harm.

He pours tea telekinetically into a collection of mugs on a tray as he considers his answer.

“Clearly, Roshuuto-san knows what he’s doing with money,” he says. “I don’t think it’s a terrible idea to see how it works.”

“I agree,” Shigeo chimes in. “Shishou, you’ve told me before that we should expose ourselves to lots of different points of view before making decisions.”

“Huh. Did I say that…?”

Reigen isn’t sure. He vaguely recalls saying something like that to Shigeo, but at the time, he was complaining about inconvenient updates to the commuter train schedule. And Reigen had had the “different points of view.”

Unfortunately, it seems like sound and applicable advice regardless.

Serizawa says, “Attending the event isn’t the same thing as supporting him, right?”

“You do have to donate to him to get into the event,” Hoshida replies. “And as I recall, he only takes cash.”

“It cancels out if you make the money back though,” Tome says, and Serizawa thinks that sounds reasonable enough to be true so he allows it. She disappears momentarily into the closet, rummages through the costume box, and returns, depositing a set of Groucho Marx glasses into Serizawa’s bewildered hand. “If you’re worried about being recognized by those union guys, you should wear a disguise.”

“I’m not sure that’s necessary…” Serizawa says, setting the lensless gag glasses down to the desk nose-first.

“Count me out,” Dimple says. “I don’t like the smell of this one bit. It sounds like a trap, Reigen. You hate this guy. Don’t hang out with people you hate. Mortal time is too finite to waste on a guy like Roshuuto.”

Reigen wrestles with this for a moment. The furrow in his brow gives away the struggle, as the neurologic pulses chug through his formerly-contused brain matter. Reigen’s working through something. Some great internal struggle of purpose. A mental wrestling match between two formidable rivals. On one side of the ring, his enormous ego; on the other, his enormous credit card debt.

“I think I’d like to go, Ara—Reigen-san,” Serizawa says.

Interference. The debt thwacks him with a folding chair. And his ego is down for the count.

“Tome-chan’s exactly right,” Reigen oozes, as a floating teacup hovers beside his gesticulating hand, careful to maintain a safe perimeter from the strike zone. “It’s not like he’s patented any of this. He doesn’t lay claim to anything. And we all know — it’s a moral obligation to steal good ideas from bad people. Like, uh, Robin Hood.”

Tome flips her hair. Dimple groans. Shigeo nods encouragingly. Serizawa passes out the rest of the beverages.

Reigen continues, “So it’s decided! We’re going to trivia night.” Reigen pauses, taking hold of his teacup. “Hey. Where is this trivia night anyway?”

“It’s at, uh…” Hoshida double-checks his phone. “Snow Problems Ice Cream Emporium.”

Reigen blanches. Dimple snickers, “Aren’t you banned from that place?”

Reigen clears his throat and amends, “So it’s decided. Serizawa is going to trivia night. Tome-chan, Dimple, and I will campaign in Cuticle City instead.”

.

OFFICIAL MAILER FROM SNOW PROBLEMS ICE CREAM EMPORIUM
“Home of the BadSundae™”

Recently Voted ‘Most Flavors’ by Readers of Occult Oddities Magazine!

WEEKLY SPECIAL
ROSHUUTO’S REIGN-BOW SORBET

In this delectable dish, we serve up two scoops of our famous rainbow sorbet. We top that off with edible glitter, star-shaped sprinkles, fake gold leaf, and a complimentary portrait of Roshuuto taped on a toothpick. (Legal disclosure: the portrait is not edible.)

Important note from the location manager:
Our bathrooms have once again been fully-exorcized. If you hear cracking noises coming from the ceiling at our Seasoning City location, it’s something else. A family of raccoons perhaps. Please stop leaving us negative reviews about it. Thank you.

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 15:45 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 42%

As Tome drafts a Tweet advertising the upcoming Cuticle City visit, Ritsu lets himself into the office uninvited.

The minute the door swings shut, Reigen already knows something’s off.

Even Shigeo seems surprised to see his brother there without prompting. Historically, Ritsu only drops by when there's a promise of free food or when Shigeo has club obligations but doesn’t want Tome to scope out a crop circle unchaperoned.

“Why are you here, Ritsu?” Shigeo says. “I thought you had a student council meeting.”

“I heard a rumor and wanted to check if it was true,” he says with an impish grin. “3000 yen, Reigen-san?”

Reigen glares at Dimple.

“Oi, why’d you have to go out and run your mouth?”

“You don’t know it was me!”

“I know it wasn’t Serizawa. Who else does that leave?”

Dimple doesn’t have an answer to that, so he levitates away to haunt Reigen’s collection of PhotoShop manuals instead. Ritsu hangs his coat and bookbag on the rack by the door and straightens out his yellow Yuzu Pepper blazer.

“You need money desperately, right?” Ritsu asks.

“I wouldn’t say desperately,” Reigen contends. Serizawa begs to disagree.

“I’d hate to see a campaign I helped advise tank so quickly,” Ritsu says, demonstrating his prodigious ability to cut through adult bullshit once again. “Here’s an idea — why don’t you try one of those demographic targeting tools to find potential donors? Marketing teams for political campaigns use them all the time. That’s how I was able to cinch the treasurer position as a first year. I narrowed down undecided voters with specific traits, and when I found them in person, I convinced them to side with me.”

“You sure you didn’t intimidate them into it?” Dimple says.

Most of Ritsu’s conversations about student suffrage took place in the dark alley behind the back fence of the school grounds, but he doesn’t personally see the problem with that. As they say, if it isn’t broken.

“Of course not,” Ritsu assures them. “I only had reasonable and rational one-on-one discussions with my potential constituents.”

Shigeo says, “Leave it to my little brother to have such practical knowledge.”

“That sounds impressive, Kageyama-kun,” Serizawa agrees. “We could use results like that.”

Despite his initial reservations, Serizawa’s ultimately glad to have accepted political advice from a 16-year-old, as uncomfortable as the process might have been for everyone involved. The recommendations were all sound — and there’s no way Ritsu could have predicted the haunted podium anyway. So Serizawa is happy to accept other recommendations the young academic politician can offer him.

“Just give me the laptop,” Ritsu says, a touch shy under all the complimentary attention. “I’ll show you what I mean. All you need is a social media account. MobBook or something. Whatever you use most.”

Tome jumps off the couch, logging Ritsu into Reigen’s personal MobBook account. She types in his password from memory and hits enter. The screen shifts to a home feed with zero notifications.

Reigen starts. “How did you get into my account?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says innocently, and Reigen does the opposite.

“Once we find a pool of potential donors, what do you propose?” Serizawa asks, taking notes on a post-it at his desk. “Phone calls? Emails? Or something in-person?”

“It’s good to conserve your resources while casting a wide net,” Ritsu informs them, clicking through the web app. “During my own candidacy, I’d end up with tens or even hundreds of students to contact, so sometimes reaching out en masse was the only reasonable possibility. When you do go all out in terms of effort, it should be for someone you are 90% sure will say yes.” He gestures at the screen which now bears a demographic selection tool. “Reigen-san, Serizawa-san, who is your ideal donor?”

Serizawa says, “generous and altruistic” at the same time Reigen says, “extremely wealthy.”

“Sure,” Ritsu says with a tone like the two adults failed a test. “I’ll put in ‘lives within 50 miles’ and ‘high net worth’ along with ‘interest in occult’ and ‘easily-influenced.’”

Ritsu makes the appropriate selections. The tool fades, replaced with a spinning loading wheel. Ritsu drums his fingers over the synthetic resin coating of Reigen’s particle board desk top. In the places where the resin chipped off, someone has scribbled over the damage in permanent marker not quite the same color.

“Huh,” Ritsu says, scrutinizing the laptop screen with a frown. “Weird. I’ve never seen a result like this before.”

Reigen says, “What do you mean?”

Ritsu hands him the laptop.

“The tool found one person,” he says. “And we already know him.”

“Oh yeah,” Reigen says, while visions of the inside of an industrial refrigerator dance in his head. “That guy.”

.

To: <(blank)>
BCC: mitsuura_kenji@awakeninglab(.)co(.)jp
From: reigen@reigenarataka4president(.)co(.)jp
Subject: URGENT: ACT NOW to SAVE THE ESPER COMMUNITY

Dear Mitsuura-san,

Are you INTERESTED in SPIRITUAL AFFAIRS?

Do you WORRY about the current STATE OF THE WORLD?

Have you got a LARGE SUM OF MONEY that you would like to SPEND IMMEDIATELY?

(Donate here.)

Our opponent Roshuuto Dozen wants to stifle creativity and innovation! Will you let that stand?

(He also lacks spiritual power and endangers children.)

(Donate here.)

Act now to supercharge Reigen Arataka’s hopes and dreams! With your support and more importantly, your GENEROUS DONATION, we can work together and pave the way to a brighter tomorrow.

Pitch in today, and I will probably do literally anything you want.

Your friend,
Reigen Arataka

(Donate here.)

This email was authorized and paid for by the Committee for Electing Reigen Arataka.

(Donate here.)

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 15:51 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 42%

Reigen dusts his hands together after he fires off the first email and queues up three more for later. While each email is thematically similar, the copy varies, and he has the thesaurus to thank for that achievement.

Serizawa packs up his bag for his school commute.

“I’ll walk you out,” Reigen offers.

Reigen himself is en route to Smile Mart for the nutritious sustenance (read: canned coffee and pair of pork buns) he needs to keep his spirits high through another late afternoon massage appointment.

Serizawa is nervous for his last midterm. He’s not terrible at science, but it’s a lot of memorization. Between work and school, rental space in his brain comes at a premium. And there are a lot of parts of a cell to remember.

He steps out of the office and onto the street, mentally rattling off what he remembers from his study guide. So far, he’s got it down pat, so he expects to do well.

What Serizawa does not expect, however, is to get drenched in mysterious green paste.

He yelps in surprise when it hits him, which isn’t great, because some of it gets in his mouth, and it tastes like the non-toxic glitter glue from elementary school.

Two masked attackers with a bucket run off before Reigen and Serizawa can gather their wits about them. They yell “Justice for Lizzy!” as they turn the corner and disappear down another alley.

Reigen blinks at Serizawa from under a layer of goo.

“Fucking hell,” he grits, wiping his mouth off with a ruined suit sleeve.

There’s green splatter over the door behind them too. Three silhouettes — two humans and a briefcase.

They retreat back to the office. Hoshida averts his eyes. Tome gives them one sniff and fishes a bottle of distilled vinegar and a scrub brush from the closet.

“This is some bush league slime,” she complains, clicking her tongue as she pours some vinegar into a bowl. “The ratios aren’t right at all. It’s not viscous enough.”

Reigen hastily scribbles out a tardiness excuse letter for night school attendance records. After rinsing out his hair and swapping into the emergency change of clothes he keeps in the costume box, Serizawa re-embarks on his commute.

As he rides the bus, he finds himself blanking on the function of the golgi body.

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 19, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #88

Letter to the Editor: A weak candidate pool requires drastic measures

We’ve all seen the candidates for the upcoming Rising Sun Spiritual Union election — Roshuuto Dozen and Reigen Arataka. I must apologize to my union colleagues for leaving politics in such a sorry state on the cusp of my long-anticipated retirement.

Needless to say, I do not like either option for president.

Reigen is a loose cannon — a dangerous manipulator who won’t hesitate to take random and violent action against others. Particularly with his knee, which I can only describe as sharp and merciless. Roshuuto never pays his union dues on time and regularly double-parks in front of my driveway. For these reasons, I reject them both.

Instead of this, we must band together and take immediate action to rectify this dire situation. We must run my good friend Shinra Banshomaru as a candidate for the presidency. I suggest others run with this petition ASAP. It’s the only way to save our beloved union — and more importantly, my legacy — from certain doom.

— Jodo Kirin, Seasoning City

PS: I looked into converting the union presidency into a union monarchy. Our lawyers said it was untenable. As for un-retiring, I already booked a non-refundable flight to Bora Bora following the election, so that is also untenable. As you can see, I did my best.

.

Thursday, November 19, 2015 — 23:53 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 42%

The lights are on when Serizawa returns home, one Galaga tournament victory richer. Whether he’s wealthier for the midterm score remains to be seen.

He passes through the kitchenette where the dishes are scrubbed and resting on the dish rack. Reigen restocked the groceries too, evidenced by the receipt pinned to the fridge and the leftover clippings from the coupon book. On the living room balcony, two thoroughly hand-washed suits hang, fluttering in the night-time breeze. Two sets of leather dress shoes are scrubbed down and drying on a microfiber towel in the corner.

All the evidence yields life too. Reigen lies on the couch. There’s a campy horror movie playing on his open laptop, but he’s snoring gently into a sofa pillow.

Serizawa scoops him up from the couch. Reigen mumbles incoherently at the jostling, drooling into Serizawa’s shoulder.

Reigen’s phone flashes on the table — several unopened messages and voicemails. Surely, Reigen will get to those. For now, Serizawa carries him through the threshold and into the bedroom.

.

mobstagram — @xx_iwanttobelieve_xx (New Post) (Likes) (Messages(2))

@sho_not_tell | 54 posts | 10.1k followers | 123 following

[profile_picture.jpg] [alt text: Sho hangs upside down from a swaying tire swing tied to the thick branch of a maple tree.]

sho
gone fishing ✌️

(People who follow @sho_not_tell also follow @rkageyama, @bigexplosion_pyrotechnicscompany, @iamfukuda, @00tsuki & more)

most recent posts:

[mobstagram1.jpg][alt text: Suzuki Sho, half in the frame in the foreground, throws up a peace sign and grins. Behind him, a Syrian hamster with soft ginger fur chews cleanly through the wire of an expensive computer mouse resting atop a mahogany executive desk. Also on the desk is a laser cut burgundy placard bearing the name “Suzuki Toichiro, Japanese Government, Secret Special Ops” in gold lettering. Several other important-looking documents have tiny bite marks at the corners.]
[❤ You, @josephfromthegovernment, @rkageyama, and 3k others like this]
@sho_not_tell talent runs in the family
@peachboy peak child of divorce energy tbh
@teru_fic Oh! He’s adorable. (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ·ﾟ Did you give him a cute name too?
@sho_not_tell @teru_fic hell yeah his name’s bruiser
@teru_fic @sho_not_tell I see.

[mobstagram2.jpg][alt text: On a torn out sketchbook page, there’s a watercolor painting of Kageyama Ritsu studying at his desk from the perspective of the tree outside his open window. The cool-toned paint is thin enough to see the heavier pencil sketch marks underneath. In the work, Ritsu’s writing notes into a spiral notebook while he reads from a heavily-annotated textbook. His face is relaxed but focused. Also on the desk is a pen cup full of spoons and an origami paper flower, a cell phone plugged into a charger, a mail ad for a prestigious private college, and a tearaway calendar noting Sho’s upcoming birthday.]
[❤ You, @rkageyama, @serizawa_k, and 4k others like this]
@sho_not_tell would have come out better if he sat still for two seconds
@tenga_the_demon_art @sho_not_tell whoa that’s some sick composition
@rkageyama I told you, I had a school meeting to go to!
@rkageyama @sho_not_tell But it turned out really nice, so thank you.

[mobstagram3.jpg][alt text: Sho smiles cryptically at the camera. Behind him is an on-fire building surrounded by attending firemen.]
[❤ You, @__higashio, @rkageyama, and 2.5k others like this]
@sho_not_tell wasn’t me
@rkageyama ???????????
@__higashio @sho_not_tell don’t get hurt!

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 14:32 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 50%

“…And that’s the whole story?” Dr. Sasaki says, resting her hands over her clipboard. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Serizawa confirms.

Between the two of them, there are eight bags of popcorn in the wastebasket. White cheddar was good, but Serizawa has a soft spot for kettle corn. He has a sweet tooth that way, but Reigen usually prefers savory snacks.

“There’s plenty left to do,” Serizawa says. “But I’m glad we talked about this. I think it helped me to say it out loud.”

“You have a strong relationship with your spouse,” Dr. Sasaki says.

Instantly: “Yes.”

“But you didn’t actually tell him how you felt,” she says. “Did you?”

“I…guess I didn’t use words exactly.”

“Were you worried you’d burden him with all of this? If you told him directly about how worried you were? That you were afraid for him?”

“Sure,” Serizawa admits. “I think there’s a time and place for…” He pauses. “Wait. Aren’t we back to that earlier question?”

“You’re getting good at therapy, Serizawa-san.”

“Thanks. I try.”

Serizawa beams at the encouragement. He’s familiar with his own weakness for praise — there’s a reason he’s married to his boss. It’s been many a subject of his previous therapy sessions.

“Let’s return to that earlier question,” Dr. Sasaki says. “In this case, were you trying to protect Reigen-san? Even if it meant that you had to suffer alone?”

Serizawa begins, “I think…”

…But where to start about his relationship with Reigen, really? All this talking, and he doesn’t feel much closer to a satisfying conclusion.

After all, it’s a relationship first begun when Serizawa stepped in front of a loaded nuclear warhead to shield Reigen from being blasted out the window of the tallest structure in downtown Seasoning City. It’s a relationship that continued as Serizawa deflected rampaging curses, evil spirits, and an entire army of glowing yokai for a man who could hardly sense his proximity to peril. It’s a relationship that flourished perhaps because Reigen couldn’t see what a terrible curse Serizawa was saddled with. Or perhaps simply didn’t care.

And even deeper than that, it’s a relationship that built its foundation on memories of dedication. Gratitude. Selflessness. Shigeo's memories. A powerless man protecting the strongest esper in the universe, simply because it was the right thing to do.

No, Serizawa corrects himself. That’s not exactly right either. Reigen isn’t powerless at all. He’s on a different continuum entirely.

When he thinks about all of this, Serizawa isn’t sure where to make the first incision to unpack it all. Is it supposed to be so easy to cleave those things apart? To sort them into the neat little piles Dr. Sasaki seems to want — one pile for Serizawa the husband, another for Serizawa the deputy director, another for Serizawa the bodyguard, another for Serizawa the campaign manager, and then everything else combed over and left behind.

He sneaks a peek at his watch. He’s beyond late. Sho is due to be at the office any moment

“I think,” Serizawa says, “I’ll get back to you on that.” He gathers his jacket and his briefcase, nodding. “In the meantime, we have an election to win.”

He finally leaves, and as he types an apologetic message to the office group chat for his lateness, Dr. Sasaki’s question still rumbles around his skull like a pair of dice.

“When you consider who you are, Serizawa-san — are you Reigen-san’s protector? Or are you his partner?”

But he can’t really afford to struggle through this query. Not when there’s still so much else that begs his attention more urgently. He’ll have plenty of time after the vote to ponder his marriage.

For now, he’s Reigen’s campaign manager.

There’s little time for anything else.

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 14:41 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 50%

When Sho phases into visibility from the far wall, Reigen spits out his half-chewed takoyaki and Tome fails to complete a platformer level as she nearly jumps through the ceiling.

Unruffled, Serizawa gently reminds him to please use the door next time.

“It’s nice to see you, Sho,” Reigen says, as he settles back into his chair with his best imitation of nonchalance despite his sky-high blood pressure. “Does this mean—?”

“The website’s done!” Sho announces. “And Ritsu and I want to go see Vendetta of Overkill IV so make time for that on your calendar, Serizawa. The 4D showing specifically. Don’t hold out on us.”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Tome agrees, finally completing the level. She wipes her brow. “I read online it’s the first time a movie ever used a full dump truck’s worth of blood.”

“Isn’t that too violent…?” Serizawa says.

“What’re you gonna do, tell my dad?” Sho grins.

Even though Sho says it in jest, Serizawa doesn’t want to unpack all that right now outside his therapist’s office, so he relents. Reigen usurps responsibility for directing the conversation with their teenage guest.

If Reigen’s honest, Sho’s a nut he’s not sure how to crack. Reigen’s first impressions of the kid are completely tainted with arson, kidnapping, and explosions. And even past his life of patricidal vigilantism, the kid barely stops by the office.

The few times he does, he mostly hangs out with Serizawa, Ritsu, or Shigeo. He plays video games on the TV or goes out to karaoke. One time, he showed Reigen a picture of his hamster; another, he brought a stag beetle he found outside and then promptly lost track of it in the office. Reigen found it crawling in his gym bag a week later.

But, Reigen wonders, maybe this is what normal teenagers are like? Ritsu is sixteen going on sixty, Teru’s lived on his own longer than Serizawa has, and Shigeo is…Shigeo. Tome reminds Reigen of his own teenage years — loud, insufferable, and in possession of surprisingly decent grades.

So Reigen doesn’t have an effective frame of reference to draw from for the typical Japanese teenager experience these days.

Sho snaps his fingers in front of Reigen’s nose.

“C’mon, check out my work already!” Sho urges, typing in the web address with a casual flex of his powers. “I taught myself web development for this. Behold! Isn’t it awesome?”

“Taught yourself?” Reigen repeats. “That’s not easy. Didn’t you have school obligations?”

“Nah, I got more important stuff to do than school,” Sho says, waving dismissively. “Now look — how cool is this? I learned how to edit photos and everything.”

Reigen hesitates, exchanging a cautious glance with his spouse across the room. Tome curses at her DS from the couch, utterly ignorant to the ongoing conversation around her.

“…You’re sure you’re willing to do all of this for a movie ticket?”

“Two movie tickets,” Sho corrects.

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short,” Reigen says. “You or Ritsu. That’s Business 101.”

Sho huffs impatiently.

“Look. I dunno anything about this election,” he says, and Reigen notices the kid’s got the kind of sharp glare that could pierce the sun. “But I’m not cool with loser old guys abusing their authority to hurt other people. It’s annoying. So if there’s something I can do about that, I’m gonna do it. Alright?”

“Alright,” Reigen relents with a nod. “At least let me buy you churros too.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now look at my website already.”

.

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⭐ REIGEN ARATAKA FOR PRESIDENT ⭐
The Rising Star of the Psychic World Needs You! Vote Reigen Arataka Today!

Join our mailing list today (we won’t spam you for long)

[reigen_arataka_img_final23_final.png] [alt text: Five images are collaged together as the header of the website:
Image 1: Covered in righteous sweat, Reigen picks up trash from Poppyseed Park.
Image 2: Reigen shakes hands with a blissed-out client who ordered the aroma runaway express.
Image 3: Reigen throws salt dead-center on a bullseye target held up by Tome.
Image 4: Reigen poses with an adorable dog from the local shelter. The dog nips his ear.
Image 5: Reigen and Serizawa smile, holding flowers in front of the Seasoning City Courthouse.]

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Upcoming events!
Reigen Arataka will make an official campaign appearance tonight, November 20th, in downtown Cuticle City. The team is still waiting for official permission from the municipal government, so the location is TBA. When you arrive, look for the teenage girl with the alien socks and the megaphone.

Donor portal!
We need some dough for Seasoning City’s bro. Donate here today!

We accept donations of all kinds, though we strongly prefer BIG donations. All donors may pick up a complimentary t-shirt from Spirits & Such Consulting Office while supplies last.

Campaign platform!

• Lessen RSSU oversight over municipal supernatural business licensing
• More RSSU oversight into employee salary and benefits
• Institute public service or charity donation requirements for RSSU members
• Publicly available registry of known “haunted places” including public spaces (e.g lighthouses, etc.) and private spaces (e.g. podiums, etc.)
• Ban on crystal balls, mail-order divination items, ghost candles, holy water, fake prayer beads, and other fraudulent psychic items
• Female suffrage (very important)

Glowing testimonials!

“I’m a big fan!” — Serizawa Katsuya (business partner, Spiritual Level 114)

“A sensible candidate despite the odds” — Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant, newly-crowned world record holder)

“Not worse than the other guy” — A Cuticle City Psychic (who preferred to remain anonymous)

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 17:08 | Snow Problems Ice Cream Emporium | Latest poll: 50%

Club soda in hand, Serizawa sits at a rickety table stuck beside the napkin dispenser and one side of the big ice cream cooler. The fan hums in his ear. He stuffs himself in the too-narrow space between the table edge and the wall.

On one side of him sits Shinra Banshomaru. On the other side, Hoshida Origo. Across from him is a tiny evil spirit — an eyeball with butterfly wings and a mace-like tail. Serizawa doesn’t observe what he would personally classify as a mouth in its apparent anatomy, but it crunches through a cup of rainbow sprinkles all the same. Behind it all, Matsuo absentmindedly sips his gin and tonic.

“Roshuuto said I could only bring spirits incapable of human language or I’d be ‘cheating at trivia,’” he says, rolling his eyes. “As if I care about the trivia. This is Rocky Road-chan, by the way. I found her under a manhole cover. She’s my new best friend.”

Shinra offers a disinterested wave. Hoshida scrutinizes the wrong spot. Serizawa says politely, “Is she Rocky Road-chan because she likes rocky road ice cream?”

“No,” Matsuo says blankly. “She’s lactose intolerant.”

“We need a team name,” Hoshida says, manning over the trivia answer sheet dispensed to them upon receipt of their donation. At the same time, Hoshida continuously sips his beer at a furious pace.

Reigen drank like that the first time he invited Serizawa out to the bar. They were celebrating Serizawa’s first finished quarter of night school. Loosened and flushed under the izakaya lamps, Reigen had been more open about himself than usual — it was the first time Serizawa caught a glimpse of Reigen underneath the normally opaque shell of the persona he worked so hard to maintain.

Then, Serizawa watched him shift from vertical to horizontal at terminal velocity. He didn’t finish the beer, and Serizawa carried him home. Even though Reigen lost both his wallet and his lunch that night, it’s still a cherished memory.

That said, Serizawa is not interested in carrying the twenty-year-old faux psychic to the nearest bus stop.

So he says, “Maybe you should slow down. Hoshida-kun.”

“I’ll be careful,” Hoshida says, gulping. He sets pen to paper. “Please give me a team name.”

“How about ‘Channeling Spirits’?” Shinra says with a wink.

Hoshida laughs more vigorously than the joke deserves and scribbles that onto the form.

The venue’s fairly crowded around them, stuffed to capacity with tables and chairs in blatant opposition to good fire safety protocol. The empty seats are rare, and all the conversation around them adds a pressure and stuffiness to the air. The ice cream counter near them serves both scoops and an extensive bar menu — cold beer in the popsicle cooler, liquor and sake on the counter with the spread of sprinkles, red bean paste, kuromitsu, and other typical toppings. At the front of the store, near the automatic doors, there’s a makeshift stage outfitted with a basic sound system and a lone mic stand.

And then there’s Roshuuto who was standing at the microphone through a sound check but is now coming toward them. Last time Serizawa saw Roshuuto was over a year ago, and they were still cleaning the walls and escorting Reigen and Serizawa off the premis—

Wait.

Roshuuto is approaching.

Serizawa bristles, wondering if he should have snagged the glasses from the costume box after all. His previous encounter with Roshuuto was not exactly flattering, and after years of bumping into each other at cursed fields, haunted houses, and one very unfortunate parfait-eating contest, Serizawa is sure Roshuuto will notice his infiltration of the event.

Serizawa isn’t sure how to handle this particular social interaction either. Not the espionage — he did some of that at Claw. But there hadn’t been much careful verbal maneuvering involved, and Serizawa knows he can be too forthcoming with his intentions if he’s not careful. Even without prompting. It’s why Reigen doesn’t let him talk to lawyers anymore.

“Shinra,” Roshuuto says. “Nice to see you. I knew you’d come around to support my campaign.”

Shinra salutes, bottle in hand. “The only thing I’m decided about is my favorite brand of beer. You can keep sucking up to me though. I welcome that wholeheartedly.”

Roshuuto barks a too-loud laugh. “Sure. I see you made it too, Hoshida-kun.”

“Yep,” Hoshida says stiffly. “I, um, made it. And I’m here for no other reason than trivia. So. Yes.” He gives a nervous laugh. “I like trivia. Thank you for having me.”

“Just as I’d expect from a disciple of mine.”

Matsuo’s spirit companion imitates Roshuutos’ exaggerated mannerisms behind his back. Matsuo struggles to suppress his mirth. Serizawa marvels at the ghost’s talent for pantomime.

“And Matsuo,” Roshuuto says. “Still weird, I see. Did you get the package I sent you?”

“Go to hell,” Matsuo says pleasantly, as Rocky Road-chan fetches him a drink refill. This seems to be a typical exchange, because Roshuuto’s unperturbed gaze flicks to Serizawa.

“You seem familiar,” he says. “Have we met?”

“I…” Serizawa starts to say. “We have—”

“Is that a new suit, Roshuuto?” Shinra cuts in before Serizawa can fumble through a half-hearted lie. “It’s, uh, louder than your usual.”

“Hm. Yes,” Roshuuto says, patting lint from his shoulders. “Do you like it? I had so much money leftover after the first round of donations came through that I decided to upgrade my look. Even the accountant had something to say about it, and you and I know that guy’s the most boring man in the universe. Anyway. The outfit suits me, I know. It matches my ring.”

He holds up his hand — on his middle finger sits a thick platinum band bearing an obnoxiously-large oval-cut emerald. The slim-cut suit itself is black with emerald trim and subtle pinstripes. He pairs it with a crisp white dress shirt with French cuffs, fastened together with matching emerald-ish costume jewelry cufflinks. He wears a narrow black silk tie.

“It’s a family heirloom,” he says, wiggling his fingers. “But enough about that, I’ve got a trivia night to run. New folks usually struggle with my questions.”

Roshuuto directs his spiel back to Serizawa, “Don’t feel bad if you fail miserably. It takes a few sessions to get used to this sort of elite event. You’re not here for the trivia anyway, right? We’re all here so that my loser opponent can fade back into obscurity where he rightfully belongs.”

Roshuuto’s eyes skate briefly to Serizawa’s left hand, where it grips too-tightly over his glass of club soda. His mouth twitches, but he swivels away, off to finish his round of meet-and-greets with his supports before the dawn of the first round of questions.

“God, he sucks,” Shinra groans. “He never stops talking. You alright, Serizawa?”

There’s an awakening within Serizawa. It’s the competitive edge he usually reserves for his hobbies. The edge he uses to rain hell down on the online gamers of the world and also Tome.

But Roshuuto made the fatal mistake of blending together a competitive spark and Reigen slander, and such a recipe can only yield an uninhibited version of Serizawa that even he hasn’t experienced in competition before.

“Shinra-san,” Serizawa says quietly, hungry fire in his eyes. “We have to win this trivia night.”

“Uh, right,” Shinra says.

And now that he’s this fired up, nothing will get in his way. Roshuuto’s first round won’t stand a chance.

“Round one is all about my celebrity clients,” Roshuuto reads into the mic from his prompt card. “Question one. This is the name of the current Japanese prime minister.”

Serizawa should really know the answer to that one by now.

.

smile mart cctv footage archive:

(earlier)

⏯️11-20-2015 FRI 14:00:00
⏯️11-20-2015 FRI 15:00:00
⏯️11-20-2015 FRI 16:00:00
⏸️11-20-2015 FRI 17:00:00 (currently playing)

…

closed captioning transcript:

[blaring car horn]

[heavy footsteps]

>> boy #1, panting: Ten more… laps around this building…and that’s…all I have to do.

>> boy #2: I’m almost breaking a sweat! Thanks for inviting me to train with you, Kageyama-kun. This is an ambitious plan.

[voices trail away, returning a minute later]

>> boy #1: It was Musashi-senpai’s. He said this was like… Aah, what do you call…the beginner hill in skiing?

>> boy #2: Double black diamond? At least, that’s where I started.

>> boy #1: Hm… That doesn’t sound right.

[another lap]

>> boy #2: It’s really impressive that you’re doing this. You’re gonna be in great shape for your race.

>> boy #1: You think so?

>> boy #2: Of course I do! I can’t wait to watch. You said everyone from the office is gathering at the finish line with your parents, right?

>> boy #1: That’s what…Reigen-shishou said.

>> boy #2: Races are definitely more fun when you have people supporting you. I would have loved for my parents to be at my last bike race, but… Well, never mind. Hey, don’t forget to breathe, alright? In through the nose, out through the mouth…

[yet another lap]

>> boy #1: I hope…this goes better than…trumpet lessons.

>> boy #2: What are you talking about? Trumpet lessons went great!

[and another]

>> boy #2: I’m telling you, the non stop ringing in my ears is unrelated.

[and another]

>> boy #2: You don’t look so good, do you need a break?

>> boy #1: I think…if we keep talking…I might die…

[and three more laps]

>> boy #2, jogging in place: Seriously, do you need a break?

>> boy #1, stumbling: …Just…one…more.

>> boy #2: Okay! You got this!

[and one last poorly-paced, incredibly painful lap]

>> boy #2: Nice finish. Oh hey, what’s that on your back? I didn’t notice it earlier.

>> boy #1: Shishou…pinned it to me…since I run around…it’s free adver—

[incoherent panting noises, followed by keeling-over noises]

>> boy #2: …Whoa, whoa!

>> boy #1: I’m fine. Let me sit for a second. I’m a bit anemic. Phew.

>> boy #2: You want my water? I have Mobcari Sweat too. Or I could go to the vending machine and fetch you a —

>> boy #1: No, I’m okay. Don’t go to so much trouble. I’m glad I finished that set.

[paper sign ruffling]

>> boy #2: So that’s Reigen-san’s ad? I wouldn’t have picked those colors personally but… Did you run by the union headquarters on purpose? That’s a solid campaign strategy, Kageyama-kun! I’m sure the union members got a good look by the tenth lap!

>> boy #1: Musashi-senpai picked this block because it’s exactly 500m all the way around, and none of us is good at math.

>> boy #2: Ah.

[delivery truck engine]

…

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 17:37 | Cuticle City Keratin Courthouse Circle | Latest poll: 50%

Reigen Arataka is back.

As if contusions, concussions, and possessions in rapid succession could keep him down. Now, in full control of his faculties, he’s never felt more at ease. He’s nailing the monologue for the modest medley of Cuticle City citizens gathered around his strip of courtyard. Even his limbs feel looser than usual as he drives home each point with an emphatic gesture.

On the other side of extensive bloviation, he’s a bit winded. He has a solid week of brain-healing bedrest to thank for that.

Reigen thinks he’s been clear enough that there shouldn’t be any questions. His platform isn’t that complicated, and if they want to reference it, Tome’s been shoving QR codes for the website and donation landing page in every face she can reach. He applauds her effort, reminds himself to restock those shrimp chips she likes next time they’re on sale at the grocer’s.

“I have a question,” one member of the crowd calls out all the same.

“Go on,” Reigen says.

“Will you consider taking on Roshuuto-san in an official debate?”

“A debate, eh?”

Dimple floats behind his ear. “They can’t be serious,” he says. “That’s too much trouble for a race like this.”

It does seem like a lot of trouble, Reigen thinks. On top of all the trouble already. There’s got to be some sort of trouble ceiling, right? Some place he puts his foot down.

He thinks of Serizawa working so hard on his behalf to make his political ambitions reality. Working nonstop. Working to the point of a breakdown. All because Reigen couldn’t step up when Serizawa needed him.

Reigen could step up now. He could keep it simple. He could draw a boundary.

“Reigen-san doesn’t need to debate Roshuuto-san,” Tome argues. It’s uncanny, as if she’s reading his mind. When did she become such a people-person? “His publicized policies should already demonstrate that he’s the best candidate. Between Reigen-san’s ads and website and all the press, you should have everything you need to cast your vote for him.”

“Not everyone reads,” says another member of the crowd. “And not everyone’s convinced either.”

“I’m happy to answer questions people might have,” Reigen says placatively. “What’s left that might convince you? I’m sure I could talk your ear off.”

“It’s not that we have questions. It’s that we want to see how you deal with stuff.”

“Yeah! A leader’s job is to stay cool under pressure,” adds a second crowd-goer. “We’re not gonna know that from the written policy. Also, we wanna see you fight a guy on TV.”

“I just want to vote for whoever seems cooler,” says a third.

Tome glances cautiously at Reigen.

Reigen’s pocket vibrates. He checks his phone.

“Oh!” he chirps. “I have to take this.”

Tome says, “The debate, Reigen-san?”

If Reigen thinks about it, trouble’s only ever trouble if you let it be trouble, right? What had he suggested earlier? The path of least resistance is to stick with what you’re best at. He’d meant it about the fundraising effort, but surely it applied to a rhetoric contest too. And if Reigen is good at anything, it’s convincing a crowd of dangerously-impressionable people into heeding his well-intentioned advice.

Tome is giving her all the cause, making mistakes but learning from them along the way. Even in the midst of training for his goal, Shigeo believes in Reigen and still finds time enough to connect the campaign with all the right ingredients. Ritsu, Sho, and Teru have donated their efforts to the cause — either out of respect for the platform or, in Ritsu’s case, his unsubtle ambition and utter intolerance for failure.

And then, there’s everything Serizawa has done for him so far. He’s all but written Reigen a blank check himself, like he’s willing to turn over everything he has.

Yeah.

So Reigen could afford to take a turn in the debate ring. Really, he thinks, it’s the least he could do.

“It’s not like I ever lose arguments,” Reigen remarks with a shrug.

A substantial lie — he’s lost two major ones in recent memory alone, both to Serizawa.

“Tell them we’ll schedule it,” he instructs Tome. “It’s not the end of the world to put in some extra work. At most, it’s a minor inconvenience.”

“You’re sure?” Tome says.

“If Roshuuto’s dumb enough to actually agree to it, it’ll be over before it’s begun,” Reigen insists. “Now, please excuse me. I really need to take this.”

Dimple and Tome glance uneasily at each other as Reigen walks off with his buzzing phone.

Mitsuura greets him on the other side of the line.

“It’s funny,” Mistuura tells him. “I saw your recent tweet, and I was concerned about you. But then, I got your email. And your other email. And by the fifth email, I realized something. I think we have mutual interests. I can write you a check for the campaign. But if you don’t mind, there’s something I need from you too.”

Thus, Reigen finds a sponsor.

But there’s a catch. It isn’t small.

.

mobtter — @serizawa_k

Messages

Inbox(4) | Requests

Shimazaki (DMs still open) @ShimazakiAtHome • just now
(NEW) Shimazaki (DMs still open): Hey uh

Sacred Sword Hobby & Model Shop @sacredsword • 11 days ago
You: As you can see in the picture, there’s a dent in the chest plate, so I think I should be eligible for an exchange…

👽 @xx_iwanttobelieve_xx • 14 days ago
You: I think that article you sent me is a scam, Kurata-san. There are a lot of typos in there. And I’ve personally never heard of anyone awakening psychic abilities with the tilt-a-whirl at EkuboLand.

…
> …Loading…
…

(Back to Inbox) Shimazaki (DMs still open) (Info)

Hey uh

Is this your man?

‘Cause he’s trending:

Vote Reigen Arataka @reigen_for_president • 2 hours ago
Want to know what this campaign stands for? Just read the shirt!
[twt_img.jpg][alt text: Reigen sits behind his desk with his laptop open at the Spirits & Such consulting office. He grins at the camera. He points to the message on his campaign t-shirt with the thumb of one hand and gives an enthusiastic thumbs up with the other. The back of the open laptop obscures most of the t-shirt text, so the shirt appears to simply read ‘MISOGYNY.’]

Bad?? What do you mean??

That’s just the new campaign shirt.

Oh

Yikes!!!

Those quote-retweets are a bit excessive, aren’t they?

Oh yeah. Total ratio

It’s getting ugly in the replies

Hatori told me what the shirt says

Trust me, I’ve been there

No one’s allowed to have an opinion anymore

He’s not a misogynist!!

It’s a total misunderstanding!!!!

Oh haha yeah totally. that’s totally what I meant

I’ll let our press secretary know.

I’m sure she’ll be able to clear things up right away.

Sure

Whatever you say

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 18:36 | Snow Problems Ice Cream Emporium | Latest poll: 50%

Roshuuto claims to enforce a zero-tolerance telephones and telepathy policy for the trivia night, so Serizawa wanders out the emergency exit and shoots off a couple of panicked DMs to Kurata next to an overfilled dumpster. Please fix this, the central insistent theme of all of them.

To her credit, Tome responds nearly immediately.

She reassures him that she and Reigen have things under control. Also, Dimple is there too. He’s not sure what Dimple is going to do. He can’t hold a phone. She sends a thumbs up emoji. He checks the tweet again. It’s still there. The replies are still full of vitriol. There’s a quote-tweet from Jodo Kirin “condemning hate in all forms,” and the prime minister liked it.

Ah. So that’s what his name was. It sounds familiar now that he’s reading it.

This situation isn’t good, but…

He refreshes the page again.

Deleted.

Okay.

Better.

It’ll all be fine, Serizawa decides after spending far too long beside the dumpster. It’s rank, reeks of old banana peels and rancid milk.

Tome said she has it all figured out, so it isn’t for him to worry about. He has to trust his companions. He reminds himself of this again as he returns to trivia night. And then a third time as he conferences with the makeshift bartender.

Serizawa returns to his table, muttering an apology to his team for his absence. The roof of his mouth is insistently itchy, but that’s what he acquired the beer for.

Hoshida’s head rests on the table, and he looks more toasted than chestnut topping on his complimentary fundraiser sundae. He’s managed to get a smear of vanilla ice cream in his ear canal.

In Hoshida’s stead, Matsuo has taken up scribing duties, lamenting that he couldn’t bring Jawbreaker-chan, whose penmanship is evidently immaculate. That said, Matsuo’s getting loud and messy enough that Serizawa worries someone might have to usurp control of the ship pretty soon.

Speaking of ships, Shinra’s carrying them through the mind-numbing gamut of Roshuuto’s “Match My Celebrity Client to their Celebrity Yacht” category. He argues with Matsuo over the spelling of some award-winning drama actor’s given name and then the spelling of the actor’s yacht’s given name.

Hoshida’s elbow knocks over his fifth beer of the night. Serizawa catches it with a psychic coaster like he’s throwing a frisbee disc with his mind. He sets it back on the table just out of Hoshida’s reach.

The guy’s an adult, Serizawa knows, and it’s not like Serizawa has any right to lecture a twenty-year-old about his life decisions. Still, something’s off about him, the way he’s drinking like tomorrow’s canceled ever since they arrived at the event. Normally, he comes off more chipper.

Maybe college students are like this these days.

“I’m positive about this one,” Shinra explains to Matsuo and by extension, Rocky Road-chan, who seems more opinionated about nautical trivia than her appearance might let on. “I watch a lot of day-time TV.”

Coming to terms with his uselessness, Serizawa cradles a half-drunk Asahi Super Dry in one hand and a half-eaten matcha-and-milk twist ice cream cone in the other. They don’t mix well, he’s learned through trial. He decides to focus on the ice cream, since it’s melting over his hand.

Matsuo wraps up the answer sheet and his pet delivers it to the judging table. In the lull between rounds, Matsuo excuses himself for a smoke break, leaving Serizawa, Shinra, and the husk of Hoshida at the table.

Seizing the mic between rounds, Roshuuto breaks into an impromptu… Is it a campaign speech? Some of it is about his campaign. Right now, Roshuuto seems as focused on thanking attendees as he is with telling a story about his vacation with some famous idol who also donated to the campaign, and there isn’t much discussion of his platform beyond this.

Shinra folds his arms over his chest, heaving an impatient sigh. He leans back in his seat, and his prayer beads clink together at the movement.

“I was wondering,” Serizawa tells him, wiping his hands on a napkin and reassuming his beer. “Are Roshuuto-san’s union events usually like this?”

Shinra turns. He stares at Serizawa indecisively, as if hosting some internal debate Serizawa isn’t privy to. Serizawa wonders if there’s something on his face. He swipes his napkin over his stubble just in case.

“Listen,” Shinra says seriously, lowering his voice. “I need to ask about something.”

“Uh. Sure.”

The inebriated crowd of union members around them has gotten rowdy enough that Shinra doesn’t have to drop his voice much to be safe from any eavesdroppers.

“Is Reigen really serious about this whole thing? About being president of this crowd?”

He gestures around. A psychic union member possessing no psychic aura and clad in boxing gloves struggles to hold a sugar cone of hojicha ice cream without it tipping over.

“I know how he feels about this whole business, so I have to ask.”

“Reigen-san wants to do right by the world,” Serizawa says hesitantly, picking at the condensation-drenched label of his beer. “He decided that this would be a good outlet for that goal.”

Shinra gazes at him warily.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he says. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Reigen’s a good guy. Sometimes. But he’s not that altruistic. C’mon now — what’s the real reason?”

The beer label peels under Serizawa’s thumbnail.

“To be honest,” Serizawa admits. “Our survival as an office depends on it.”

“So he’s desperate, eh?”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Serizawa argues, brow knitting. “If you built something from scratch, wouldn’t you be proud of it? Wouldn’t you want to make sure nothing bad happens to it?”

“Sure. I’m a business owner too, you know. You don’t have to convince me. But there’s something you two need to understand. Maybe you already do. But I don’t want it on my conscience, so I’m gonna say it anyway.”

He leans in closer to Serizawa.

“You need to be ready. I’ve seen how Roshuuto operates within the union when there’s something he wants.”

“We’ve dealt with Roshuuto-san before. It’s not like it’s something new.”

Shinra shakes his head. “No. The union presidency is something Roshuuto wants more than anything else. He’s been breathing down Jodo-sama’s neck for years. There’s no level he won’t stoop to.”

He pauses a moment, as another member Shinra evidently recognizes as a Roshuuto supporter squeezes by their table.

“There are other ways Reigen could have kept himself in business without resorting to this,” Shinra remarks once the coast is clear. “Surely, you’ve realized that too. He’s not running out of the goodness of his heart. It’s Reigen we’re talking about.”

Sure, Serizawa thinks, Reigen was pretty upfront about the need for the union accountant too.

But Shinra continues before he can entertain that any further.

“If you ask me — Reigen staying in this race. It’s like…he’s skydiving without a parachute. It’s fun and games now. But there’ll be a moment that he’ll stop and look around and realize he’s fucking doomed. It’s one thing if he ruins his own life — but he dragged you into it too.”

Shinra points at Serizawa from around his beer.

“If I were you, I’d talk him out of this while I still could. And if that fails, I’d get ready for things to get ugly real fast.”

The label tears under Serizawa’s thumb.

“I think,” Serizawa says, picking out the paper bits from under his nail, “that you should mind your own business, Shinra-san.”

Sensing Serizawa’s resolve, Shinra raises his hands in quick surrender.

“Fair enough. Do whatever the hell you want. I told you — I only said all that I could sleep at night. Mission accomplished.”

Before Serizawa can respond, Hoshida rises abruptly from the table with a squeak of his chair and makes a desperate beeline for the bathroom down the hall. The desperate evacuation dampens much of the tension between trivia teammates.

Shinra chuckles at the spectacle, as Hoshida’s sneakers squeak down the hallway. “Speaking of getting ugly… What’s going on with that kid? He’s all over the place…”

Serizawa still stews on the earlier thought. Matsuo returns from his smoke break, spirit in tow. After an ear-shattering moment of mic feedback, Roshuuto announces the team standings — and Channeling Spirits is middling among the pack.

“In this last round, you can bet all of your accumulated points — double or nothing. And the final category,” Roshuuto calls, “is best-selling light novels.”

Serizawa gazes solemnly around the table, trepidation replaced with his earlier competitive fire.

“Give me the answer sheet,” he says with dizzying gravity. “I got this.”

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 20, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #89

Letter to the Editor: Please no

This letter references November 19’s “Letter to the Editor: A weak candidate pool requires drastic measures”

Please, and I cannot emphasize this enough, do NOT elect me president of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union.

I appreciate the thought, but I have other things I’d much rather do with my time. I’ve got a business to run and a lot of TV shows to catch up on. And I have a feeling political affiliations are terrible in the dating world.

Personally, I’m voting for Reigen. Do I think he’ll do a good job? Nope. But do I want to live in a world where Roshuuto is the president? Also nope.

In conclusion, I don’t care who you vote for as long as it isn’t me.

Thanks for your consideration.

— Shinra Banshomaru, Cuticle City

.

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 21:02 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 50%

Serizawa makes it home in one piece, though he can’t say the same for Hoshida.

Hoshida had claimed he drank too much while still taking medicine for the cold Tome gave him, but Serizawa watched him drink the whole night like he was trying to pickle his own esophagus.

When trivia ended, Serizawa picked out a team prize (an item no one else on the team seemed to want in their possession) and left the stuffy ice cream parlor promptly. He found Hoshida foiled by his own bike lock in the adjoining alley and unsteadily starting the long walk to his domicile.

“I did…a bad thing,” Hoshida slurred to Serizawa, hunching over and clutching at his stomach. “I did a really bad thing. Please don’t tell Kurata-san.” He searched desperately over Serizawa’s concerned face. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… You and everyone.”

If by “bad thing,” Hoshida meant puking over the curb on Avocado Street with Serizawa his captive audience, then Serizawa didn’t think he needed to worry so much. Serizawa is married to Seasoning City’s worst lightweight, so the retching didn’t phase him at all. And Hoshida threw up over Serizawa’s least-favorite crepe stand, so really, it’s no skin off Serizawa’s back.

But because Serizawa felt bad, he helped Hoshida clean both himself and the side of the cart up and called him a cab home. It’s expensive for a college student, sure, but Serizawa feels he made the right choice. At the time, Hoshida seemed too discombobulated to successfully swipe the right end of his fare card through the bus scanner.

Now that Serizawa’s home, he doesn’t want to think about Hoshida’s ordeal. It’s a Friday night, and he’s a winner. And what he wants to do is change into sweatpants, crack another beer, and insert himself insistently into Reigen’s personal space.

“We won trivia night,” Serizawa announces from the entryway, kicking off his shoes. His briefcase, still a bit green-tinted, slumps next to the shoe rack. He loosens his tie with his unoccupied hand.

“What the hell is that?” Reigen demands from the couch.

“That,” Serizawa explains, “was the prize.”

The prize in question is a full-size Roshuuto-themed body pillow, and Serizawa carried it all the way home, even shoving it through the subway. It only snagged once on the turnstile.

“Seems more like a loss,” Reigen says.

“It seemed nicer than the pencil case with his face on it,” Serizawa explains. “Better value. Maybe I’ll have a cover printed of you instead.”

Reigen snorts into a couch cushion. “You’re nuts.”

“Maybe a little.”

Serizawa sets the body pillow down on the dining table. He specifically turns Roshuuto’s face away from watching them, because it feels weird not to. He lifts his hand, and the fridge dispenses a beer for himself and a lemonade for Reigen. And with all of that accomplished, he wanders to the living room to sidle up aside his spouse, beverages floating to the table.

The times Reigen is jealous of psychic powers are few and far between — but this is one of them. He can’t ignore the utility, the convenience. The first time Serizawa flicked off the bedroom lights with a wave of his finger, Reigen decided then and there he did not want to go to bed unaccompanied ever again. No more bare feet on the cold hardwood.

“Tome-chan messaged me earlier,” Serizawa says, settling next to him. He plucks open the collar of his dress shirt. “After she refuted all the women-hating allegations, she said you had a fundraising lead.”

“I sure do,” Reigen says proudly, cracking open the effervescent lemonade. “Mitsuura said—”

He pauses, while Serizawa watches him expectantly.

How to frame this?

There are a few issues, actually some really major issues, relayed to Reigen in that last phone call. But it’s nothing that Reigen needs to concern Serizawa with just yet. Reigen can fly solo if he needs to. He’s always been self-sufficient. He’s always figured things out.

There’s enough on Serizawa’s plate already, and Reigen won’t let the stress crush him. Frankly, he’d rather drop out of the race entirely than allow Serizawa to run himself ragged again if he could help it.

“Mitsuura said he could donate some money,” Reigen says. “We’re working out the details.”

Technically, it’s not a lie at all.

Serizawa says, “And… a debate?”

“Hardly anything,” Reigen dismisses. “We have nothing to worry about. The debate’s the least of my concerns. If you’re gonna worry about a debate, worry for Roshuuto. He’ll need all the help he can get.”

Reigen will deal with Mitsuura, he’ll deal with the debate, and he’ll deliver the results they need.

If Serizawa wants it, then…

“Don’t sweat any of the details,” Reigen says, waving like he could push all his problems off the open balcony.

“I’ve got it under control. We’re back in business. It’ll be a walk in the park. Kids’ stuff. A piece of ca—”

“I love you,” Serizawa tells him like he can’t hold it in, pressing his alcohol-flushed face into the crook of Reigen’s neck.

Serizawa’s stubble tickles at the sensitive skin, and Reigen melts under the heat, wax under a lamp, cradled in Serizawa’s arms. The man’s practically radiating pheromones. They say smell is a sign of compatibility. Right now, Serizawa smells like sweat, soft serve, and hand sanitizer. Luckily, Reigen likes all those things.

“You’re always so mushy when you’ve been drinking,” Reigen whines, flushing under all the enthusiastic attention — Serizawa’s mouth on his throat, one hand at the base of his skull, the other under his sweatshirt on the small of his waist.

Serizawa’s lips dance over his collarbone: “I mean it. I love you, Arataka.”

It occurs to Reigen, just before his brain shuts off completely under Serizawa’s skillful touch — that he better figure things out pretty fucking quickly. Because he’s pretty sure he’d rather die than disappoint the few people who care about him this much.

“At least wait until the check comes,” Reigen says.

.

Monday, March 31, 2015 — 18:01 | The Mechanical Mackerel | 118 Days Left

“At least wait until the check comes,” Reigen says, bashful as Serizawa grabs his hand over the table. If he’d known that all he had to do to get Serizawa to look at him like that was treat him to conveyor-belt sushi, he would have done this ages ago.

“This,” Serizawa tells him in his most serious tone, “is the coolest place I’ve ever been.”

They’re sitting at a booth adjacent to the whirring conveyor belt. It’s train-themed, and several miniature models of the Shinkansen carry color-coded plates bearing all shapes of rolls past them. Occasionally, the trains make a soft horn noise, as if they’re passing through a pedestrian-grade crossing. It’s delightful.

The place is slammed, so most of what passes by now is salted edamame and rolled omelets. Reigen’s glad they came on the earlier side of dinner, when there was plenty of tuna circulating.

There’s a rainbow tower of stacked plates teetering next to both of them — mostly the cheaper colors on the pricing spectrum, but Reigen nudged a hesitant Serizawa into snagging himself a couple of the pricier options and a cup of the second-cheapest sake on the menu. He fixed them both powdered green tea and nudged the wasabi to the edge of the table.

“Business has been better than usual,” Reigen says, glancing over the printed check. “I haven’t changed anything, so it must be you. Clients seem to like the persona you’ve built yourself.”

Serizawa frowns, setting down his drink.

“Persona? I’m just being myself.”

“…Right,” Reigen says, clearing his throat. “Yes. That too.”

“It might be the new hand soap Kurata-san picked out. The rosemary scent is nice. Invigorating.”

The bill isn’t bad, Reigen thinks to himself. Not much worse than dinner at a family restaurant.

“If business stays up, I’ll take you here as many times as you’d like.”

“Rei—… Um, Arataka, that sounds a bit like…” Serizawa begins hesitantly.

The stack of color-coded plates at his elbow rattle, giving away Serizawa’s trepidation at how that sentence was intended to end.

“A lot of fish?” Reigen suggests. “I think you’re not technically supposed to have tuna that much. Too much mercury. They say that’s bad for—”

“A commitment,” Serizawa says. “It sounds… Like you’re making a commitment.”

Reigen sits with that a moment, hands stone-still on the table. The ends of his fingers are cold under Serizawa’s touch.

“Katsuya, are you alluding to what I think you are?”

Serizawa says, “Are you uncomfortable?”

“…I don’t know. Aren’t you eager to rush things? It hasn’t been that long, you know. This arrangement. Since—”

“Would it change anything?” Serizawa presses him. “We work together all day. We meet up on the weekends. We eat meals together. Most days, you’re the first and last thing I see.”

Reigen flushes, exacerbated by the warm-tinted light from the decorative hanging lamps above. “Sure, but that’s one thing, and this is…”

Reigen trails off, deep in contemplation. To his credit, Serizawa waits patiently while Reigen flounders around, and the fish fly by on the adjacent conveyor belt. Serizawa takes a modest sip of sake. He makes a face at it. Reigen grasps for the words to describe the gathering dread in the pit of his stomach.

“There’s commitment, and there’s legal commitment, you know,” Reigen babbles out. “It’s a big deal! It shouldn’t be underestimated. You have to go to the city building and give them every document in your mom’s bank safety deposit box. And then we might have to go through a whole to-do about name changes — and listen! I know you’re older, yada yada yada, but I call myself Reigen in my head, so you’re gonna have a tough time convincing me with that one.”

The words are coming out of him — it’s quick and messy, chunky soup from a pull-top can spilled over the booth top. Reigen’s sweating like a pig, even to the ends of his stiff fingertips. He pauses for breath, leaving Serizawa to marvel at his lung capacity, given his smoking habit.

“All of this to say… It’s binding. It’s a pain in the ass to do, and it’s more of a pain in the ass to undo. And I’m not saying I’m afraid to depend on you. If I did, I’d be an idiot. You understand? I’m saying that… Maybe that’s something you might want to avoid. Being stuck. Uh. With all of that.”

With me, he doesn’t quite say.

Serizawa hears it all the same.

“That’s not how I feel about it,” Serizawa says calmly. “But… I think I’m happy with this for now. I’m happy that you’ve spent this much time thinking about it.”

Reigen’s heart thumps in his chest. He wrests his sweaty hand out of Serizawa’s to pull his wallet from his trouser pocket.

“Happy birthday, Katsuya,” Reigen murmurs, rising to settle the bill at the front kiosk. “We’ll talk about this later. Just. Not now.”

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @serizawa_k

For you | Following

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 30 secs ago
Breaking: Roshuuto extends formal debate invitation to opponent Reigen as RSSU presidential election approaches. Our story: https://…

lore lover @ohoshida • 1 min ago
I’m *never* drinking again…………

(@r_kageyama liked this tweet)
RSSU CAMPAIGN WATCH @mezato_writes • 10 mins ago
So booooored. Anyone else hitting up the PETPA meeting tonight? Think it’ll be interesting enough for a story????

└ Yuzu Pepper HS Student Council @YPSeitokai • 8 mins ago
@mezato_writes The student council would like to formally remind you that attending shady events is expressly forbidden for Yuzu Pepper students. Failure to adhere to policy could result in seizure of the Journalism Club Room or an earth-shattering demerit on your permanent record.

└ RSSU CAMPAIGN WATCH @mezato_writes • 7 mins ago
@YPSeitokai Oh c’mon. I can’t attend one silly lizard meeting but your treasurer can hang out at that psychic office his brother works at? Isn’t that hypocritical?! #FreeThePress #FreeLizzy

└ Yuzu Pepper HS Student Council @YPSeitokai • 6 mins ago
@mezato_writes The student council would like to formally remind you that those are two entirely different things. We also formally deny any and all allegations of nepotism.

(@xx_iwanttobelieve_xx retweeted)
Reigen Arataka Supports Women! @reigen_for_president • 15 mins ago
We apologize for our last post and want to clarify that Reigen Arataka stands for women’s rights! He is absolutely not, and has never been, a misogynist. This is a core message of his campaign. We apologize for any offense our previous post caused. #Reigen4RSSU #ReigenDoesn’tHateWomen

└ Reigen Arataka Supports Women! @reigen_for_president • 13 mins ago
@reigen_for_president After some consideration, we decided to pull that t-shirt from our campaign line. Instead, please check out some of our other apparel! Here’s Reigen in one of our favorites, which you can take home for free when you donate to the campaign! #Reigen4RSSU #RisingStar

[twtimg.jpg][alt text: Reigen poses for the camera on a street in downtown Cuticle City. His hands are in his pockets and he gives a coy smile to the camera. He’s standing behind a public water fountain, which partially obstructs the view of his campaign shirt. What is readable: SEASONING CITY’S TWINK-]

Chapter Text

Friday, November 20, 2015 — 18:03 | Cuticle City Keratin Courthouse Circle | Latest poll: 50%

“Mitsuura-san,” Reigen oozes into the receiver. “I’m thrilled to hear from you. I’m assuming this call means you’re interested in supporting my bid for president?”

“It’s funny,” Mitsuura says. “I saw your recent tweet, and I was concerned about you. But then, I got your email. And your other email. And by the fifth email, I realized something. I think we have mutual interests. I can write you a check for the campaign. But if you don’t mind, there’s something else I need from you.”

Reigen, a man suffering the dangerous combination of confidence in his own abilities and financial desperation, leaps blindly. “I’m sure we can work something out. I’d be happy to oblige any requests.”

Mitsuura says, “Let me give you some context. I care a great deal about the psychic world. I’m a pre-awakened psychic myself! My real powers will arrive any day now, I’m sure of it. But I’m worried about the awakened espers in our community.”

“Worried how?” Reigen says. He wanders past the elaborate stone water fountain in front of the government building and toward the massive statue of a thumbs-up.

The statue reads “We nailed it! After expelling all its demons, Cuticle City was voted Happiest Municipality in Japan, 2013.”

Reigen leans against the clenched marble fingers as Mitsuura elaborates.

“I’m worried about all of it. You, your employees, the group of kids I recruited to the Awakening Lab way back when… It’s a feeling I can’t shake. If we don’t act soon, society might be headed down a dangerous road.”

Reigen rolls his eyes. He gets doomsayers like this in his office left and right. Society’s so full of rampant pessimism these days. Everyone and their mother thinks they’re the next Nostradamus. And Reigen ran a psychic office in 2012 of all years. He’s had enough for a lifetime.

“Let me offer you a different perspective,” Reigen says, like he’s talking to one of his regulars. “If you’re that concerned about the state of the world, then you can count on me to dispel all of your troubles. Being worried about society is a common issue for someone with your financial caliber. Did you know that? That’s why so many wealthy folks dabble in philanthropy to assuage their concerns. A donation would bring you closer to that goal, Mitsuura-san. That’s my professional opinion as a powerful psychic! Think of it like…like a bloodletting for your wallet, if you will. Letting out the bad humors. A financial exorcism. And if you happen to choose my campaign as the receptacle, then all the better.”

Mitsuura remains silent. Too silent. Reigen frowns.

He wouldn’t hang up on Reigen so quickly, would he? Sure, Reigen talked for a while, but he didn’t think it was worse than usual. Was it the content? Usually, the leech speech is one of his better ones. Or maybe it’s poor service? Reigen checks the phone, but the signal’s strong. Full bars.

“Hello?”

He hears movement on the other side. There’s some static.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.”

Reigen’s frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

“I’d like to donate to your campaign. You’re right that it would make me feel better. But I have conditions. Two, to be exact.”

“Go on.”

“Due to…um, current financial difficulty, I can't access my funds without having something to show for it,” Mitsuura explains, sounding a touch embarrassed. “Not my choice. I love spending money without a second thought! But it’s out of my control.”

“I’m not asking for much.”

“The amount is immaterial,” Mistuura replies softly. “All my transactions require approval. From my family. It’s their money.”

“I thought you were a self-made man.”

“I am a self-made man,” Mitsuura clarifies, “in that I, myself, made the Awakening Lab. …With a generous lump-sum from my parents.” Mitsuura sighs. “There are new conditions to unlocking funds now. It’s a long story.”

Reigen is losing patience for this runaround. The politeness in his voice is strained.

“Can you write me a check or not?”

“Oh, I can get you money. I just have to demonstrate its use. My parents have doubts about my interests — but I know that a psychic demonstration from someone of your caliber is all it will take to convince them.”

“A psychic demonstration,” Reigen repeats doubtfully. “You want me to demonstrate…psychically?”

“My father is scheduled to be in town on the 30th. He’s hosting a cocktail party in the afternoon. We’d slot you in during that time. It doesn’t have to be much at all. Bend a silverware tray of spoons! Lift a sedan! Brulee the dessert! I’m sure this is child’s play for an esper as powerful as you.”

That’s all? Something about the date seems familiar. It must be the proximity. November 30th is the day before the election, so Reigen would lose precious campaign time. But that’s worth it for the sort of money Mitsuura could offer him. He could make that work. And if he’s going to spend the precious time, he might as well get a photogenic opportunity out of it for Tome.

“A sedan?” Reigen laughs. “Please. Bring a truck. My business partner will be happy to—”

“No, it has to be you, Reigen-san. You’re the one running for president,” Mitsuura says.

“…Uh huh,” Reigen agrees tentatively.

This still isn’t so bad. It’s doable. Serizawa could do it from backstage. Or he could beg Dimple to possess him. Could Dimple levitate a car? Maybe if Shigeo powered him up and—

“This is a great chance for you to inspire the weaker espers in the audience too,” Mistuura says. “After spending time with the kids, I can say for sure — all espers need a role model! An upstanding, honest man like you would do the trick.”

Reigen has to do the demo and other espers might be present? That rules out a helping hand from Serizawa or Dimple. And that’s far trickier to pull off.

How the hell is he gonna lift a car? A series of well-hidden pulleys? A stage with a trick floor? Or, could he bring along those buff friends of Shigeo’s, dress them in camouflage, and have them quietly heft the automobile on his cue? How many guys did it take to lift a car anyway? Three? Five? More? Maybe —

“We’ll make sure to arrange for the truck,” Mitsuura says cheerfully.

God dammit.

“What’s the other condition?” Reigen squeaks.

Mitsuura’s tone is more grim.

“I’m worried about the espers in Seasoning City. There’s certain…rhetoric going around. The board members in my neighborhood, your opponent Roshuuto-san included, voted to condemn esper vigilantism at a recent meeting.”

Reigen barks out a relieved laugh. He can throw down Roshuuto much more easily than he can throw down a truck.

“He would do something like that! It’s not like I care what that jackass does in his free time. It’s got nothing to do with us. Let him say what he wants. Who cares?”

“He’s more influential than you think. The neighborhood is full of politicians, businesspeople, and celebrities. If they aren’t his neighbors, they’re his clients. And I’m sure you’d agree — classifying people like this… It’s a slippery slope.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me. Is this about the stupid lighthouse?”

If anyone has the right to be mad about the lighthouse, it’s Reigen. His forehead’s still itchy around the healed-over scar. He had to get special gel for that, and it smells bad.

“Lychee Lighthouse was the neighborhood symbol,” Mitsuura says. “But it’s more than that. I think it’s about Seasoning City’s anxieties overall. Think about it. All those strange events in the past few years? They’re looking for someone to take responsibility. Or… Maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it.”

“It sounds like they’re looking for a scapegoat,” Reigen says, jaw clenching.

“The union has sway in local politics. I’m worried all of this might snowball into something terrible. Society could cast espers as dangerous or out of control. They might launch investigations into espers who are just trying to be themselves. And it could get even worse…”

“That’s why you’re worried about the kids,” Reigen says. “Mob and…”

“Teru-kun, Ritsu-kun, all the others, yes,” Mitsuura agrees. “I’m worried about the kids. The adults too. You specifically. There's a record of your involvement the day of the kaiju attack. But you have an impressive amount of restraint! You’re in the pictures online — but I couldn’t find any pictures of you actually using your powers!”

Cell phone pinched between his cheek and his shoulder, Reigen turns his rubber wedding band over his finger as he considers this.

He’s no stranger to accusations over the internet. If Roshuuto wants to sling mud at him, he’s happy to soak it up and sling it right back. Reigen’s reputation? It’s not like it’s worth much anyway.

But the kids? That’s different.

They’re kids! They shouldn’t be subjected to the power-hungry political maneuvering of adults. Especially the ones who claim to be espers themselves. That’s the worst part of this, isn’t it? Adults claiming to understand just to work in their worst interests.

His stomach drops.

It sounds a bit like…

“Reigen-san?” Mitsuura prompts.

Serizawa is going to freak out when he hears this, Reigen knows.

Sure, he’ll fret over the impact to the business. He’ll worry about his remaining debt to the city. He’ll struggle to understand whether he’s integrated as well as he thinks he is. And he’ll wonder whether his own actions contribute to the plight of others.

But all of that pales in comparison — because most of all, Reigen knows, he’ll freak out about the kids.

Serizawa cares about them so much. Reigen saw how Serizawa reacted when the Mimic tried to take Tome and Hoshida in the forest. How he jumped into action when Rusty went after Tome. How guilt over Sho’s terrible childhood continued to plague him. Serizawa knows firsthand what it’s like to be cast away from society for reasons outside his control.

Reigen can’t burden him with this.

Serizawa’s been through enough already. They say stress kills. Serizawa has already been through more stress in thirty-three years than most men have in their lifetimes. Between campaigns and kaiju, Serizawa has dealt with far too much in November alone.

And Mitsuura singled out Reigen and the kids! It didn’t have to involve anyone else. The least Reigen could do was keep this issue off Serizawa’s radar and save him unneeded anguish.

It’s not like Reigen needs psychic powers to win against an argument already riddled with logical fallacies. No one with psychic powers was inherently dangerous. Obviously! …Ignoring the destruction of Black Vinegar Middle. And destruction of the warehouse in the woods. And destruction of the entirety of downtown Seasoning City. Twice. And then the destruction of the lighthouse.

Alright, so he’d workshop the argument. Give him a few days. His mother always said he could sell cardboard to a lumber mill. Surely, he could sell common sense to those lacking.

They each had their role to play, didn’t they? This is a place Reigen can definitively and independently hold his own. Maybe he can’t fight off a psychic kaiju by himself, but he can fight off a stupid conspiracy.

Reigen could take care of it. Make it go away.

Especially after he figures out how to lift a truck.

“If you’re elected president,” Mitsuura says solemnly, “you put a stop to this. That’s my second condition. The demo and the pledge, and the money’s yours.”

It’s more than money now, Reigen figures.

Although he does really, really need the money too.

“...Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Reigen says. “Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking…”

Something else is biting at him too. Something about the demo date. So many plates in the air, he can barely keep them spinning.

“We can discuss all the details in person this week,” Mitsuura says. “I’ll have my people talk to your people.”

Whatever that means.

Reigen snaps the phone shut, wandering to rejoin his companions.

Tome’s busy explaining Reigen’s opinion on the use of plastic straws to a potential constituent. Dimple makes himself comfortable resting over the crown of her head like a smoky hat. Unsurprisingly, the “psychic” constituent cannot see him. Reigen bows, says a few pleasantries, offers him a shirt, and sends him on his way.

“Either of you remember something scheduled for the afternoon of the 30th?” Reigen says, stuffing his freezing fingers into his pockets against the chilly night air. “Something important?”

“Isn’t that the day of Mob-kun’s race?” Tome pipes up.

Dimple jabs, “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t forget!” Reigen snaps defensively. “I would never forget something like that. I was…testing you! You both passed. Congratulations!”

Tome grins smugly at her victory. Dimple stares after Reigen skeptically. Reigen trudges away back to the thumb statue, considering his next move.

Okay, he thinks to himself.

It’s simple.

In the next week alone he has to: demonstrate telekinesis before a discerning crowd of the wealthiest enclave in the city — inclusion of a truck notwithstanding; solve emerging societal-level esper discrimination; and disappoint Shigeo once again.

At least he’s well-practiced at the last one.

Okay, he coaches himself. Okay. Okay okay okay. Oka—

Oh god.

“Happiest town, my ass,” Reigen tells the protruding phalange.

.

the parachute candidate

chapter seven: decision height ~cheating at car(d)s~

.

mobtok

Following | For You

@reigen_for_president a tour around town! #Reigen4President #Reigen4RSSU #Vote4Reigen #fyp #PsychicPoliticsTok #SnickersSatisfies

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(auto-generated transcript)

[Tome wears a campaign t-shirt bearing the slogan “VOTE REIGEN — A STELLAR CANDIDATE”, a pair of paint-splattered jeans, sneakers, and dangly, UFO-themed clip-on earrings. She beams at the front-facing camera held in a jittery hand, probably due to the fluorescent energy drink cracked open on a table in the background.]

[Tome speaks into a repurposed karaoke microphone, held in her other hand. In the background, there’s a generic corporate-approved audio — because political campaigns aren’t allowed to use the popular, mainstream songs.]

Tome: Hi! I’m Kurata, your favorite press secretary. You might know me from my other account where I rank my favorite fictional characters based on whether or not I could take them in a fight. But not today! Today, I’m going around town to ask people why they’re voting Reigen Arataka for RSSU president. Here we g—

[Cut to: Teru twists a foot from his clipped-in bicycle pedals and straddles over his powder-blue Bianchi road bike as Tome shoves the fake microphone in his face.]

Teru: I was going 30 kilometers per hour. How did you…?

Tome: Tell our viewers why they should vote for Reigen-san.

Teru: Oh? Sure. He’s never seen me as anything more than a normal guy. Despite my psychic powers, Reigen-san treats me like anyone else. Even when I show him what I can do, he acts like he doesn’t see it at all. I think that’s a great life philosophy!

[Cut to: Ritsu and Shigeo are petting a shabby-looking street cat as Tome approaches, microphone-first. Ritsu notices and glowers. Shigeo continues petting the cat.]

Ritsu: —are you recording nii-san? You’re supposed to ask for his permission.

Tome: Actually, I’m recording both of you. And the cat.

Shigeo: It’s fine. Nice to see you, Kurata-senpai.

Tome: Why should people vote for Reigen-san?

Ritsu: He’s stayed in business for a long time. Despite everything. That says something.

Shigeo: Shishou supports people. He shows up and cheers them on. He gives good advice.

Tome: What kind of advice?

Shigeo: How to talk to people. How to spot run-on sentences. Hm. And how to pick locks without psychic powers.

Ritsu: Nii-san…

Street Cat: Meow.

[Cut to: Tome finds Sho sitting in the park and scribbling facial hair over pictures of politicians printed in the morning edition of the major metropolitan newspaper. On film, he’s scrawling mutton chops over the sitting prime minister. He shows off his work at the camera with a proud grin before speaking into the mic.]

Sho: What do I think about Reigen? He likes animals a lot. You can always trust a guy who likes animals! Next time I see him, I’m gonna show him the big wharf roach I found the other day fishing. He’s a cool guy. And, uh…hm. Oh. He doesn’t know how to properly hold a gun.

Tome: Sho-kun, what…?

Sho: What? That’s a good thing! It means he’s peacefu—

[Cut to: Tome visits during a game of ping-pong between Inukawa and Takenaka. Takenaka is playing left-handed to give Inukawa a chance at winning. It’s not helping much. Inukawa misses a point, and the ball ricochets off the table. Tome swats at it with the fake microphone.]

Inukawa: Wii Tennis made this seem easier. And it’s not fair if you read my next move!

Takenaka: Don’t need to.

Tome: Hey guys — what do you like about Reigen-san?

Inukawa: He’s a decent guy. He helped me with homework once. He got most of the answers right.

Takenaka: I read his mind one time. All he thought about was food. I can respect that. Most old guys are gross, but he’s just hungry.

[Cut to: Tome trains the camera on a random brick wall. She stabs the mic at nothing.]

Disembodied voice: They can’t see me, you know.

Tome: Oh, shoot. I forgot. You’re too much of a commanding presence, Dimple-chan.

Disembodied voice: Oi. What did I say about calling me—

Tome: I’ll edit this out.

[Cut to: Serizawa departs a model store with a friend from night school. He carries a bag, a cardboard box packed neatly inside. There’s a receipt crinkled in his hand. He smiles warmly at the camera, speaks pleasantly into the microphone without prompting.]

Serizawa: Thank you for doing this, Kurata-san. People should vote for A—Reigen because he’s attentive and kind. He’s the best person for the job. Most importantly, he’s himself.

[There are disembodied retching noises in the background.]

[Cut to: Tome confronts Hoshida as he studies a piece of ancient looking parchment over a table. The writing is an uneven dark red and the parchment is burnt at the corners. He looks up startled, clearly not expecting a visitor. He brushes the microphone aside.]

Hoshida: Kurata-san, this is the library. I’m working on a deadline.

Tome: Hey, you’re a union member! Why are you voting for Reigen-san?

Hoshida: …Isn’t that a bit personal?

Tome: The people want to know, Hoshida-senpai. Don’t leave them waiting.

Hoshida: I, uh —

[The video cuts off as it reaches the time limit for the chosen corporate audio.]

.

Sunday, November 22, 2015 — 11:12 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 50%

If Reigen’s going to figure things out on his own, then he’s going to spend as little time in the apartment as he can. He’s pretty sure if he’s bombarded by the picturesque domesticity within his domicile any longer, he might inadvertently spill his guts over the dining room table. Spilling is not how he intends to spend his morning.

It’s not deliberate and it’s not lying, he reminds himself. Remaining ignorant is to everyone’s benefit.

As for missing Shigeo’s race… He’d tell Serizawa about it later. Obviously. And he’d tell Shigeo. Obviously. It’s not like he can fake being there while not being there. No sense in hiding it. But he’s still convinced he can talk Mitsuura out of the worthless demonstration. And why bear a confrontation when you can fix it under wraps?

Monday, Mitsuura’s assistant had told him. He’d chat with Reigen again on Monday.

Reigen felt itchy enough earlier, curled into Serizawa’s warm side through the bulk of the morning, pretending to sleep peacefully as Serizawa snored. The rest of the morning — pouring coffee, fixing eggs and natto over rice — the itching only heightened.

After they ate and Reigen scrubbed the dishes, he watched Serizawa work on his in-progress model on the dining room table. It was the first he’d had free time to engage with his hobbies in weeks. In this case, the hobby was a model of a steam-powered locomotive with working wheels. Serizawa carefully fit each piece in its slot — using tweezers when his big fingers were too clumsy with the tinier fragments.

He’d bought himself the model secondhand after months of scrolling through listings online. He’d wanted a train build since visiting the conveyor-belt sushi bar.

Reigen had jokingly suggested they hot glue a plate on top. Serizawa stared at him like he’d been betrayed by the mere suggestion.

“We do not mod,” Serizawa announced.

As Serizawa continued his work, Reigen excused himself to buy a new incandescent bulb from the hardware store down the street. There was a burnt out light to replace in the bathroom. He lingered in the lighting aisle for longer than necessary. He did an extra walking loop around the block and another — hoping to release his pent-up energy like steam from a kettle.

Now, he returns, gone only an hour.

Serizawa’s model is left mostly assembled and glued, drying over a sheet of newsprint on the corner of the table. The box fan runs in the corner, dispelling the chemical smell of the adhesive. There’s a painting kit left out for later.

Reigen leaves his plastic bag on the bathroom counter.

Despite the chilly temperature, Serizawa sits in a patio chair on the balcony. Reigen used to smoke there before he finally quit. There’s still a mark on the railing where he had thoughtlessly stubbed a cigarette and burned the layer of cheap paint. Reigen would fix it whenever they left the place — which he hoped would be never.

Serizawa wears brown corduroy pants with a fuzzy green sweater his mother knit for him for his last birthday. Cozy and soft, the pair. Between the outfit, the near-noon sun, and the warmth of his own aura, Serizawa reads comfortably despite the autumn chill. He scans through the last few chapters of his light novel.

Reigen hasn’t started the series yet; he told Serizawa he would get to it. In response, Serizawa had struggled not to blurt spoilers, excited as he was about the prospect of sharing the interest.

Reigen replaces a lightbulb. Serizawa flips a page. Reigen wanders back to the living room. Serizawa flips another page. Reigen examines his aloe plant for mold. Serizawa flips another page. Reigen searches for something to do with his hands. Serizawa flips another page. Reigen settles on the couch with his phone and brings up Tetris, but he can’t focus. He dies immediately.

Serizawa flips a page.

He looks again at Serizawa — basking in the sunlight with legs kicked up over the railing and his crocs shamelessly on display to the denizens of the parking bay below. As he reads, his tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth. There are the first crinkles of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. His wedding ring gleams in the light as he turns the last page to finish his chapter.

Reigen’s fists knot into the fabric of his jeans.

He loves Serizawa so much that sometimes, it feels like it might come bursting from his chest. A firework. Mentos in diet cola. His shitty middle school science fair volcano. That birth scene from the alien movie. What was it called again?

He has to get the hell out of here.

“Hey,” Reigen calls. “I think I might do some campaigning. It can’t hurt. You haven’t seen that tiny table I lent you, have you?”

Serizawa’s fingers pause over the corner of the book, nearly creasing his page.

“Um,” Serizawa says, staring determinedly at a page number. “I—no. I have no idea where it is at this present moment. Sorry, Arataka.”

Huh. Weird, Reigen thinks. Serizawa fidgets and re-reads the same page twice. He could have sworn Serizawa just used it for something.

Oh well.

He’d have to ask Tome.

.

Excerpt from Reborn as an Office Cappuccino Machine, I Now Wander The Breakroom, Volume 5: Affogato Arc Part Two: Chapter 40: We all Scream for Ice Cream

I could feel the pressure within me, my espresso-blend coffee grounds packed tightly in their cartridges. All that training had paid off. I could heat myself to the perfect temperature. I could pull the perfect shot. I could once and for all defeat the vast evil that lay before me — the frozen wasteland of the dairy counter.

Aside from a quick pour of half-and-half, this much dairy threatened the very existence of the workplace. Adults weren’t meant to break down so much lactose. They lacked the enzymes! And it was my sworn duty, as the man reincarnated as the office cappuccino machine, to protect their precious gastrointestinal systems. If I failed my sacred duty, chaos would reign.

Having leveled up and gained the formidable power of ristretto, I stared down my opponent with the full force of the LED buttons embedded in my control panel. Steam poured from my vents.

“Hah!” cried my opponent. He sublimated, vapors rising off his every word. “You might think you can melt me, but you underestimate my power!”

“You’re hardly in a position to negotiate,” I replied righteously, poised to aim and reduce my opponent into little more than a macchiato.

“I’m not your average, run-of-the-mill soft serve. I,” the animated cabinet declared, “am gelato.”

“What?!”

“I’m denser than ice cream! I’m only made of 30% air! Soft serve contains 45%! So you see, I’m not some pushover you can dissolve away. You face me as an equal.”

I gasped, unsure of how to deal with this confectionary Ragnarok. But then I remembered what my great sensei, the head of human resources who had a taste for mochas, once said in this very breakroom.

“You’ll never know what you can overcome if you don’t try it,” she said, sipping her beverage. “That’s why we always rank people artificially low on their quarterly performance reviews. It’s a test of their mettle.”

Reinvigorated with passion, I channeled my coursing emotions into a flood of coffee concentrate. My enemy fired scoops of gelato in kind. Quickly, the break room carpet flooded under a sea of coffee and vanilla — a deadly combination I would later learn to be The Mythical Affogato.

.

Monday, November 23, 2015 — 14:35 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 50%

Reigen wrestles with a “cursed” pop-up electric toaster. He’s got a screwdriver in one hand and the contraption in the other. The client waits in the Hideaway Cafe upstairs, because Reigen told him that banishing the spirit might get messy. Whether from toast crumbs, spiritual leftovers, or duct tape adhesive, Reigen leaves open-ended.

Dimple hovers over his shoulder, happily dispensing unhelpful handyman advice.

“You could try giving it a bath,” says the ghost.

“You first,” says the conman.

After he assures himself that the toaster is inoperable by way of physical rather than spiritual mechanisms, Serizawa peruses the RSSU election guide on this phone. He’s focused on gleaning as much information as he can regarding debate regulations. Reigen said he’d handle it, but Serizawa wants to make himself useful. And Reigen has a tendency to wait until the last minute to do anything.

Tome uses Reigen’s computer to print off new business cards. For the debate, she tells them. She modifies designs from Teru and Sho. She gained her PhotoShop skills from peering over Reigen’s shoulder and backseat-driving his photo exorcisms. This continued until he became fed up enough to let her drive. The addition of spaceships to the overall cosmic theme is her application of artistic license.

“According to the bylaws, both sides have to contribute funds for the event,” Serizawa says as Reigen fiddles with the immovable toaster lever and Tome shakes the mostly empty toner cartridge until the warning light on the printer goes away. “The campaigns split the cost 50/50.”

“What a scam,” Reigen says, spinning the screwdriver. “The TV station should pay us for generating ad revenue.”

“It’s broadcasting on public television,” Serizawa tells him. “The same channel where they broadcast local school board meetings and those nature documentaries about Russian wolverines.”

“I like those,” Dimple says. “Ritsu puts them on in the background when he studies for entrance exams. For inspiration.”

“He should watch public comments at the school board meetings,” Serizawa says. “And the wolverines might seem tame.”

He watched a lot of daytime TV in his room, especially before the dawn of Mobtube. None of it was good — in terms of quality or ethics.

Reigen frowns, kvetches, “The union should pay for it then. They have no shortage of money if all those ‘exorcism trainings’ they hold are proof.”

Serizawa shrugs. “I guess they don’t, because debating is technically optional.”

And another expense. Perfect.

Reigen would back out, but now he’s tangled-up in Mitsuura’s conditions. All the more reason to straighten things out with the would-be benefactor as soon as possible.

“Cheapskates,” he mutters, sifting through a desk drawer for his off-brand duct tape roll.

He has determined, through powers of observation and use of his cell phone camera, that something’s jammed in the toaster’s grill wires. That’s why the lever won’t budge. He unscrewed the panels from one side to check, but it didn’t give much more of a view. And now he can’t get the panel to stay back on, hence the duct tape.

He pauses a moment. Is duct tape heat-safe? God forbid, he uses the more expensive ceramic stuff. But he doesn’t want to create a fire hazard either. He gives the toaster a good shake, hoping to rearrange the insides so that the screw threads through the panel properly.

In doing so, something comes loose. The lever pops, flinging a melted CD-ROM at Reigen’s face.

Serizawa startles, seized by a brutal case of deja vu.

Reigen — simply — ducks.

The warped CD projectile flings over his head and through Dimple’s body. It hits the wall behind them and clatters to the floor.

“Whoa,” says Dimple. “That nearly took your head off.”

“Who the hell puts a CD in the toaster?” Reigen grouches as Serizawa breathes a sigh of relief.

No harm. No injury. Plus, evidence Reigen learns from his mistakes. Serizawa will happily take that victory for the day.

“Maybe they were trying to burn it,” Tome says.

.

Rising Sun Spiritual Union — Official Constitution (PDF)

Article 6 — On Presidential Elections (continued)

Section 16. Official Campaign Debate Regulations
Candidates for president may agree to hold an organized and televised official debate. The debate is to be verbal and NOT physical or metaphysical. The debate shall be held when the majority of candidates (>50%) agree to partake. In the event a candidate runs unopposed, he shall be permitted to schedule a debate with himself.

Section 17. Official Campaign Debate Venue Regulations
The candidate who first proposes and organizes the debate shall be allowed to select the venue for the debate. Their choice of venue shall meet the following requirements:

• A building that meets code and is not known as a Current Haunted Place. If a building cannot be procured, an open field is also acceptable, so long as that field is also not a known Current Haunted Place. (Previously Haunted Places are acceptable).
• Proximity to public transportation
• A decent sound system
• Seating with lumbar support for Jodo-sama

The other candidates must be notified of the Official Debate Venue at least two business days prior to the Official Debate.

Section 18. Official Campaign Debate Content Regulations
The debater should discuss items of relevance to the campaign but (TO DO 01/03/2005 — I don’t think Jodo-sama ever finished this part but they’ll probably never do this so it doesn’t matter, right?)

Section 19. Official Campaign Debate Finance Regulations
All participating candidates must split the cost of the debate. This includes the official venue, the official host, the official television broadcast, and the official Official Federal Broadcast Approval Application (Code of Federal Regulations Title 47 Part 74 Section 2.37.5).

Article 7 — On Designation of the Rural Shrine Monkey Wrangler

Section 1. Official Election of the Position
The Rural Shrine Monkey Wrangler is a prestigious position among humans and primates alike. The transfer of power shall be passed peacefully from candidate to candidate, respectful of the long, storied, and deeply violent history of the position and

(continues on next page)

.

Monday, November 23, 2015 — 17:01 | Herbes de Provence Heights | Latest poll: 50%

At precisely a quarter after the hour, Mitsuura’s driver arrived in front of Fennel Station in a sleek Toyota Century full-size sedan — black paint, silver trim, and standard gold Ho’o adornment. He parked at the curb and held open the backseat door. He wore black leather driving gloves and a well-fitted modern-cut suit. Despite also wearing a suit, Reigen felt starkly underdressed for a car ride of all things.

Onlookers stared, as if Reigen was some celebrity they hadn’t noticed. After he shoved his belongings across the sleek interior, Reigen stuffed himself hastily into the backseat. He’s recently trended on Mobtter and knows — the only thing worse than ignorance is recognition.

The car passed through his neighborhood streets, took the highway, and exited toward Herbes de Provence Heights. Reigen fiddled with the flimsy handle of a paper grocery bag, which held the selection of campaign materials he’d swiped from the office storage closet.

He specifically scheduled the meeting with Mitsuura during Serizawa’s night classes so he couldn’t be accompanied. But he didn’t specifically keep his plans from Serizawa. He had no reason to. He simply said he’d take care of the fundraising. Plus, he’d given Serizawa location-tracking access to his phone ages ago, figuring it would be useful in the event of a wrong turn, a flat tire, or a spiriting away.

The car drove on the main route along the cliffside. It was sunset. Out the window, Reigen spied Basil Beach, mostly empty save for a few brave surfers in wetsuits. On the other side of the beachfront, shrouded with hazy ocean mist, lay the stump of the old lighthouse. It was left behind as though some burly lumberjack hacked through it with a dull ax. Only ruins left behind.

The damn lighthouse. He’d admired it. Sure. But as his butt crinkled the fine leather upholstery, he wished he’d never laid eyes on it at all.

Things were so frequently better off when he didn’t want them.

He was beginning to think the same applied to this ludicrous run for union presidency. He’d impulsively let another whim complicate his life again. Burden other people too. Burden Serizawa.

The car approached a foreboding vehicle gate. An attendant stationed by the emerald welcome sign scanned the driver’s ID, swung open the gate, and let them pass by with a stiff wave. A short drive later, Reigen trudged up the stairs from Mistuura’s multi-car garage.

Hospitable hot tea in hand and complimentary house slippers on foot, Reigen settled on a designer couch in the living room.

This is how he finds himself face-to-face with Mitsuura Kenji.

On the hefty coffee table between them, an unstamped check sits on a polished silver tray. More than enough money to shore up with the bank and rocket his campaign through election day.

Reigen hasn’t actually seen Mitsuura since the day he met Serizawa. And most of their last contact, he spent cowering from a psychic gladiator in an unplugged refrigerator.

The living room is large and cavernous — it’s wide enough to fit the entirety of Reigen’s modest one-bedroom apartment comfortably inside. The furniture is eclectic — a warm mix of styles, textures, and patterns accumulated and arranged artfully. A grand piano in one corner. A metal telescope pointed out the window in another corner. There are travel souvenirs from all over the world on every surface and picture frames posed on the bookshelves along the walls.

But the central uniting motif of it is the eyeballs.

Eyeballs printed on the wallpaper, eyeballs printed on the throw pillowcases and the underlying upholstery fabric. Eyeballs on the lampshade and in the paintings it softly illuminates. Eyeballs on Mitsuura’s own silk shirt.

And all those eyes seem to move as he does, tracking his every fidget as though he’s under the careful watch of an electron microscope.

“This is for you,” Reigen tells him, handing over the contents of the grocery bag — bundled together, a campaign shirt, tote bag, and hat. “I know you’re not a union member. But since you’re investing, you should have a piece of the campaign. I threw in a coupon for my business too.”

Mitsuura holds up the shirt, scrutinizing the front. The coupon flutters to the eye-patterned rug, settling over a pupil, forgotten.

“Ah!” he nods, “So that’s what it says. That makes a lot more sense.”

Reigen gives him a quizzical stare but doesn’t ask. Mitsuura drapes the article over the arm of his chair.

“I’ll be honest with you, Reigen-san. Outside of this election, I’m not interested in Jodo-sama’s union. Isn’t that funny? You’d think that a psychic organization would interest me, wouldn’t you?”

Reigen waffles. Is he supposed to tell the investor for his campaign that the union sucks? Or —?

Mitsuura goes on, sparing him the struggle.

“I met Jodo-sama as a kid. I asked him, will you help me awaken my psychic powers? And he laughed at me! Can you believe that?”

Yes, Reigen thinks, spotting Beethoven open on the music desk. Yeah. He can believe that.

“I had my doubts about it all then. I opened the Awakening Lab as a non-profit organization to avoid all to-do with the union. The tax writeoff was just a nice bonus! But then, another certain person emerged and the union became harder to ignore. You know who I’m talking about, right?”

“Roshuuto, I’d assume.”

Mitsuura nods solemnly. “Because of Roshuuto-san, the union and local politics have become hopelessly entangled. Lately, he’s had this neighborhood in the palm of his hand. I don’t trust his business model one bit. He’s so sketchy! It’d be one thing if he made his money respectably. And wouldn’t I know? My family money is in precious metal-mining, real estate speculation, and the burgeoning cryptocurrency industry. But Roshuuto-san, on the other hand…”

“Tell me about it.”

“Did you know my own parents went to him for spiritual guidance? Well, it was more like marriage counseling.”

“Marriage counseling?” Reigen says incredulously. “There’s no way he’s qualified to give that sort of advice.”

He isn’t. Reigen knows this, because he checked out of curiosity one day and then promptly removed any proximal suggestion from the Spirits & Such website. He plays fast and loose with regulation — but he’s not asking to be sued.

“Yes,” Mitsuura agrees, grimacing. “That’s probably why they’re divorced now. The whole affair really messed up the family finances. I’ve learned the hard way that inheritance doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Let me give you a compelling argument then,” Reigen says with the swagger of a man with far more money to his name, “Maybe something that could convince the powers that be without us having to lift another finger! I propose, we don’t run a demo at all! No — you said you need me to defeat Roshuuto. I should really focus all of my psychic energies on that, yes? I’ll, uh, send you a picture of my psychic abilities, and that can serve as perfectly reasonable proof for your parents.”

Proof, Reigen thinks, as setting a trash can on fire and then quickly taking a photo while standing over it with his fingers to his temples — like he set it on fire with his mind. Or, better yet, taking one of those pictures where he jumps in the air on a beach with his legs crossed and looks like he’s levitating. And those are just a few of the poses he’s done for the office website.

Reigen’s wind blows on:

“Yes, I think this is what we should do. I will send you a few images. Maybe a video. I’ll even autograph them, free of charge. You send those over to your folks. Get that check approved.” He gestures to the tray in front of them. “And then I take that money. And I make Roshuuto wish he’d never opened a psychic office at all. How’s that sound? If you ask me, it’s a great deal. A limited time offer though! It’s not like you’re my only donor. I have plenty of options, most of them good. So…what do you think?”

Finishing his tangent, Reigen — out of breath — awaits Mitsuura’s reaction.

“Oh,” Mitsuura says pleasantly. “That’s really interesting. But no. We’ll stick with my plan.”

Reigen balks. He says, “Could we at least change the date?”

“That won’t be possible.”

Reigen says, “Could it be in the morning?”

“It can’t be the morning. My father will be on a jet from China.”

Reigen says, “Then in the evening?”

“No, he’ll be on a jet back to China.”

Reigen says, “Isn’t that a huge waste of fuel? And time?”

“I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose so. But this is the way he’s always done it.”

Reigen says, “Why’s he coming at all then?”

“For his event.”

Reigen says, “Why not make it a different day?”

“Because he already scheduled his event for that day.”

Reigen cries, “Surely he’s free another day! Literally any other day!”

“But he’s free this day,” Mitsuura says. “This is a lot of questions, Reigen-san. I thought there would be nothing more important to you than winning this race after everything we talked about earlier.”

Reigen rubs his temples. “It is important. I just… I have things going on in my life.”

“So does my father,” Mitsuura says. “If he changes the date at the last minute, it might tank the stock market! And then I won’t be able to liquidate the funds for the check properly.”

Reigen doesn’t get anywhere for the rest of their conversation. It’s like trying to argue with a statue. A very wealthy statue.

Somehow, he’s been beaten at his own game with nothing more than obdurance. He shouldn’t have underestimated Mitsuura Kenji. The man sits at such an extreme end of the continuum of obliviousness that he’s practically bent it in horseshoe back toward attentiveness. No wonder no one from the union had him in their corner already! In hindsight, it should have been obvious.

At the end of their chat, Reigen leaves — a man with an impossible task in his future, an endorsed check in his pocket, and the beginnings of a stomach ulcer in his abdomen.

He asks for an antacid on the way out. A butler brings another polished silver tray. A glass of mineral water. Two tablets. Strawberry-flavored.

The eyeballs watch him swallow.

.

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 24, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #93

Some assembly required: Presidential debate to be held at former IKEA
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter

An official debate between candidates running for president of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union has been scheduled. The debate will pit union devotee Roshuuto Dozen, 35, against outsider Reigen Arataka, 31. It will take place on the evening of Saturday, November 28. These details were confirmed by a spokesperson from the Roshuuto campaign.

The debate will be held in the flatpack warehouse section of the former Seasoning City IKEA where Roshuuto originally announced his campaign. The Roshuuto campaign did not comment on the familiarity of the location. Kurata Tome, 18, press secretary for the Reigen campaign, however, flooded The Yodeler’s inbox with requests to comment.

“Ideally, the debate would be held at a neutral third-party location, like a school or a wrestling ring,” Kurata said. “By holding it at the former IKEA, Roshuuto-san holds an advantage. It really throws an allen wrench in Reigen-san’s plans, and we don’t think that’s fair.”

Asked if the campaign would file a formal complaint with the union, Kurata said that the Reigen campaign would “rain hell over the powers that be.”

Reigen campaign manager Serizawa Katsuya, 35, amended the record. He said that the Reigen campaign would not protest the location selection. Formal complaints, he said, can only come from union members in good standing according to the union bylaws.

“This isn’t a very well-written constitution,” Serizawa said. “Oh, but don’t tell Jodo-sama I said that.”

Despite minor controversy over the location, many voter-eligible union members said they looked forward to watching the debate. A few said they were still making up their minds on whom to vote for. Among them is Terada, 45, an RSSU member who identified himself as a VIP, second only to Jodo Kirin.

“I tell everyone I’m undecided so they think I’m on their side, so they’ll give me free stuff,” Terada said. “I’m looking forward to the debate. I want to see Reigen whale on a guy again. That was fun the last time.”

The Yodeler’s Fact Checking Team confirmed Terada’s position as the Rural Shrine Monkey Wrangler, which is designated as an Expendable Position, not a VIP.

Broadcasting rights for the debate were granted by the union to BS-WTF, the free-to-air channel home to the broadcasting service for wildlife, transportation, and finance. Seasoning City citizens can tune into Channel 100 at 20:00 sharp to catch the debate live.

This story continues as NAILED IT, on page 2x4.

.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015 — 15:35 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office | Latest poll: 50%

In the lull between clients, Serizawa soundly defeats Tome and Hoshida at Mario Kart 64. And again. And by the third time, even Tome is convinced it isn’t a fluke. He’s always got a mobshroom speed boost at the perfect time. And she’s getting very tired of the infernal noise of Peach crossing the finish line meters ahead.

(Hoshida was convinced a while ago, but he also sucks at video games.)

Serizawa increments his tally on the whiteboard, further bolstering an already impossible lead.

Tome groans, “It’s not fair!”

“I play a lot of games,” Serizawa shrugs.

“I play a lot of games,” Tome returns. “Mostly instead of home and office wo—”

She cuts off as Reigen glares at her from over his desk.

“I,” she amends, “am a diligent overachiever whose school would never contact her boss over missing assignments.”

Reigen rolls his eyes, returning to his computer work.

“I’ve been playing this longer than you’ve been alive,” Serizawa tells her wistfully. “When I was younger and stuck in my room — even when I was having the worst day of my life — I still had video games.”

The Nintendo 64 was a relic from his hikikomori days. He managed to destroy so many of his possessions by accident over the years, but never the N64. His mother gave it to him right when it came out, nearly twenty years ago. He slammed it multiple times into the wall by accident, the whim of the mercurial power beyond his control. And it never ceased to work. Amazing. A credit to good engineering. He read on Mobbit once that GameBoys could survive bombings and tsunamis — so it made sense that console too survived the psychic clobbering it experienced through his adolescence.

A few years ago, he’d retrieved it from his mother’s house — it was his second visit home since his mother had let Suzuki Toichiro into the home. The first visit, he couldn’t stand to open the door to that room. The second time, Reigen came with him. He didn’t have to. Reigen was only his boss then. But he still did. He squeezed Serizawa’s shoulder as Serizawa opened the door.

It hadn’t been as terrible a feeling as he’d thought it would be. His mother had turned the room over from floor to ceiling; it was hardly recognizable as his self-made prison for fifteen years. New paint, new crown molding, new furniture. All of his surviving belongings neatly tucked away in boxes. He’d grabbed the console, a stack of beloved games, and the few model kits his powers hadn’t smashed to smithereens. Reigen asked if he ever wanted to have a game night. At the time, Serizawa had never played anything but one-player. They stayed up all night playing fighting games.

Despite his happy reverie, Serizawa senses the dampened mood he’s created in the office before Reigen can jump in to turn it around.

“You two want to see something else I can do?” Serizawa says.

He restarts the game in one-player mode, selects Peach as usual, and enters the Grand Prix. He races as he normally does, quickly taking the lead.

“This is just normal,” Tome says.

“Wait for it.”

He lifts a finger from the controller. The console whirrs. Items appear in Peach’s hand as she drifts around the bend of the track. He throws a shell and another immediately appears, even though Peach hasn’t raced through an item block. He conjures a blue shell, throws it, and blows himself up.

“Psychic Action Replay powers?” Tome exclaims. “Seriously? I’ve known you for almost three years, and you’ve never shown me that? What the hell, Serizawa-san!”

“He hasn’t shown me that either,” Reigen says, blinking at the TV. He’s never seen his spouse do anything more than basic circuitry.

“I’m not a cheater,” Serizawa says. And with a shit-eating grin, adds, “Haven’t needed to, at least.”

“How many games have you seen me struggle with?!” Tome protests, jostling Hoshida with her gestures. “And you did nothing! Terrible friend. Horrible, even.”

“It builds character,” Serizawa tells her.

With a wave of his hand, he increases the cart’s base speed and zooms past the finish line. The screen glitches.

“Oh my god, that’s it!” Reigen blurts before he can stop himself. “It doesn’t have to be a car at all!”

The rest of the room stares at his outburst.

“It’s a, uh, client thing,” Reigen says, picking up his phone and pressing furiously at the miniscule keyboard. He stands, wanders over to the stairwell. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going for a quick walk. Go back to your posts.”

“At least tell me more about it,” Tome says, poking Serizawa’s arm as Reigen throws his coat over his shoulders and departs.

Serizawa watches him leave through the door, crease deepening in his forehead. Tome frowns. It’s always such a hassle to get Serizawa to take his attention off Reigen when he’s zoned in. It’s like wrenching away a powerful magnet.

“Stop being in love with our boss for two seconds and show me your powers.”

Tome pokes him again — this time more forcefully. He snaps out of it.

Serizawa says, “Is he acting kind of…?”

“Weird?” Tome suggests. “He’s always acting weird. Now listen! When I awaken my own psychic powers, I hope I get those ones. I bet you could use these to control satellites and contact aliens without telepathy. Just using …Uh, what’s this power called again?”

“Technokinesis,” Serizawa tells them.

“Technokinesis. Exactly. I knew that. I can think of far more uses for video game powers than bending spoons. Inspire us, Serizawa-san. How’d you learn how to do this?”

“At, uh, my last job.”

“You and Reigen-san never talk about your last job. Dimple-chan said it wasn’t his place to tell me either.”

Serizawa has never been sure how forthcoming to be with Tome about his previous profession. Sure, he’s not proud of the man he used to be; that’s why he’s put so much effort into becoming more than that. But it’s not like he’s trying to hide it. More than that, it’s important to be a role model, even to non-espers like Tome and Hoshida. That includes demonstrating how not to live your life. He knows how much he wished he’d had a proper role model. He waited 29 years for a role model.

Tome’s always been interested in his old gig — namely because she’s keen enough to have figured out it involved psychic powers. Even Hoshida perks up with interest at the mention.

“I worked for an organization that doesn’t exist anymore,” Serizawa says.

Reigen’s always careful about the image Serizawa projects, especially where his last employer is concerned. Especially when Serizawa first started at the office, Reigen frequently chided him for being too honest with strangers, too forthcoming about his past misdeeds.

But Serizawa figures it’s safe as long as he’s vague. Reigen shouldn’t have a problem with that. There are lessons to be learned, lessons Tome and Hoshida could stand to heed more often given their recent run-in with the haunted podium. Tome and Hoshida are friends. It’s okay to rely on friends. Shigeo taught him that. Last week reinforced that.

“It wasn’t a good place to be. I was irresponsible with my powers. For a long time, I did things that I don’t agree with now. It was my first time out in the world, and…well, that doesn’t excuse it either. But even in bad situations, you can still learn some useful things. My last job helped me learn to control my powers. And—”

He lifts a palm.

The lights strobe. The tea kettle steams. The TV flips through channels. The thermostat switches on. The radio blasts a pop music ballad.

He quickly switches the thermostat back off. He doesn’t need Reigen throwing a gasket at another utility bill.

“—I learned how to do all of that. The best part is I can lose the TV remote between the couch cushions and still change the channel.”

Tome’s starry-eyed. Hoshida’s head is in his phone.

If he’s losing interest in the supernatural world, Serizawa figures, all the better. Less danger that way.

“Mob-kun can’t do that,” Tome says. “That means you’re the coolest esper I know now.”

“I’m just okay. Shigeo-kun could probably figure this out too if he tried. The others too. You should see how a real technokinesis specialist does it. Hatori-san could fly whole fleets of planes with his powers. Most I could do is probably a RC helicopter.” He smiles bashfully. “When I was still storing excess power in my umbrella, it came easier. I was more tuned in psychically, so to speak. But I don’t need that. It’s nice doing things without powers too — including video games.”

He stares at her pointedly, flicking the TV back to the game input where the defeat screen awaits Tome.

“And all of that, Kurata-san, is why I don’t cheat,” he says. “The point of a game is the journey.”

She pouts.

“Another round then. I’ll beat you this time.” She picks up her controller from the coffee table. “You game, Hoshida-senpai?”

Hoshida jumps from the couch, phone buzzing in his hand.

“I have to take this,” he says, stumbling out the front office door, felt coat in hand. “It’s, um, my brother.”

Reigen returns to the office, shedding his jacket and stabbing a thumb in Hoshida’s direction. “He almost crashed into me. What’s his deal?”

Serizawa floats a cup of tea to Reigen’s desk.

Tome shrugs, “Urgent call apparently.”

“Huh. That’s life for a popular young person.”

Serizawa handily wins the next three rounds. Tome maintains her indignance. Reigen perspires at his desk.

“Did someone turn on the thermostat?” Reigen asks, loosening his tie.

Serizawa perspires on the couch.

Hoshida doesn’t return to the office for the rest of the week.

.

Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @mezato_writes

For you | Following

#FREELIZZY @mezato_writes • just now
RSSU President endorsements coming soon. If you’re in the #RSSU, tell me who you’re gonna vote for and why! I’m very nosy!

(@matsu0 and @whipsmart liked this)
muraki (open to work) @_muraki • 3 mins ago
I am pleased to inform my network that I might have found a new job opportunity. #GrindSet #ReadySetGrind

└ PRs BS: 220kg DL: 305kg & more @tsuchiyalifts • 2 mins ago
@_muraki hell yeah man! it only took three years! i knew you could do it!

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • 4 mins ago
Heavy rainfall expected over the next week with possible thunderstorms conditions ⛈️ ⛈️⛈️ Organizers preemptively slash some outdoor events, including the Annual Machete Festival. Full meteorological report via @channel99news: https://…

(@xx_iwanttobelieve_xx, @emiiiii, @rkageyama, and 5 others liked)
✨an average guy✨ @teru_fic • 7 mins ago

my friend’s race is coming up, so i had to support him!!! now no one will lose him in the crowd! #GoodLuck #RunFast #DontPassOutThisTime

[twtimg.jpg] [alt text: A selfie of Teru and Shigeo together. Teru, dressed in his Yuzu Pepper yellow-and-brown soccer uniform, smiles widely at the camera and slings an arm over Shigeo’s shoulders. Shigeo is clad in running gear — bright purple and yellow and likely picked out by Teru. The logo reads Smart Monkey Sport. He holds up a running bib with the number 404, decked out with fabric paint and pompoms in Black Pepper High’s iconic red and blue.]
└ s.k. @serizawa_k • 4 mins ago
@teru_fic Nice 👍 I was wondering what you did with those pompoms.

(you and @roshuuto_official liked this)
PETPA Seasoning City @PETPA_SC • 10 mins ago
EVENT SCHEDULED: Grab your picket signs, your megaphones, and your sense of purpose and join us for the #LoveForLizzy protest. We’re meeting on 11/28 outside the warehouse that used to be the Seasoning City IKEA. Details here: https://…

└ hanako @hanakoishere • 9 mins ago
@PETPA_SC wasn’t this the psycho helmet cult account???? where’d it go

└ PETPA Seasoning City @PETPA_SC • 8 mins ago
@hanakoishere What are you talking about? We’ve always been about the lizard!

(@serizawa_k and @yokaihunter liked this)
LN Announcements @LNFanatics • 12 mins ago
Cover reveal! Check out the first volume of “Banished from Demon Business School, I Decided to Live a Quiet Life in the Demon Coffeeshop.”

This is a fantasy BL isekai spin-off series to the cult-classic “Reborn as the Office Cappuccino Machine, I Now Wander the Breakroom'' from the same beloved author EMI.

[twtimg.jpg] [alt text: The usual black haired isekai protagonist sits on one side of a cafe table. The reincarnated cappuccino machine, having wandered the breakroom to completion, joins him on a date.]

.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015 — 16:02 | Hideaway Cafe | Latest poll: 50%

Tome takes the office stairs three at a time and strides into the office like a woman on a mission. Her shoes squeak over the flooring. She tosses her wet umbrella at the stand. It misses, shaking droplets onto the carpet.

“You’re late,” Reigen says.

Serizawa has already left for class, Dimple departed to float alongside Shigeo’s training at Seasoning City University’s indoor track, and Reigen’s completed all the menial labor he could possibly trust her with. He’s not about to have Tome handle his 17:00 foot exorcism. The client in question has athlete’s foot and weird conspiratorial ideas about 5G towers that he doesn’t hesitate to share in great detail with Reigen.

She slaps a hand over his desk.

“Cafe,” she demands. “Now.”

“What?”

“There’s a typhoon on the way,” she says grimly.

Reigen checks his phone. Sure, it’s been rainy and miserable so far today, but… Isn't the typhoon season a little earlier in the year?

Nevertheless, he flips the walk-in sign and follows her up the stairs to Hideaway Cafe. She swipes them a table. He buys two cups of coffee and two pastries, wondering if this was an elaborate ruse she set so that he would buy her a snack.

He settles across the table, slides her the goods. She peers over his shoulder at the entryway and ducks out of sightline.

“Don’t look now,” Tome says.

Reigen looks.

“I just said don’t look! You don’t listen to me, Reigen-san.”

“It’s just a high school girl.”

“It’s not just any high school girl,” Tome tells him in complete deadpan. “She’s the most powerful girl in the city. This is Mezato Ichi we’re talking about. She’s like if — uh, what’s the baseball guy’s name again?”

“Ichiro? How do you not know that?”

“She’s like if Ichiro was a high school journalist. She takes a swing, and she ruins lives. And she published an article denying the existence of the Mud Boat aliens. I mean, what the hell?”

“This seems personal, Tome-chan.”

“She’s about to publish the Yodeler’s official endorsement of the union race. She’s going to tell everyone who to vote for. I already fed her a bunch of lines, but she insists she has to talk to you too. You need to make her like you however you can. Tell her everything.”

“Sure, I’ll tell her everything.”

“But you need to tell her nothing. Anything you say she’ll use against you!”

“I’m…getting mixed messages here,” Reigen replies, leaning back in his chair. “You’re taking a student newspaper way too seriously. It’s not like it’s a real paper.”

“You’re not taking it seriously enough! You think any real metro newspapers cover a psychic union race? This is the paper of record for us! This interview could be the most pivotal moment of your campaign. We’re still polling at 50%, and it hasn’t budged in a week. So, with all due respect, don’t screw this up!”

“Alright, alright, I get it already. I’ll handle it.”

“If she endorses Roshuuto-san because you gave her bad answers, think of how bummed Serizawa-san’s going to be. He’d be the one stuck with a loser. Forever.”

Reigen scoffs at the dramatics. He turns again to examine the enemy, who’s now sitting ever-so-innocently at another table with a matcha frappe and an open stenographer’s notebook. She waves her digital camera and smiles, clearly recognizing him.

He’s supposed to be afraid of her? She’s a high school girl for crying out loud. Reigen regularly conferences with deadly curses. And even worse, the Baby Boomer generation. This is nothing he can’t handle.

“Pointing’s rude,” he tells Tome. She sheathes her dagger of a finger. “I appreciate the caution, but I can handle a reporter just fine. I have in the past to great success.” Technically, a lie. “Don’t get so worked up. In fact, why don’t you get that coffee put in a to-go cup and man the office for a bit? Go descale the water kettle or something.”

She makes a face at him but rises from her seat.

“Aren’t you glad you have a competent secretary to warn you about things like this? You owe me big time, Reigen-san. At least three raises for all my trouble! Don’t think I’m not counting.” She sniffs. “And make sure you set the record straight on the Mud Boat aliens. I can’t handle that level of blasphemy so close to my weekly sudoku.”

The SS Tome shoves off from her dock at the table. Reigen glances back to where Mezato was sitting. She’s gone. He blinks. He swivels over to the line. She isn’t there either. She isn’t at the milk station or the trash can. Then where—

“Hi Reigen-san,” Mezato greets, sitting across from him.

“What the hell!” he blurts with a start.

“Sorry. My interviewees say I have light footsteps. Is this still a good time?” She never asked if it was a good time in the first place but she doesn’t give him time to answer that either. “Mind if I record our conversation?”

“Sure.”

She pulls a handheld recorder from her bag and clicks the red button. A light blinks on. She murmurs Reigen’s name, the date, and the location and sets it between them.

“I’m glad I caught Kurata-senpai when I did,” she tells him, wearing a smile — pleasant if a bit plastic. “I was just think about you and your campaign after I got the letter from your—”

She cuts herself off, hits the stop button on the recorder.

“Sorry, let me start that over.”

He raises an eyebrow. She deletes the last recording and starts over again with the metadata. The recorder goes back on the table.

“Alright Reigen-san. Thanks for meeting me. Let’s talk about your campaign.”

.

Smile Mart #2873

Address: 666 Ghost Pepper Circle

Date: Nov. 25, 2015

Served By: Sakurai

************************

STORE VISIT RECEIPT

************************

Purchase (8 items)

Menthol Cigarettes…………1 x 650¥

- Transaction Voided

Pork Bun…………………….3 x 150¥

Cup Noodles………………..2 x 100¥

Menthol Cigarettes…………1 x 650¥

- Transaction Voided

Castella Cake………………1 x 250¥

Menthol Cigarettes…………1 x 650¥

Total…………………………….1550¥

PAID IN CASH

************************

No refunds on any items, sorry!

Customers purchase items past expiration at their own risk!

Cashier’s note: Please take better care of yourself. You should eat vegetables. The dry confetti in instant noodles doesn’t count. I do not want someone like Serizawa-san upset with us if you die young from the food we sold you.

************************

.

Thursday, November 25, 2015 — 23:44 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 50%

“—yes,” Reigen says into the phone from the dimly lit bedroom. “Not with the truck. … No, not a sedan either. No cars at all. … No, no, no golf carts. No big props. We won’t need them. My powers are kind of, uh…let’s just say I wouldn’t want you to have to eat the damages. Instead, I’ll demonstrate with salt. … Too lame? Hmph. Everyone’s a critic. Then, a deck of cards. Much safer. … Yes, standard 52. No jokers. That’s very important. Make sure to remove the jokers.”

He stares at his own face in the mirror over the closet. He doesn’t look good. Pale. His eyebags are darker than usual. And…is that a zit by his mouth? He hasn’t had one in years.

“Perfect, thank you Mitsuura-san. … Yes, I’ll keep you updated on campaign policy. You’ll be the first to know if anything changes. … Pleasure doing business with you.”

He snaps the phone shut, lets it tumble out of his hand and clatter to the floor. It’s full of notifications he still hasn’t dealt with. Emails, MBNE messages, an inbox cluttered with his mother’s voicemails. He’ll get to it. It’s just…

He’s so tired already from the week. Dealing with clients. Dealing with his new eccentric donor. Dealing with Seasoning City’s version of Joseph Pulitzer. He could curl up and pass out right over the hardwood.

But he’s in it now. And time is scarce.

He still hasn’t told Shigeo about the race. He’s going to. Hasn’t told Serizawa anything, except that the funds were provided. He watched Serizawa have a peaceful week. How could Reigen ruin it with his chaotic cacophony of self-wrought problems? He’s still determining how to convey that information more gradually.

But Serizawa’s still at school.

Reigen needs to use the time wisely.

There’s a pack of cards somewhere in the closet, he knows. He’d had a magic trick phase, and like so many of his other phases, the remnants of it were shoved out of sight. The closet bears witness. A beach metal detector. A bag of dried-up ceramics clay. Packets of seeds for an unfinished herb garden on the balcony. Incomplete. Half-baked. Abandoned.

After rifling around between a shelf of Serizawa’s winter sweaters and a bag of hole-ridden socks he’d meant to throw out months ago, he finds it.

He shuffles the cards over the floor. He remembers how to riffle and bridge without consternation. A good sign. He’s good with his hands. He can do this. He works through a circuit — card fan with a flourish, a double undercut of the deck, a casual jog shuffle that doesn’t budge the order of the cards. Boom, boom, boom. He can feel his usual confidence return in short order. Maybe he can get away with it and feign clairvoyance.

He pulls out a card. Shows it to his mirror. Seven of clubs.

He tries a triple swivel cut — a move where he breaks the deck into three piles in his hand and pivots them around each other. He shifts them around as though he’s shuffled the order, but really, the card in question is on top of the deck after all the hubbub. It should be there, as the deck comes back together between his deft fingers. He checks.

King of hearts.

What?

He tries again. Shows four of diamonds.

Triple swivel cut. He tries controlling the card on the bottom. He pulls it.

King of hearts.

The hell?

One more time. His hands are clammy. Triple swivel cut. The card on top this time. He checks the mirror. Can they tell it’s not real? It’s hard to watch the mirror and his hands. Cut. His hands fumble. He tries again. Cut, turn the corner over his thumb, one pile then, another and—

He drops half the cards.

Shit.

No.

A desperate noise escapes his throat. A cross between a whine and a choke. The caterwaul of a wet kitten.

No.

He can’t do this.

What is he thinking? They’re rich — not clueless. Who is he fooling with a run-of-the-mill sleight of hand card trick? Like they haven’t taken their private jets and seen more talented men in sequined suit jackets on a Vegas stage? Who is he kidding? He might as well call Mitsuura right back and fess up. He’d get it, right? Reigen has spiritual powers, not esper powers. Or…or better yet, he’s a pre-awakened esper. Yes, that’s it. An esper in transition. Moon powers. No spoons. No cards. Definitely no truck. Good. That will work. He’ll beat them in a game of rock-paper-scissors. He can beat anyone at a stupid mind game. And once he does that, then he might as well tell Serizawa about everything too, especially since Serizawa is bound to be home any minu —

“Arataka?”

Reigen jumps, knees nearly lifting off the floor. He swallows a surprised yelp. His movement jostles the mess he made in the closet, and falling loafer nearly knocks him over the head before it hits the floor.

Reigen shoves the deck of cards unsheathed into the tattered sock bag and stuffs the whole shebang behind the pop-up laundry baskets and the ridiculous Roshuuto-themed body pillow jammed in the corner before Serizawa crosses the threshold and into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Serizawa says, standing over him.

“I was…” Reigen glances at the piles strewn around him outside the closet door. “…tidying up.”

He gazes warily at the debris around him. Messes have to get worse before they get better, right?

“In the dark?” Serizawa says.

“II didn’t notice the time passing. It gets dark so early this time of year.”

“Hm. Okay.”

Serizawa seems unconvinced but relents nonetheless. He flicks the lights on with a lazy wave of his hand. Reigen squints at the harsh onslaught of light.

“It’s getting late, ‘Taka. We should sleep. Could the rest of this wait until tomorrow?”

No, Reigen thinks.

“Yes,” Reigen says.

Serizawa extends his hand. Reigen takes it, lifts himself to his feet. Serizawa keeps Reigen’s hand in his hold even as he leads him away. He squeezes over Reigen’s fingers. Reigen tries to hold still as best he can; he wonders if Serizawa can feel the tremble in his bones.

He has to tell him. The sooner the better. But his chapped lips feel like they’re stuck together with glue.

There’s a loud thump as they leave the bedroom to brush their teeth. Reigen startles at the noise.

“Was that something in the closet?” Serizawa says.

Reigen rushes over, pokes his head back in, wondering if there’s something else he needs to shove back into the dark abyss before Serizawa can spy it.

The other loafer lies upside down over a storage box, rocking side-to-side over its toe box. It must have dropped from its precarious perch on the shelf.

“Yeah,” Reigen says with a grimace. “It was just the other shoe.”

.

Friday, April 10, 2015 — 15:35 | Ten Meters Outside Marjoram Mall | 94 Days Left

Serizawa mentioned he didn’t like the smell, and that alone was enough to make Reigen self-conscious enough not to smoke in his vicinity. Self-conscious enough to be wary of the smell. Self-conscious enough to try to best the constant, gnawing craving for a cigarette.

Truth be told, he didn’t like smoking much. He’d started in college — it gave him a way to socialize, slow down his racing thoughts, and warm the freezing ends of his fingers. The habit haunted him through his lackluster college graduation and his wasted year selling water coolers. It still lingered nearly eight years in the spiritual consulting business. He’d cut back when Shigeo started, but he still smoked in the mornings, during lunch breaks, and late at night. It remained an unfortunate constant in his life.

He hoped it wouldn’t remain in the future.

The future.

There was that cliche he’d scoffed at since he was presented with a career survey in middle school — “where do you see yourself in ten years?” It was a ridiculous question to ask a precocious-if-inattentive fourteen-year-old who preferred to spend his time flipping through the dictionary when he should have been crunching through math homework.

Now, at thirty, it hit him a bit differently. And it wasn’t just the constant voicemails from his well-meaning mother, threatening to set him up with the neighbor’s daughters. Nor was it some desperation as his biological clock ticked onwards.

Ever since their date at the sushi joint, Reigen hadn’t been able to shake his mind away from thoughts of what was to come.

Reigen had never dated anyone before Serizawa. And even with Serizawa, “dating” wasn’t the right word. Dating implied eventual marriage. If Reigen didn’t date anyone, then he didn’t have to deal with the messy entanglement of commitment. Committing to someone meant showing them everything that he was. And that was out of the question.

Actually, the future filled him with dread. He could never imagine letting anyone choose to be stuck with him forever. At the same time, contemplating letting go of Serizawa felt akin to someone whacking him in the gut with a tube sock full of vending machine change.

Where did he see himself in ten years? He could scarcely see himself in ten minutes without buying himself a cigarette.

It was with those thoughts circulating like flies over his head that he leaned against the plastic divider of an outdoor smoking area on the main street. He hadn’t smoked yet today. It was killing him. So instead of giving in and buying a back, he decided to smoke secondhand.

He’d left the office for a walk, because he thought if he sat sweating at his desk any longer, he’d go completely insane. Now Proximity here only did so much. His body still ached. Exposure quelled the worst edge of the craving but not by much.

He dropped to a kneel, back against the plastic wall, head swimming in the shared, stale breath of the street. He squeezed his eyes shut against the twitching in his temple, the sign of an impending migraine.

And that was where Serizawa found him. Helped him up.

“I heard from my classmates that there’s a new dessert shop down the street,” Serizawa suggested, pulling Reigen’s cold, trembling hand into his jacket pocket, gently squeezing over his fingers. “It’s my night off. You seem hungry. Why don’t we try it?”

Reigen sipped a cafe au lait and shared a stack of souffle pancakes smothered in strawberries, bananas, and chocolate syrup. He watched Serizawa grin at the way the confection jiggled at the shake of the plate. He reddened when Serizawa wiped a stray bit of whipped cream from the corner of his mouth and licked it from his thumb. He marveled at the perfect sweetness of a cut strawberry as the country approached peak fruit season.

The sugar didn’t kill his craving.

But it certainly helped.

Away from the public, he kissed the sweetness from Serizawa’s lips in a back alley, pressed deep enough into him to taste the bitterness of coffee too. He followed him onto the subway and into Serizawa’s apartment.

Serizawa pressed him against the wall. Murmured that his lease was up soon. Said he wasn’t sure what to do. Reigen breathed that renewal notice was supposed to come next month. A long sentence of which he nearly lost the plot as Serizawa’s fingers plucked the buttons of his dress shirt.

He didn’t quit smoking that day. He caved before the weekend ended. But his outlook adjusted. He could do another ten years if it meant days like this — days spent bumping knees under a cafe table, brushing arms on the subway car, whispering each others’ names under Serizawa’s quilt.

He could go on and on.

.

Friday, November 27, 2015 — 15:02 | Off-Price Noodles | Latest poll: 50%

While Serizawa takes Sho and Ritsu to an incredibly ill-advised afternoon matinee, Reigen brings Shigeo to their usual dive. They brave the rain under Reigen’s umbrella. The place that doesn’t charge for extra noodles, so it’s perfect for—

“—carb-loading,” Reigen explains after he orders bowls for both of them. “Just what an athlete like you needs ahead of your big day. It’s been a minute since we got ramen together, eh Mob?”

Reigen keeps talking and Shigeo keeps listening. It’s just like old times.

“I’m glad you’re so focused on your goals,” Reigen says. “Remember what I told you about connections?”

“That a man needs connections,” Shigeo says. “And something about trees.”

“You’re making great connections, Mob. You’re inspiring other people. Ka—Serizawa—”

“It’s okay if you call him by his first name around me. I know you’re married.”

“Serizawa showed me Hanazawa’s tweet about you. Look at you! Lots of people want to support you. And with all your hard work, I just know you’ve got a real shot at a medal.”

The server sets two bowls in front of them. Reigen tosses his tie over his shoulder and sets to stuffing as much broth down his gullet as he possibly can. It’ll help his nerves.

“Do you have to tell me something, shishou?”

Reigen sets down his spoon on a thin napkin. “How did you know?”

“I’ve noticed something you do,” Shigeo tells him, leaving his chopsticks on the rim of his steaming bowl. “When you have bad news for someone, you start with a compliment, and then you tell them the bad news, and then you end on another compliment. Like a compliment hamburger.”

He holds out his hands as though he’s clutching the greasy heft of a MobDonald’s double-double, extra sauce and pickles, Reigen’s usual order. He pretends to take a bite.

“I can’t just compliment my student?”

“Sure. Thank you. I appreciate it,” Shigeo says pleasantly, a bit relieved. “So you don’t have to tell me something?”

“No, I have to tell you something actually.”

And the relief drips from Shigeo’s face, much like the extra sauce through a paper MobDonald’s wrapper.

Reigen shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His tie slips. He snatches the end before it dives into the broth. He redrapes it over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath.

Shigeo watches him patiently.

“I can’t make it to your race. Mitsuura-san needs me to attend a campaign event.”

He braces himself.

“Oh,” Shigeo says. “That’s all?”

“...Yeah?”

“Too bad. But I understand.”

Reigen thunks his elbow on the table, kickstanding his chin on his open palm. “I thought you might be more upset.”

“I’m not happy,” Shigeo says, reassuming his chopsticks. “But it’s not the end of the world. The campaign’s important to you. I know you’re supporting me even if you’re not there. And I have plenty of people rooting for me anyway.” He slurps up a hefty bite of noodles, chews, and says. “If I win next week and you miss it, it’s okay. I plan to run more races in the future. You can come to those and watch me win then.”

At that, Reigen stuffs his hands in his pocket, looking for Serizawa’s handkerchief. It’s not there. Damn laundry day. He sniffs.

“This, uh, ramen. It’s spicy!”

“It’s miso ramen.”

“I’m sensitive.”

Shigeo leans back in his seat. He wipes his lips with a napkin.

“You’re a liar.”

“Fine. Ugh. You’re a force of nature, Mob. What the hell… Who said you could grow up this much?”

“Shishou,” he says with a lilt in his voice despite his deadpan expression. “That’s the bun.”

“I take it all back,” Reigen chuckles fondly, reaching over the table to flick Shigeo’s forehead. “You’re a brat.”

.

“WE’RE BACK — THE STAKES ARE HIGHER, THE CHAINSAWS ARE SHARPER, AND THE BLOOD IS BLOODIER. ARE YOU READY 4 THIS?”

[poster_img.jpg]

[alt text: A man built like a semi truck wields a chainsaw in one hand and a machine gun in the other. He wears a black tank top and green camo cargo pants — in combination, they demonstrate his vague military background while not sacrificing the film’s dedication to fanservice.

His back is to the camera, and he’s splattered with sweat, blood, and grime. He stands on a hill, facing a black fighter jet in the sky, leaving the audience to wonder, ‘Is that guy really gonna fight a plane?’ And if the early critical reviews are any indication, he’s totally gonna fight the plane.]

“BY THE TIME HE’S FINISHED, NOT EVEN THE BLACK BOX WILL SURVIVE.”

VENDETTA OF OVERKILL 4: EXPLOSIVE MURDER SPREE
featuring five-time Razzie Award-Winner Crank Johnson

Rated R (Harsh Language, Intense Graphic Violence, and Depictions of Power Tool Usage without Proper Safety Gear) • Coming this November To Theaters Near You • Now in 4D with Smellovision!

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 00:35 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 50%

In the dark and under the covers side-by-side, Reigen tells Serizawa too. Ridiculous as it is, the truth comes easier when he can’t be seen.

There’s silence after the last period. Only the patter of rain on the window. If it was anyone else, Reigen would panic. But in hard conversations like this, Serizawa takes time to think carefully about his words before he utters them.

“It sounds like Shigeo-kun took it okay,” he says.

“He’s resilient. Like I said, he made fun of me.”

“He’s right about the burger,” Serizawa says pleasantly. “You told me I was having a ‘good arm day’ before saying anything else tonight.”

Reigen sniffs indignantly.

“I don’t mind it though,” Serizawa adds, turning onto his side. He props his head up over the bend of his elbow. “You can compliment me as much as you’d like. Positive reinforcement is a tool for a harmonious boss-employee relationship.”

Reigen groans, “Stop.”

“Please. Feed me the rest of the sandwich, Arataka.”

Reigen hits him with a pillow. It’s a declaration of war in a battle he won’t win. Even without powers, Serizawa is big, strong, and intimately familiar with Reigen’s squishy spots. It’s over before it’s begun. Serizawa has both of Reigen’s wrists pinned in one grip, and Reigen’s forced to feverishly reckon with the breadth of Serizawa’s hands. Serizawa gathers the last squirming, shreds of Reigen into his arms, pressing Reigen’s back into his chest. No room left for air.

“You’re warm,” Reigen admits. “I’ll give you that.”

“Praise accepted.”

Serizawa’s nose tickles his hairline. Reigen chews the inside of his cheek.

“You weren’t…mad either? That I didn’t tell you right away?”

“I’m glad you told me,” Serizawa says simply. “That’s all.”

Reigen breath catches in his throat. Serizawa’s arm tightens over his ribs. His breath is hot on Reigen’s neck. Reigen’s eyes prick. Allergies. Dust mites. Mold. Or just Serizawa.

Reigen slides his hand out from under his pillow and into Serizawa’s unfurled grasp, linking the fingers together under the covers. Sweaty hands, both of them. It’s not weird if you’re both sweaty.

“I was thinking that I’ve had a surprisingly restful week,” Serizawa murmurs in his ear. “I wasn’t expecting that, given that the election’s in four days. I was wondering… What’s the reason for that, ‘Taka?”

Is it possible to feel on top of the world and completely doomed all at once?

Reigen closes his eyes.

“Must be luck.”

.

Sunday, May 17, 2015 — 16:35 | EkuboLand | 71 Days Left

“Must be luck,” Reigen said dismissively, like he hadn’t slipped the attendant extra change to make sure this exact scenario came to be. If this was going to be Serizawa’s first ride on a ferris wheel, it ought to be a damn good one.

It was.

Reigen collected his immediate return on investment as their compartment perched at the top of the ferris wheel. They swayed gently, a combination of inertia and the breezy weather. Serizawa gasped as the panoramic view spread out before them on the climb. EkuboLand lay just outside the Seasoning City limits, and on clear days like this one, the ferris wheel afforded the perfect vantage point. The skyline. The bridge. The mountains. Even the hint of the beach if you squinted. Cars like ants, people even smaller.

“The new apartment’s somewhere over there, eh?” Reigen said pointing toward the southside. He recognized Fennel Station. He pointed to the city’s center. “And the office.”

“This is even better than I thought it would be.”

“We can go again if you’d like. There’s no limit.”

They had plenty of time left. Reigen had bought them both day passes with coupons he’d discovered at the library. Knowing about municipal resources like that? He had to laugh at himself. As loath as he was to admit it, he was definitely the kid of a local government employee.

The ferris wheel hadn’t been the first destination. It was cloudy earlier, until the sun burned through the clouds in the afternoon. Earlier, Reigen had dragged Serizawa on a wooden roller coaster, the giant swings, bumper cars — they both learned they were a bit too old for the trauma of bumper cars.

At the picnic area, they bought curry rice. The rice was molded into a sand castle shape. They shared a churro.

A few games too. All that salt-throwing made Reigen prodigious at hitting balloons with darts. Select a prize, the booth operator told him. He gestured to Serizawa. Serizawa passed it off to a kid.

“Too nice for your own good,” Reigen said, elbowing him. “They’ll never learn the cruelty of rigged carnival games if you give them toys like that.”

“Just this once.”

And after that, the ferris wheel. Sealed in a compartment. Wind in their faces. Cotton clouds in the sky. The sun in Serizawa’s soft hair.

Serizawa beamed at Reigen — a man on top of both the literal and figurative worlds — and said something that promptly sent Reigen on a death spiral back to the earth:

“I want to marry you.”

“Are you asking me this now because I can’t get away?” Reigen blurted in response.

He meant it in jest, but he regretted it the minute the words left him, especially at Serizawa’s hurt look in response.

“Sorry, I…”

He opened his mouth to continue, but he wasn't sure what to say. His heart raced, throat tightened. His legs seized like he was some jackrabbit mounting an escape at the sound of a gunshot. They were too high up for that. He couldn’t go anywhere. And if he could, Serizawa had psychic powers so he couldn’t get far anyway. Not that Serizawa would trap him in, but he’d be courteous enough not to let Reigen splat onto the ground, right?

He was in the sky, and yet he couldn't get enough air. There was something on his tongue. He was afraid of it. Mostly, because it didn’t feel like the shape of a “No.”

It should have been. But it wasn’t.

He couldn’t do that to Serizawa. Couldn’t say “yes” even if he wanted to. He wasn’t the person Serizawa deserved. Maybe he was getting closer. But when he thought about all the things he wanted Serizawa to have, and then he examined all the things that he was, he came up short more than a little change.

Maybe he should have taken them snorkeling instead. Then they’d be pointing and bubbling. Not having a dangerous conversation.

Reigen sucked in a breath, feeling like he was breathing through a coffee stirrer. It softened the pulse in his ears.

He said, “...Is this a formal proposal?”

Serizawa faltered.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, scrambling. “I-I don’t have a ring. I will but… This… It’s more of a…declaration of intent!”

Reigen coughed out a laugh. It came out frantic, a bit alien.

“Like a contract. Very corporate of you, ‘Tsuya. Learn that from one of those pamphlets?”

“It’s not binding,” Serizawa told him. “And, um, I learned it from a manga about a samurai who gets reborn as a middle manager and…”

He shakes his head, gazes at Reigen determinedly.

“It’s my way of saying… I’d like to be whatever you need. And if you need time to figure out what that is, I’ll wait for you.”

“Don’t disregard your own needs for me,” Reigen chastised. “You should do what you want. You wanted a ferris wheel view. You should look at that, not me. Like…” He pointed back at the skyline. “See the green space? That’s the track at Black Pepper High where Mob practices.”

“What I want,” Serizawa informed him, chopping through Reigen’s deflection with practiced ease, “is you, Arataka. However you’ll let me have you.”

Abort. Abort. Screamed Reigen’s brain, Holy fu—

“Ask me again later,” Reigen said quickly, like he was some automated fortune-telling machine. Their compartment wrenched forward, back into the rotation around the ferris wheel's axis. The wind ruffled through their hair. Serizawa’s loose curls. He needed a haircut.

“You said that last time,” Serizawa observed.

Reigen’s mouth twitched. “Yes. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“So nothing’s changed?”

He was absolutely lightheaded.

The altitude? The hyperventilation? The vertigo? Maybe a bad churro? It was like he sucked on a helium balloon. His face was hot. He was seeing stars. He was high.

He took a plunge.

“Ask me again later,” Reigen murmured, “when you have a ring.”

.

mobbit.

r/MaleFashionAdvice — u/gunpla_collector_1982 — 6 months ago

[Question] Looking for wedding band advice!

Hi Mobbit. I’m more of a lurker on this sub, but I’m (33M) about to ask my boyfriend (30M) to marry me and I could use all the advice I can get.

I’m looking for a ring, but I’m not sure where to start. He works with his hands a lot. And he touches a lot of salt, so I want to make sure I wouldn’t buy anything that would be damaged by those lifestyle choices.

I don’t have much experience with how these things work, and I don’t want to mess anything up! Thanks in advance for your advice!

As a side note, and I’m sorry if this is the wrong place to ask, but what’s the best way to figure out his ring size? I tried measuring his finger, but he’s kind of ticklish and almost sleep-smacked me in the face.

all 5 comments - sorted by: top

u/teruble_ideas — 6 months ago

WOW CONGRATS!! That’s so cooool!

Is your boyfriend fashionable? There’s this amazing collection from this brand I’ve been following lately. They change color with your mood. Apparently there were a couple reports that they discolored people’s fingers but you can’t always listen to the detractors!

u/strikingly_blessed — 6 months ago

Don’t think about it so hard!!! If you really want to marry him so bad, then you already know what kinds of things he likes. Three words: trust your gut!!!

When in doubt, keep it simple and timeless. Consider your budget. Consider environmental factors. Consider engraving a meaningful message inside.

As a side note, are you based in Seasoning City??? If so, I know of a business owner who could give you stellar advice on this sort of thing!!!! Send me a DM and I can make sure he sends you a coupon!!!!

u/gunpla_collector_1982 — 6 months ago

Part of this sounds a lot like another article I found on Mobgle…

 

u/strikingly_blessed — 6 months ago

WHAT?? No!!! This is advice from the heart!!!! It’s rude to accuse people trying to help you of plagiarism!!!!!!

 

u/strikingly_blessed — 5 months ago

WTF THIS WAS /YOU/ THE WHOLE TIME???? >:0

u/number_one_psychic — 6 months

You should give him one of your family heirlooms. That’s what I would do. The bigger, the better. I know what I’m talking about.

u/dijon_kori — 6 months ago

Make Sure You Sign A Prenup.

Chapter Text

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 10:01 | 123 Anise Lane Apt 2B | Latest poll: 50%

While Serizawa knots his tie in a mirror strung over the closet door, Reigen upends their apartment.

He’s a high-category hurricane, who — satisfied with his destruction of the bathroom cabinets — has extended his trajectory through the bedroom. Presently, he makes landfall across the underbed storage container — the sworn menace to feng shui enthusiasts everywhere.

Personally, Serizawa would like him to be gentler with model kit boxes. Sure they’re empty — but it’s about the resale value. People in that community are very concerned about nicked corners.

Reigen’s voice comes out muffled under the mattress as he rifles under the bed frame with his phone camera.

“—can’t believe I can’t find it,” Reigen mutters as he hoists himself back to his feet, crosses behind Serizawa, and back out into the living room. Serizawa rearranges the boxes back to his liking with a quick touch of telekinesis. He’s pleased to find they remain in mint condition.

Tucking in the small end of his tie, Serizawa attempts aid —

“Hey, ‘Taka, what are you—?”

“The apartment’s too small to just lose things like this, and I…”

—unsuccessfully.

Serizawa’s out of earshot for the end of that sentence, but he can hear Reigen flinging open every cabinet in the kitchen. And Reigen’s not satisfied with that evidently, because he moves to dumping the cup of pencils over the counter and then picking through the assortment of cleaning supplies under the sink.

Serizawa calmly flips down his collar, straightening the ends. Unless Reigen’s looking for cleaning vinegar or leftover MobDonald’s Monopoly tickets, Serizawa doesn’t think he’s going to find anything of value.

Reigen isn't one to make unnecessary messes.

The morning must be getting to him.

They had their hands full. Serizawa needed to stop by Mirin Adult Learning Center for last minute aid in the Cultural Fair, the final skirmish in his battle against urgent obligations dotted through the duration of the election campaign. He reassured Reigen and Tome this visit wouldn’t take more than an hour or two. He had to help hang decorations in a classroom and pitch in for a shift of a taiyaki stand. His classmates put him in charge of scooping red bean paste, and he planned to take his measurements with the grave sobriety such a position deserved.

Serizawa intended to swing by RSSU headquarters to pick up a set of official debate materials ahead of the evening’s spectacle. But Reigen said he would handle it.

Serizawa argued that perhaps it wasn’t the best plan to venture into the lion’s den alone. It’d be prudent to bring a friend. A good friend. Perhaps a spouse with mind explosion powers and only a few morning obligations.

Reigen said he worried too much. And after Serizawa worried about worrying too much, Reigen begrudgingly agreed to summon Dimple along with him for the acquisition mission.

In the bedroom, Serizawa pulls his suit jacket over his dress shirt. In the kitchenette, Reigen pulls an entire drawer out of its space in the cabinet.

The other worries were mere periphery too. All of this was prelude to the entree — the debate. Despite Reigen’s insistence that he’d hack through Roshuuto’s platform like a verbal bandsaw, Serizawa knew he was nervous.

Sure, Reigen was an accomplished actor. He’d fooled Serizawa plenty, especially early on. But Serizawa had watched him every day for over three years. Like observing an endangered species in captivity, Serizawa knew his habits well — enough to understand when something was amiss. He had tells.

For one, Reigen hadn’t slept well, flopping around and pulling the top sheet and revealing Serizawa’s reluctant toes to the wee hours of the morning. Reigen hadn’t wanted to talk much about the deal with Mitsuura. He hadn’t wanted to run lines for the debate, said he’d handle his preparation, write his own note cards.

Reigen had lied to him last night too, even when Serizawa had tried to offer him a free pass to come clean. Whatever was eating at Reigen had its fangs in deep.

Serizawa straps his watch over his wrist. It’s running fast. He readjusts the gears with his powers. He’s delicate over the machinery. He’s done this before and bent a component by accident. Luckily, with enough care, small mistakes like that could be fixed.

Lying wasn’t necessarily a perturbance to Serizawa. Hardly an ethical qualm for a former terrorist. Reigen lied as easily as he breathed. And when Reigen lied, it was usually for a comprehensible reason. Some gain. But too often, the gain belonged to someone else and came at Reigen’s own expense.

And then, the final tell — whatever this was.

Downgraded to a mere tropical depression, the storm rolls back into the bedroom, hanging its shoulders.

“It’s not in there either,” Reigen mutters. “Shit. I can’t believe I don’t know where it is. I just saw it. I…”

“What are you looking f—?”

“My ring.”

Serizawa’s eyes flick down to Reigen’s animated hands. “You’re wearing your rin—”

“My real ring.”

Serizawa can’t be annoyed at the interruption; the desperate look on Reigen’s face is enough.

Plus, it’s a solvable problem, which is Serizawa’s favorite kind of problem.

“Oh,” Serizawa says. “Well, that’s easy.”

Serizawa lifts a pointer finger.

Across the room in the kitchenette, the apron hanging over the pantry door flops, and the ring comes zinging out of one of its pockets. Serizawa catches it in the palm of his other hand.

His powers make quick work of the remaining chaos of the apartment — drawers rolled back on their tracks, cupboards straightened and cabinets closed, knick-knacks returned to their stations, the pencil cup restored with its former contents.

“That’s the only thing I’m jealous of,” Reigen tells him, cheeks burning. “Well, this and the fact you can floss your teeth without your hands.”

“You can too. With a water pick.”

“Point stands. Nine out of ten dentists recommend regular floss.”

“I broke nearly everything I owned before I figured out how not to,” Serizawa says, as the last few bits of detritus fly into place.

Reigen says more sheepishly, “It’s nice to redecorate every so often, I suppose.”

“Not your teeth.”

"Fair."

Satisfied with the clean up, Serizawa turns his attention back to his spouse. He takes Reigen’s left hand in his own, shrouded in a warm bath of the soft magenta light of his aura.

“If you need help,” Serizawa says, “you can just ask.”

“Yeah.” Reigen stares intently down at the ring resting in Serizawa’s palm. “Yeah, I know.”

Serizawa gently turns the rubber ring on Reigen’s finger until it loosens over the knuckle. He pulls it free, sets it on the counter. In its place, he slides on Reigen’s silver wedding band. It settles over the rosy indent in the finger — delicately locked into place like one of Serizawa’s watch gears.

“This feels familiar,” Serizawa murmurs.

“Feeling sentimental?”

“Maybe a little,” Serizawa says, leaning to press a kiss to the silver before relinquishing Reigen’s finger. “Yesterday marked five months, you know. We’ve been so caught up in things, it slipped my mind.”

“We both forgot,” Reigen says.

As if self-conscious about his morning performance, Reigen steps past. He takes Serizawa’s thick coat off the hook, holding it open. One arm goes in, then the other.

“Speaking of important dates, Sho-kun’s birthday is election day,” Serizawa says. “I need to get him something.”

“We both need to get him something,” Reigen replies. “If only you get him something, you’re gonna make me look like an asshole. It’s bad enough I already usurped his day.”

Serizawa says, “Sho-kun is the kind of kid who’s happy that people remember his birthday at all. That’s why —”

“—it’s all the more important to celebrate properly,” Reigen finishes, handing Serizawa his briefcase. “No shared cakes. Sho-kun gets his own birthday cake. If I win the election—”

“When you win the election,” Serizawa belligerently corrects.

Reigen’s mouth tightens, unable to suppress the resulting grin.

“When I win the election,” Reigen says, “we’ll get a separate cake. And hey — you’re the campaign manager. Do not let Tome-chan order a face cake. Alright? That’s an order. She never uses the flattering pictures. Get a normal cake.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reigen always flusters when he responds with that.

That’s why he does it.

Serizawa steps into his dress shoes in the genkan. The floor’s still a bit damp from yesterday’s weather. He hadn’t bothered to wipe it down, given the forecast indicated the rain’s continued stay for the coming days. A stray leaf clings, plastered to the backside of Serizawa’s heel.

Serizawa grabs his clear umbrella from the stand against the wall. He reaches for the door.

Reigen halts him, resting a hand on the door. His silver band clacks over the steel. “Wait. Hang on. The ring… I thought you told me that your powers don’t work like that.”

“They don’t,” Serizawa replies, hanging his briefcase off his shoulder. “You always lose things in the same place, Arataka. It’s never hard for me to find them.”

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the parachute candidate

chapter eight: de(bait)ed ~the ballpit and the pendulum~

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Wednesday, November 28, 2012 — 16:12 | Beside the Pile of Debris Where the Seasoning City Culture Tower Used to Be

For a man recently blasted from the observation deck of the tallest structure in the city, Reigen Arataka was faring pretty well. Sure, he had some cuts and bruises and maybe a blown eardrum, but it all paled in comparison to the plight of his student. While Shigeo’s whereabouts were technically unknown, Reigen suspected the obvious — it had something to do with that gargantuan crucifer emerging floret-by-floret from the mushroom cloud in the distance.

“What the hell is that?”

“He’s in there,” Teru told the group, pointing toward the stalk taking up residence at ground zero — what once was the concrete sewage bunker hundreds of meters away. “I can sense him. It’s faint, but he’s definitely alive. I’d recognize his aura anywhere. He must have expended a lot of his energy in that explosion.”

“There’s an awful lot of psychic power left,” Dimple said. Even as he spoke, the broccoli seemed to stretch further beyond the shroud of dissipating black smoke. “That kid…”

“Nii-san’s definitely there,” Ritsu said. “He only went back because he thought he had to. For us. He wouldn’t lose.”

Reigen exhaled, “Yeah. That’s right.”

He clutched the flip phone in his pocket, the twin of Shigeo’s own device. Useless move. It wasn’t like calling Shigeo would make a bit of difference. Nothing in Shigeo’s pocket would have survived a blast like that. Not the receiver, not the GPS. It was probably busted even before Shigeo came flying out from the rubble. Shigeo was bleeding, so much the sight of it sent empathetic shocks up the backs of Reigen’s legs. He wanted to shake the kid by the shoulders, scream that it was okay to give up and run away. But — after hearing Ritsu and Teru’s assessments — Reigen was thankful that Shigeo’s frail body could still resist destruction more effectively than a Nokia model.

“Kageyama-kun’s amazing, isn’t he?” Teru said, like he could read Reigen’s mind.

“He did what he had to do,” replied Ritsu through gritted teeth. “He’s always doing things for other people with his powers even when he doesn’t want to.”

Reigen bristled at that — because Ritsu was right, too.

Armed, Reigen had stormed up the 400 meter spiral staircase to the observation deck, wheezing by the halfway mark but no less determined. He stumbled past the scruffy bodyguard with the umbrella — Reigen had clutched Sakurai’s heavy cursed gun, expecting a fight, but the man hadn’t moved a muscle to attack him; instead, he stared at Reigen in wide-eyed wonder as Reigen barreled through. Reigen had never been one to question a stroke of good luck, and he rode his fortune into the observation deck where Suzuki promptly decimated it.

Reigen tried to save Shigeo — as usual, Shigeo saved him instead.

And that bodyguard… Serizawa, his name.

The other echelon members — the meat pillar Reigen tried to fight off, the sleazy guy in the leather pants Reigen had socked unprompted and in complete self-defense. Suzuki himself, the bastard.

Where had they gone?

“Ritsu’s brother’s tangled up pretty good,” Sho said, fumbling with his singed jacket sleeve. “Pops is in there too. I’ve never felt him so weak. Your brother really did it, didn’t he, Ritsu? I had him pegged for a weakling, but… Geez. I can’t believe he lived.”

“He pushed himself, because no one else could have done it,” Ritsu muttered. “He didn’t want to, but he did it anyway. That’s the kind of person he is.” Ritsu turned to Reigen. “If we want to get him out of there, we need an excavator or something.”

Reigen searched around at the group of battered teenagers around him, remembering regretfully that he was the sole battered corporeal adult. As Ritsu observed, he’d need to handle the unhandleable. He’d need to be responsible.

Reigen said, “That’s a tall order until the rescue crews arrive. Last I checked, you need a special license for construction equipment.”

Unimpressed with his performance, Ritsu said, “How about you use your powers?”

“I’m gonna go find a shovel,” Reigen said.

Because that, he could handle. He had a shovel in the closet of the consultation office.

The kids ran off to join up with the group of former Claw 7th division allies and tend to their injuries. Dimple tagged along with Reigen on his scavenger mission, not about to let Reigen encounter any remaining Claw faction alone. The spirit was antsy around the broccoli — Reigen suspected this was a mix of concern about freeing Shigeo from his subterranean hibernation and trepidation about inadvertently reuniting with the megalomaniac who punted him off the tower observation deck.

It was after a few hundred paces toward downtown that Reigen recalled the arson and the subsequent total destruction of his office. There was no way the shovel they’d taken from the haunted farm survived the conflagration. Reigen didn’t have proper tools at his apartment uptown — he hardly had space for the trowel for his houseplants.

He’d have to find the proper tools elsewhere. Somewhere nearby, since no transit was running. He could knock on a few doors of residences outside the evacuation zone. Trespass through a construction project. Find the first still-intact hardware store in the vicinity.

Something had to work.

He settled on picking the lock of the landscaping shed at Salt Middle. He had a lock pick and a tension wrench stuffed in a pouch in his wallet for just such an occasion. It should have been outside the blast zone and it wasn’t far. That would have to do.

“Yank me around more, why won’t you?” Dimple grumbled. “I bet you have no idea where you’re going.”

“The explosion melted the street signs. Sue me. And it’s not like you’re the one actually walking.”

Actually, Reigen could barely feel his blisters or bruises. He chalked it up to a continued cascade of adrenaline. Anxiety circulated through the cauldron of his stomach. Reigen knew: it was one thing for Shigeo to be alive; it was another for Shigeo to be okay.

“It takes energy to float, you know. It’s not free! And I’m tired from the unexpected skydiving.”

“You’re preaching to a crowd, Dimple. You should feel lucky you didn’t get dunked head first into a pitcher plant on the way down. It was way too moist in there.”

It was as they turned back toward the city that Dimple noticed they weren’t alone. It was Serizawa, sitting beside a pile of rubble, leaning back against a scorched wedge of concrete, staring up at the burgeoning broccoli, consternation etched over his face.

“Careful Reigen,” Dimple warned him. “Shigeo and I fought him earlier. He let us by but… I wouldn’t call him stable.”

Reigen did as he did with so many of Dimple’s warnings — discarded it entirely. He approached without hesitation, caution chucked entirely into the wind, while Dimple smacked an exasperated ghostly hand over his forehead.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Hey! Serizawa, right?”

Serizawa whipped his head around, hackles raised — the natural instinct of a bodyguard only summarily dismissed from his position an hour previously. He softened when he recognized his visitor, averting his eyes away as quickly as they came. His shoulders bunched up under the fabric of his hanten.

“Oh. You. From earlier. You’re Reigen-san.”

“Reigen Arataka, psychic of the century,” Reigen said, stabbing a thumb at his own chest. “I was surprised you knew who I was. Thanks for the save back there! My, uh, powers weren’t working right, so… You ever have an off day? It’s kind of like that.”

It hit Reigen that this guy was probably having the most off day of his life, sitting in a pile of rubble with the skeletal remains of a plastic umbrella as the behemoth broccoli beckoned on the horizon. And he had to do it in crocs. Not the right shoe with this much broken glass and other pointy detritus on the ground.

“You mean a lot to Kageyama-kun,” Serizawa stammered, wringing his hands together, grabbing for the air like something was missing. Reigen’s chest ached with the sentiment.

“He’s…the kindest person I’ve ever met,” Serizawa stumbled on. “A-and he cares about you. So I had to help. I knew I couldn’t… That I wasn’t supposed to…”

“Hey, hey. Don’t hurt yourself,” Reigen said, because the guy seemed a hair’s breadth from hyperventilation — and frankly, Reigen did too. “You can just say ‘you’re welcome.’”

Serizawa’s hands dropped. He gazed up at Reigen curiously.

“Then… You’re welcome. And oh! You’re bleeding, Reigen-san!”

Grimacing, Serizawa gestured to his own forehead. Reigen hadn’t noticed any ache. He touched his fingers gingerly in a mirror of Serizawa’s demonstration. They came back smeared in drying dark red blood and caked in concrete dust, but he couldn’t find a wound.

“I’ll take care of it later. You don’t happen to know where I can find a shovel, do you?”

“…A shovel?”

“For digging,” Reigen said, with a quick half-hearted pantomime. “Though in this case, maybe a fork and knife would be better.”

Serizawa stared at him blankly.

“Lame, Reigen,” Dimple muttered, phasing out of stealth mode — as though realizing the danger wasn’t an unhinged esper terrorist but Reigen’s terrible joke.

“Tough crowd,” Reigen said. “I’m getting Mob out of there, and time’s of the essence, so—”

“The President,” Serizawa said. “He’s in there too, but…”

“He threw you out of a building and then shot at you with a death laser.”

“...Yeah.”

“You seem lost,” Reigen said. After wiping the smear of blood onto his ripped trouser leg to his satisfaction, Reigen pulled a stunningly-intact business card from his wallet. “But you’re a good guy. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And if you need help, I know a place. Maybe you’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“I…”

Reigen pressed the card into Serizawa’s startled hand. “Call me. Okay?”

Serizawa clutched the card, wholly transfixed. Reigen chose to interpret that as an appreciation of his graphic design chops.

And with that complete, Reigen deemed his conscience settled and his work complete. He returned to his shovel recovery mission, ghost companion and painless blisters in tow.

Serizawa called out, “I— Thank you! I’ll definitely call! Once I find a phone!”

Reigen turned down the main drag to Salt Middle, careful to step over the leaking water main break in the middle of the road. His loafers crunched over a smattering of sharded glass and twisted metal. He wondered grimly if shovels bent under psychic pressure like spoons.

Maybe he should have asked Serizawa.

“That was a cheesy line back there, Reigen,” Dimple chortled, floating above him. “You say that to all the men you meet?”

Reigen turned his head.

Serizawa stood meters in the distance, silhouette outlined by the setting sun, Reigen’s business card held tight in his grasp.

“Only the ones I have high hopes for.”

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mobslist
seasoning city > services > event services

posted one month ago
Massive Event Space Available — Warehouse 4

As the title suggests, we have a massive event hosting space available with open dates as early as tonight or tomorrow, so please don’t hesitate to book with us.

For the sake of transparency: this is the location of the former Seasoning City IKEA. There was nothing wrong with the IKEA location or the physical space. People in Seasoning City just preferred Nitori.

We specialize in hosting large-scale formal events with great dedication and fanfare. We’re convenient to several train and bus stops, and our water source is potable per last inspection. We allow caterers of the client’s choice but we draw the line at helium balloon sculptures.

Some previous events we’ve hosted without incident:

• Weddings
• Bachelor Parties
• Baby Showers
• Birthday Parties
• Drag Shows
• Rising Sun Spiritual Union Antique Crystal Ball Auction
• Funerals

Here’s what it looks like:

The front doors:
[img1.jpg] [alt text: A picture of two automatic sliding doors on the store’s facade. They are blue and yellow. There’s a faded “Hej!” lettering decal that isn’t quite scrubbed off.]

The former kid’s ball pit area:
[img2.jpg] [alt text: There’s a large tub full of dented red plastic balls. The ballpit is positioned against a wall painted with a mural. The mural features circus animals gathered together under a rainbow. The animals look happy. The lion in the front has a fluffy mane and a human face. Human teeth.]

The main event hosting space:
[img3.jpg - Error! Image failed to load]

The parking lot:
[img4.jpg] [alt text: It’s a subterranean parking lot with 20 spots, a flickering neon light, moths, and a formidable speed hump placed every ten meters.]

Prices negotiable (we ignore low balls b/c we know what we’re worth!)
Contact via warehouse4events@asagiribusinessempire(.)co(.)jp

- do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers

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Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 13:03 | RSSU Seasoning City Branch Headquarters | Latest poll: 50%

Most of the way to RSSU headquarters, Reigen and Dimple journey in companionable quiet, save for the patter of rain over Reigen’s umbrella and the click of his loafers over the wet sidewalk pavement.

They pass a clothing boutique, a convenience store, a toy shop, two empty storefronts, and a whole convocation of vending machines. They cross the bridge over the pitiful, wet-leaf-clogged creek that feeds into the main river branch. They duck under the dripping scaffolding at the border of a new condominium construction project. And they dodge out of the way of a driver far too late in his attempt to make the tail end of a yellow light — Reigen out of mortal necessity, Dimple out of immortal sympathy.

Reigen huffs indignantly at the ordeal, muttering about pedestrian right of way and loose licensing laws. When the way is clear, he takes the painted rungs of the crosswalk with exaggeratedly long footsteps, nearly two at a time.

It’s then that Dimple breaks the silence.

“You’re actually nervous, aren’t you?”

“No,” Reigen snaps, perhaps timed too abruptly. “Why would you say that?”

“Last time I saw you this quiet, you were passed out on some pavement in a tornado,” Dimple says, the frank sort of way that immediately punches the air out of Reigen’s sails. “It’s not really your thing. You’re annoying that way.”

“Maybe I don’t want to look like the crazy guy talking to himself on the street,” Reigen returns.

In this same vein of self-awareness, he quiets, hiding his face under the edge of his umbrella as another pedestrian splashes through the puddles past them and out of earshot.

When the coast is clear, he continues, “When we went to the takoyaki stand last week, I think the owner noticed I wasn’t wearing a bluetooth earpiece.”

“Like you give a shit about what other people think.”

“I care if it interferes with my ability to procure takoyaki or win an election. Nice to know a high-level evil spirit is so concerned for my well-being.”

“I’d hate for you to screw up and distract Shigeo from his race. That’s all. The kid’s worked too hard for that.” Dimple hesitates, then adds, “Do you remember what I told you? When you first decided to run in this stupid election?”

“Sure. You called me a hypocrite, and then a cockroach, and then a clown—”

“No,” Dimple bites impatiently. “Well, that’s true too, but no. I warned you that there was a corrupting energy around politics.”

He stabs a spectral finger toward the headquarters branch, sandwiched between a real estate office and — where the vape shop used to be — a new daycare center. Rain drips from the dirty awning over the office door. “There’s some seriously bad shit circulating around this place.”

Reigen continues his approach anyway. “Katsuya didn’t mention anything last time we were here.”

“Katsuya was only here early-on in the election,” Dimple replies. “And he’s an observant guy, save for the giant, conman-sized blind spot in his vision.” He drops his voice. “You know Katsuya can’t judge anything objectively when it involves you.”

The thought tingles the back of Reigen’s neck. “You think something’s changed?”

“It’s hard to tell. Too much interference from other auras. But spiritually? This place is haunted as all hell.”

Folding his umbrella, Reigen pulls open the door. “We’ll deal with problems as they come. Let’s just get in and out as quickly as we can, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Other pressing matters aside, Reigen’s present concern is Roshuuto. Specifically, avoiding him. He’d already jump-scared himself once today when he’d confronted his opponent’s likeness in the form of the body pillow stuffed in the back of the bedroom closet.

Reigen had waited until the last minute to retrieve his materials from Matsuo mainly to avoid the chance of an encounter. And given how devoid of life the RSSU branch office is on this weekend afternoon, Reigen is pleased to confirm the validity of that hypothesis. With nary a desk occupied in the main area and the only light emanating from the circulating orange-and-pink lava lamp on Matsuo’s desk, he’s home free.

“I’m not going in there,” Dimple says, floating over the water cooler. His face is distorted in the aquatic grooves of the cylinder as he speaks. “I’ll snoop around out here.”

“Really?”

“Interacting with that guy gives me indigestion.”

Reigen lets himself into Matsuo’s office, crossing over the sunset shadows cast by the beads of the door curtain. The plastic clunks together as he passes through. He’s immediately confronted by the sensory cacophony of clove cigarette smoke, amber incense, butterfly pea kombucha, and freshly-microwaved SmileMart gyudon. Despite all the burning, Reigen shivers, even in his suit and tie. The office must have a draft.

Matsuo’s back is turned to the door as he pastes a skull-and-crossbones sticker over the eponymous mascot of a discarded Boss Coffee bottle. In another corner of the office, a floating remote flicks through staticky channels of an old CRT television. The antennae atop the TV twist at an unnatural angle, landing the screen on a 24/7 news channel from the neighboring prefecture.

“That’s enough, Rocky Road-chan. I’m tired of the talking heads today.”

“…Talking to me?” Reigen asks.

Spinning in his chair, Matsuo says amusedly, “I only nickname cute things.”

Reigen’s eye twitches.

Matsuo holds up an old film canister. There’s a flash of light. The remote drops to the desk and the antenna stills. He flicks it closed.

“Here for your packet, right?”

An invisible force lifts a stack of paper off the office printer, dropping them into Reigen’s open grasp. Reigen’s teeth chatter at the frigid breeze that passes at the motion.

“That should be all you need,” Matsuo says disinterestedly. On his desk, a pen scribbles over some official-looking document, stamps it, and slides it into a tray. “You’re officially signed in. I’m also supposed to tell you — you need to show up an hour before broadcast time. Don’t wear stripes or green.”

“Why?”

“Because my boss said so. I dunno. It’s ugly or something. For the record, I’m only giving you that advice.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be impartial?”

“Read the debate packet and tell me if you still feel that way,” Matsuo says with a yawn. “Anyway, I find you tolerable. And despite my initial impression, your campaign manager’s actually a cool guy.”

Reigen beams. “Damn straight he is.”

“He can handle his liquor, unlike that kid who hangs out with your opponent.”

Matsuo snorts at some memory before taking a swig of kombucha from the bottle on his desk.

He must be referring to some current apprentice of Roshuuto’s, Reigen assumes. It’s understandable. If Reigen were in that poor bastard’s shoes, he’d be drinking excessively too. Between the advice and the compliment (even if only aimed at Serizawa), Matsuo’s being surprisingly personable and forthcoming. Reigen attempts to return the favor by being pleasant and sociable in return.

Reigen asks if he’s planning to tune into the televised debate.

“Uh…no,” Matsuo replies simply. “I have a life.”

That’s enough of that.

“Well. Thanks for this,” Reigen says, flopping the hefty, binder-clipped packet. “I’m out of here. I wasn’t keen on hanging out with the weekday crowd, especially not Roshuuto.”

Far too casually, Matsuo tells him, “Mm, no, he’s here too. He had some client or something. That guy has his own fancy personal office, but he has to meet here? Ugh. I wanted to let Black Sesame-chan out of her urn, but she’s not people-trained.”

Reigen stills at that new and deeply unwanted information, catches sight of a very open urn stuck with a “Beware of Dog” decal, and decides his departure is far, far overdue.

As he leaves, he hears a murmuring from an adjacent office. Roshuuto talking to someone? Footsteps approach, and the chatter crescendos. Reigen ducks behind a cubicle. Dimple approaches like he wants to say something, and Reigen hisses for Dimple to go into stealth mode.

“...appreciate all you’ve told me about this,” sneers a voice distinctly Roshuuto to an adjoining pair of footsteps. “It’s a big help, truly. But I’ll scratch your back too, you know. I’m taking more clients now that I’m over that cold. I can help you with what you need…”

“That evil energy was in Roshuuto’s office,” Dimple whispers. “I didn’t get a look at the client, but it was definitely the same as what I noticed earlier.”

Reigen nods, holding a finger over his mouth.

The one-sided conversation crosses through the office until out of earshot. Reigen waits a beat, listens for the continued silence, and then makes a break for the exit. He’s even happy to forgo his umbrella — a necessary casualty of the cause.

He nearly makes it.

“Is that Reigen?” Roshuuto calls, as Reigen’s outstretched hand meets the metal bar on the front door.

Reigen curses under his breath. Matsuo’s snicker echoes from his office.

Dimple reappears and levitates over Reigen’s shoulder like a parrot to a pirate. He doesn’t need to waste energy on stealth mode around Roshuuto, who couldn’t see Dimple even if he wanted to.

“The curse is gone,” Dimple tells Reigen. “Must have left with his client.”

But the other curse certainly isn’t — Reigen makes an impatient throaty noise as Roshuuto emerges from behind a beige column. He’s dressed in an emerald-and-black slim cut suit. His dress shirt is white with vertical black stripes, cuffed together at the wrists and divided down the middle by his usual skinny black tie.

It’s nearly the exact over-the-top outfit Serizawa described to Reigen a week prior — even down to the gaudy emerald ring. That is, what little Serizawa could describe of it before Reigen vehemently demanded Serizawa stop saying Roshuuto’s name more than Reigen’s in their own bedroom.

“It is Reigen, just as I thought!” Roshuuto beckons. “I had a premonition that you'd be at my second office right at this moment.”

“A premonition called spotting the back of my head,” Reigen mutters

“It’s nice to see you, rival. I’m sorry I haven’t run into you earlier in the season! But I’ve heard plenty about you from my overwhelming wealth of connections,” Roshuuto oozes. His eyes briefly flick to Reigen’s hand over the door, and then back up to Reigen’s exasperated face. “You understand, I hear so many stories from so many clients every day that it’s hard to keep track of it all. I was worried I’d be too busy to even make it to the debate.”

“Yes, well, I’m also sorry we’ve run into each other this late,” Reigen says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Are you alone today, Reigen? I thought you might run your campaign with students like you do in your office,” Roshuuto says with mock curiosity. “Unless they’ve finally graduated?”

“Absolutely not,” Reigen rebukes. “Don’t be ridiculous! My campaign manager is a perfectly capable adult.”

“Oh? And where’s your campaign manager now?”

Reigen stills, vein twitching in his temple. He mumbles something unintelligible.

“Hm? I didn’t catch that.”

“I said,” Reigen grits through his teeth as he pulls unsuccessfully on the wet door clearly marked ‘push.’ “He’s at his high school cultural festival.”

.

Rising Sun Spiritual Union — Official Debate Guide

ORGANIZED BY THE CAMPAIGN TO ELECT ROSHUUTO DOZEN PRESIDENT
(THIS MESSAGE IS APPROVED BY RENOWNED SPIRITUALIST ROSHUUTO DOZEN, SOLE PROPRIETOR OF ROSHUUTO DOZEN’S SPIRITUAL CONSULTING OFFICE AND ADJOINING GIFT SHOP ™)

Table of Contents

##……………Content
00……………Foreword by Roshuuto Dozen
05……………Profile of Reigen Arataka
06……………Profile of Roshuuto Dozen
12……………Logistics & Location
13……………A/V and Communications Information
15……………A Thank You to Our Valued Campaign Sponsors
28……………Afterword by Roshuuto Dozen
32……………Blank Pages for Autographs (Images of Roshuuto Dozen Available for Small Fee)

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Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 19:43 | Warehouse 4 (Greenroom) | Latest poll: 50%

Reigen spent the rest of the pre-debate afternoon sipping coffee and creamer on an empty stomach, practicing his customer service smile in the mirror, and reluctantly reading through Roshuuto’s campaign platform. The rain continued to fall outside, and with the roof gutter clogged with the mush of discarded autumn leaves, the collected water thumped over their outdoor balcony from a break in the natural dam.

Reigen scribbled notes on the backside of a week-old copy of the Yodeler, drumming his fingers over the dining room table to the beat of the storm. He’d forgotten how heavy a real metal ring felt after months of wearing the substitute.

In a fleeting moment of unbearable self-awareness, he considered running off with the secret pack of menthols in his trench coat pocket. Luckily, Serizawa returned from his cultural fair before Reigen could lose his nerve enough to fully entertain the impulse. Serizawa came back sweaty, reeking of batter and oil. He dropped a takeaway container — three soggy taiyaki, fish bellies distended from an overeager scoop of red bean. This infusion of sugar anchored Reigen safely back to reality.

When the time came, Serizawa called a cab. Even if Reigen didn’t ask, he was happy to forgo a damp walk to the train — and even happier to remain ignorant to the fare. Even Serizawa’s aura wouldn’t keep Reigen’s shoes dry from the wet pavement. Marching on stage in a pair of squeaky pleather Oxfords was a fate Reigen preferred to avoid.

Nestled in the backseat, Reigen clunked his head against the window, watching the murky, rain-soaked expanse of downtown Seasoning City fly by. The dreariness faded the neon. Beside Reigen, Serizawa re-read passages from his election primer under the muted passing street lamps. Every few stoplights, he reached out to reassuringly squeeze Reigen’s knee. At the intersection of Salt Street & Vinegar Avenue, Reigen’s hand trapped Serizawa’s against his thigh. A tether, a paperweight, the whole damn flying buttress holding him together. Serizawa hadn’t minded; he flipped the pages of his book with his powers instead.

The cab let them out on a side street. Serizawa led them to the side door of the venue, as advised in the packet — one warm hand pressed to Reigen’s, the other wrapped around the curved handle of his umbrella. His aura extended past the edges of the parasol — not a speck of rain met Reigen’s freshly-ironed suit.

Decked out in green and waving signs, a boisterous crowd smushed at the front entrance of the warehouse. They chanted something Reigen couldn’t discern between the distance and the fog. Whatever it was — he preferred to remain ignorant. Surely, he’d read about it on the message boards later.

Once they passed through a makeshift security checkpoint — the clueless guard rifling through Serizawa’s briefcase and poking through Reigen’s bag of table salt — the harried stage manager escorted Reigen and Serizawa to a makeshift green room.

Here, Reigen marinates as time ticks on. Or so claims his wristwatch, telekinetically adjusted to perfect synchroneity with Serizawa’s. A mechanical heartbeat on his wrist.

It’s not so much a dedicated green room as a slice of the warehouse floor, bordered on all sides by plastic dividers. This section used to be a model for a Scandinavian-style efficiency apartment. In this space, Reigen’s debate packet clearly stated, he was allowed one guest ahead of the broadcast.

Naturally, Reigen warned his faction of teenagers, the one guest would be Serizawa.

Presently, Reigen has seven guests, six of them corporeal. And the model-turned-greenroom is less a holding tank so much as a teak and burlap-lined clown car.

To their credit, the kids were clever about trespassing around the security. Tome told management — in her best imitation of Reigen’s phone voice — that Roshuuto urgently requested a bowl of yellow peanut M&Ms and that any substitute would be absolutely unacceptable. Teru and Ritsu scurried past as the stage manager scuttled off to raid the neighboring convenience store. And Shigeo was able to skate by without all the fanfare — management just assumed he worked there.

Tome’s knack for diversion is a budding talent Reigen worries he might have had a hand in instilling.

“It’s important we touch base on two things before the broadcast,” Tome told Reigen, smoothing out the wrinkles in her gray pantsuit. “One, we need to coordinate your message. I saw Mezato-san talking to some folks with signs when I came in, so it’s safe to assume anything you say will end up in tomorrow’s headline. We have to be a united front — and more importantly, we’ve put in too much work to screw up on the logistics.”

She had Reigen’s office makeup kit slung over her shoulder, the one he’d recently refilled for fear of being caught off guard for further facial injuries. He would have asked how she retrieved that without his key. Lock-picking was one of the few talents he’d been careful not to pass on to his impressionable secretary. Then Sho emerged from invisibility behind her, and Reigen figured he had his answer.

“And what’s two?”

“Two,” she said, “we cover that zit on your forehead.”

One combination lecture and itchy makeover richer, Reigen gazes about at the crowd around him, especially the esper kids — Sho, stacking the fake kitchen food into a jenga tower; Teru, perching on a bar stool and twirling a curl of hair around his finger; Shigeo, leaning against the fake-granite counter and picking stray blond hair from his sweater; and Ritsu, helping Shigeo pick the hair from his sweater as Sho’s tower tumbles over and strikes him in the shoulder.

Tome leans all the way back in a purple paisley recliner chair in the designated living area, legs stretched over the matching patterned ottoman. Squinting in concentration at her phone, she taps up preemptive draft posts to sling across her many social media channels through the broadcast. Dimple hovers like a crown over her head and levies corrections of her misuse of punctuation.

“That’s a comma splice,” he tells her. “You gotta use a semicolon or they’ll think a kid is doing his social media.”

She bites her lip in contemplation, picking at the unraveling faded cover of the armrest. “If it’s too perfect, won’t they think it’s not authentically Reigen-san?”

“Oh,” Dimple says brightly, nodding in enthusiastic approval. “Great point. Go ahead and use that comma.”

Amidst the gathering, there’s a fiery sense of purpose budding in Reigen’s gut. Equal parts determination and IBS.

Reigen and Serizawa sit side-by-side on a thin sleeper sofa. Serizawa smells like peppermint shampoo and rosemary body wash, but the invigorating combination isn’t settling Reigen’s stomach in the slightest. Staring at the toilet labeled “not a toilet” isn’t helping either.

He wants a canned coffee, a stick of gum, a cigarette, a hard reset, maybe a good kick in the teeth. Beads of sweat form at his temples, poised to melt through the thick layer of foundation Teru and Tome spackled over him minutes earlier.

Reigen will win the debate and the election.

Losing isn’t an option.

Serizawa bumps into Reigen’s rigid leg with his knee. “Is it too loud in here for you? I can clear them out if you’d like.”

“No, no. I like the distraction.”

“You’ll be wonderful,” Serizawa says. “And I insisted on inspecting the AV equipment you’ll be using.”

“No ghost poets?”

“No ghost poets. No kaiju either.”

“I knew I hired a diligent campaign manager,” Reigen says. “So thorough.”

“I had excellent references. You should hear what my boss says about me.”

“Oh my god,” Tome says, shuttering her phone. “We can all hear you.”

“Get a room,” Dimple chides.

“Please,” Shigeo adds quietly. Ritsu snickers into a hand by his brother’s side.

“I am in a room,” Reigen says. “But… uh, now that I have your attention, I’d like to say something.”

He sucks in a hard breath, stiff enough that he can almost feel the air push into his arteries.

“Thank you for being part of my campaign. Seriously, all of you. But I want you to know — whatever gets said up there, whatever bullshit, just… Don’t take it that seriously, okay? It’s a debate. It doesn’t mean anything. And most of all, it has nothing to do with any of you. So don’t let anything he says—”

He’s interrupted by the return of the harried stage manager, whose fingers are painted rainbow in M&M candy coating residue. She seems thoroughly unimpressed with the guest count violation.

“On in five,” she says. “Don’t make me call security.”

As quickly as they came, the kids too depart. Their absence renders the once-cramped green room big and hollow.

Serizawa grimaces politely at the stage manager, nodding his head in a polite acknowledgement. “One minute, please. And I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Fine.”

The minute they’re alone, Serizawa seizes Reigen by the face, hands cupped under either side of his jawbone, and smothers him in a kiss against the back of the sleeper sofa. It creaks dangerously under the vigor of the movement. Reigen grips at one of Serizawa’s wrists like clutching a life raft.

Reigen feels his own anxiety and desperation mirrored in the shape of Serizawa’s lips. And when Serizawa pulls away to catch his breath, he gazes at Reigen as though he’s searching over a cryptic map for an answer.

Like any good illusionist, Reigen creates a diversion — he lifts Serizawa’s hand, kissing the lifeline crossing over his palm.

“Careful or you’ll smudge the makeup,” Reigen says with a soft smile. “Wouldn’t want them to see what I really look like.”

Still, Serizawa’s gaze doesn’t waver when Reigen’s in his crosshairs.

“Are you okay? Be honest with me.”

Reigen clunks his forehead against Serizawa’s. “Not sure.”

“You’re not—?”

“Katsuya,” Reigen murmurs, “tell me that you’ll love me no matter—”

“I love you.”

Reigen blinks, bemused.

“No. Tell me that you’ll lov—”

“I love you.”

Reigen’s face softens. A laugh escapes him, air from a balloon.

“You’re hopeless.”

“It’s true.” Serizawa’s eyes flick down to Reigen’s lips. “Once more. It’s for good luck.”

“It’s wrong to say that in a theater,” Reigen says — potpourri in Serizawa’s grasp, fully invigorated with rosemary, peppermint, and relief. “You’re supposed to say ‘break a leg.’”

“I’d know that if I went to a real play.”

“Then wait. By the time I’m through with things, they’ll label the other guy a tragedy.”

“Good,” Serizawa remarks. “That sounds more like you.”

Serizawa kisses him again, gently this time, smoothing down one of Reigen’s stubborn flyaway hairs.

The stage manager taps the doorjamb, looking entirely unimpressed with the scene she stumbles into.

“That was more than a minute.”

Serizawa’s traitorous watch confirms this. Reigen checks his concealer in the stick-on bathroom mirror. It’s held up surprisingly well.

“It’s showtime,” she says.

Serizawa disappears behind the curtain divider.

And like that, Reigen is alone.

.

Reigen Arataka for RSSU President
🛸 the star psychic who’s out of this world 🛸

Reasons to Vote for Reigen!

• He’s sharp as a knife!
• He’ll chop waste from the budget!
• He has honed business and psychic abilities!
• He has the edge over his opponents!
• He has his nose to the grindstone!
• He’s not a misogynist

Help Reigen make the cut: Vote on Dec 1st!

[QR Code for Reigen’s Campaign Website]

created by Kurata Tome
approved by the Committee for Electing Reigen Arataka

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 19:55 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

The main event centers in the warehouse section of the former IKEA. It still smells like an old cafe, haunted by Kewpie-mayo-dressed 100-yen hot dogs and tart lingonberry jam. The flatpack warehouse shelves remain but lay bare, a forest of naked metal trees around them. A helium balloon floats trapped in the fluorescent light fixture above. Surrounded by the haphazard half-moon of mismatched Scandinavian furniture serving as audience seating — dining chairs, sectional sofas, loveseats, the occasional pouf — there’s a makeshift stage planted in the wide center aisle.

On that stage, two podiums affixed with detachable microphones stand opposed. Behind them, there’s a projector screen draped atop a green line of curtains. Presently, it bears the familiar logo of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union.

Serizawa settles into a sofa seat next to Tome in the VIP front row. He discards the uncomfortable, musty throw pillow.

As the two official members of the campaign, they lay claim to reserved seating. Sho, Teru, and Ritsu had to find themselves obstructed seats in the aisle that used to house cube storage furniture. Shigeo managed to sit at Tome’s other side, once again passing comfortably beneath the radar of the underpaid security staff hired for the occasion. Dimple hovers near Shigeo, maintaining stealth mode.

“Took you a while,” Tome says to her flustered colleague.

“I was helping Reigen-san prepare for the debate.”

“Uh huh. Sure you were,” she says a touch too knowingly. She lugs a stack of business-sized handout cards from her bag, dropping them near Serizawa’s dress shoes. “Take those, will you? We can hand them out after the fact, but I’ll be busy with all the posting. I thought I’d be able to ask Hoshida-senpai for a hand but…”

“I can help with something,” Shigeo says.

“Then set up this ring light, please.”

As Tome fiddles her smartphone onto a selfie stick, Serizawa pulls the election primer from his briefcase and rests it over his lap. He’s read through it so many times over the course of the month, it’s less a source of new information as much as a security blanket. He’s comforted simply flipping his thumb through the well-worn pages.

“Hm,” Dimple says, hovering closer to Serizawa. “I smell it again.”

“What?”

Dimple explains with a frown, “Some spiritual energy. I thought it had been on one of Roshuuto’s clients earlier. Bad time for it too with this many people around. It’s somewhere in the building.”

“Huh. I feel something too,” Serizawa says. When he focuses more intently, his aura shivers at something cold and unknown. “You think it’s dangerous?”

Shigeo leans over Tome to weigh in. “I don’t think it’s ever good to have an evil spirit hanging around a crowd of people.”

“Minus Dimple-chan,” Tome says much to Dimple’s chagrin.

Shigeo carefully clicks the ring light into place over Tome’s phone camera. “We can inspect it if it gets too close. It could be nothing. Things aren’t always what they seem.”

Serizawa agrees.

Less assured, Dimple remains vigilant, smoke trail wafting as he scrutinizes the crowd behind them.

They hush up as other members of the RSSU file in and sit in the row behind them. While the rows are fairly distanced, Serizawa recognizes the distinct wobbly aura of Jodo Kirin mere meters away. More prayer beads clink. Shinra’s there too, Serizawa determines. His aura is structured like egg box foam as Jodo discusses publicly exposing another con artist at his last TV appearance. Serizawa would say hello, but time ticks on — and he’s not particularly interested in soliciting Jodo’s take on his husband’s politics.

Tome hits record on her Mobtter livestream screen, rambling through her usual greeting and plea for votes she repeats in every broadcast. Even without a script, she doesn’t miss a beat. She introduces Shigeo, who stammers through his own commentary.

She really has worked hard on all of this, he thinks. And Shigeo manages a mostly-articulate and comprehensible video cameo on the spot. Seriawa inhales against another swelling of pride.

Tome elbows him, insists he introduce himself too.

Serizawa hurriedly spills, “Thank you for tuning in. We're grateful to have you. I’m Serizawa Katsuya. I’m Reigen-san’s husband.”

“No — well, technically, yes,” Tome says, “but right now, you have a job! You’re the campaign manager.”

“I’m both.”

She rolls her eyes and glances at her phone. A fresh crop of emojis sprout from the budding livestream. Most of them hearts and thumbs up, a few droplets, and inexplicably, a fish.

“Huh,” she says. “They think you’re actually cute.”

He flushes at the virtual attention, evidently fertilizer for more reactions.

The crowd hushes as Roshuuto walks out from one side of the warehouse to the rightmost podium. Shortly after, Reigen crosses from the opposite side to occupy the left, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Serizawa can’t help the rush of pride coursing through his chest as Reigen takes up residence at his own podium.

Roshuuto taps his mic once, a pop through the speaker.

“Welcome to my debate,” he says, raising his arms in welcome. “And Reigen is also here. We’ll start with opening statements.”

.

> Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @mezato_writes

Vote Reigen Arataka is live (unfollow)
@reigen_for_president • started 6 mins ago

REIGEN WRECKS ROSHUUTO LIVE IN HD (DEBATE LIVESTREAM)

⏯️ —————————————— 🔈
12 comments • 13 retweets • 45 likes • 136 views

(auto-generated transcript:)

[...]

[The camera centers on Reigen on-stage, though Roshuuto’s podium sits at the edge of the vertical camera frame. Roshuuto seems to be searching his pockets for something.]

[While the main focus is on the debaters, Tome’s hand occasionally pops out to point, give a thumbs up, or shake a fist at Roshuuto. Her nails, cut short and round, bear black opaque paint with white and yellow toothpick-applied stars. Accent nails on her ring fingers feature Teru’s libra constellation design from Reigen’s campaign marketing — and the viewer can tell she did it herself because the right-side one is a lot shakier than the left.]

[Aside from Tome’s overactive hands, the camera remains fixed on the debaters. Shigeo and Serizawa’s voices remain, for the most part, disembodied throughout the broadcast.]

Tome: Thanks everyone who just joined! Vote for Reigen-san if you’re in the union! Remember — even if you aren’t in the union — you can still give us your money!

Serizawa: Maybe you should catch up with the newcomers. A few more people joined.

Tome: Ah right. Emotional connections! Great idea. So… Reigen-san pointed out that it isn’t fair if Roshuuto-san goes second. Then Roshuuto-san said it isn’t fair if Reigen-san goes first either. They had a back and forth about that, and then someone from the audience yelled for a coin flip.

Serizawa: Roshuuto-san can’t find a coin. He only has 10,000 yen bills.

[At Roshuuto’s failure, Reigen huffs and rifles through his own pockets. He comes up with a Smile Mart receipt, a bag of salt, a tube of Chapstick he accidentally ran through the washer, and wallet utterly bereft of currency.]

Shigeo: Seems like Reigen-shishou isn’t much help either…

[Reigen chops the air, getting Roshuuto’s attention.]

Reigen: Rock, Paper, Scissors! And whoever wins picks the order.

Roshuuto: Fine. But I’ll warn you — I have a premonition you’ll lose.

[Reigen waves away the concern with an open hand.]

Reigen: Then I’ll tell you now since you already know. I’m throwing scissors.

Tome: …The hell is he doing, giving it away like that?

Shigeo: I think he knows what he’s doing. Shishou’s never lost a game of rock, paper, scissors.

Serizawa: It’s true. We switched to rolling a D20 for chores.

[Reigen and Roshuuto have a brief argument about whether to throw at the end of the chant or on ‘Shoot.’ They eventually agree on ‘Shoot’ after some shouted suggestions from the audience. The round ends as quickly as it began. Roshuuto throws paper. Reigen throws scissors, as he announced. Roshuuto looks utterly bewildered; Reigen, shit-eatingly triumphant.]

Shigeo: See? He’s really good. It’s too bad psychic powers don’t make you good at rock, paper, scissors.

Reigen: I’ll go first.

Tome: He should have done that in the first place! Why do all of this?

Serizawa: They say politics is a mental game.

[Roshuuto sweatily retreats to his podium. Reigen struts more smugly back to his own. Roshuuto unfolds a set of notecards from his breast pocket, clattering them over the podium surface, while Reigen simply taps the mic.]

Reigen: Thanks for coming, folks. I’m Reigen Arataka. You might know about me from my many accomplishments — defeating the Dragger and slaying the Yokai King to name a few. But I don’t want to talk about that today. I want to talk about something else. Today, I want to talk about us. Specifically, how you – the union – and I will work together toward a fruitful future. When elected, I, Reigen Arataka, will…

[The audio muffles, because the arm Tome used to hold the camera got tired, and she had to switch arms. The camera falls once, providing a blinding view of the rafters, shifting as Tome fumbles with the selfie stick, and then providing a fuzzy view of a stack of cards and three pairs of shoes — a sight which sparks an unfortunate round of overly enthusiastic emojis.]

[Supported by some invisible force, the camera rights itself back on Reigen, who’s still speaking and gesticulating.]

Tome: Oh. Thanks for the assist, Mob-kun. Between you and me, I think a lot of viewers might be here for the wrong reasons. But a viewer is a viewer. Remember to donate to the campaign please! And hey, if enough people join, I could drop the phone ag—

Serizawa: Let’s stay focused, Kurata-san.

Shigeo: Please.

Serizawa: Reigen-san’s off to a good start, isn’t he? Since he’s not a member of the union, he’s trying to build an emotional connection instead.

Tome: A parasocial relationship!

Serizawa: Yeah. Exactly.

Shigeo: It’s a lot like how he talks to clients.

Serizawa: Any good relationship is built on mutual trust.

Tome: Oh, that’s good, that’s good. I’ll add that to the next Mobstagram story.

[Reigen continues to captivate audience attention, more audible now as the commentary ceases.]

Reigen: …so as you can see, I’m backing a few sensible measures to make sure the union supports a thriving community of responsible psychics in the metro area. At the end of the day, any psychic’s role is to connect with people and be a genuine, dependable person — whatever it takes. It’s simple — if you agree, vote for me. Thank you.

[There's enthusiastic applause from Serizawa, Shigeo, and Tome — the latter of which is visible in the viewfinder. The rest of the audience is more tentative, aside from Sho and Teru, whose loud cheering from the dresser and wardrobe aisle is audible even through Tome’s subpar phone mic.]

[Shigeo’s aura swivels the camera to focus on Roshuuto ahead of his opening statement.]

Tome: He’s got a punchable face, doesn’t he?

Serizawa: Ye—no. Violence is always wrong, Kurata-san. And even if you’re right, you shouldn’t say that on Reigen’s official account.

Shigeo: Serizawa-san…

Tome: You’re just as bad!

Serizawa: …Oh. Oops.

Shigeo: I thought Roshuuto-san might be more perturbed. He’s surprisingly resilient.

Serizawa: We’ll see how well he does the longer he’s up there with Reigen-san. In my experience, he never learns from his mistakes. That’s why Reigen-san’s undoubtedly the better candidate.

[Roshuuto clears his throat into his podium mic, prompting the audience into expectant silence.]

Roshuuto: Thank you for that, Reigen. Very interesting to hear you of all people tout those ideals. It’s admirable. Yes — we’d all prefer if only responsible, trustworthy psychics took up shop in our area, wouldn’t we?

Serizawa: Sure would.

Roshuuto: …as they say, one bad apple spoils the others. That’s exactly what I believe. As a union, we’re broken by the weakest link in our chain. Sometimes, the threat comes from outside.

[He breaks into a grin and snaps his fingers. The projector clicks on, staffed by an intern evidently under Roshuuto’s employ. The screen bears a QR code. Underneath it is the URL for the same link — an article on the Yodeler website. There's murmuring in the audience, shuffling as members take out their phones, snapping of phone cameras across the warehouse corridor.]

Tome: What is he…?

Roshuuto: If Reigen wants to hold people in this business accountable, he should start with himself. Gentlemen, please direct your attention to the relevant exhibit where you’ll find a lett—

[This livestream has paused.]

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:14 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

“—need your phone,” Serizawa says.

“But I was livestreaming.”

Shigeo painstakingly types the lengthy web address letter-by-letter into his flip phone keyboard, far less practiced with a numeric keyboard than his mentor. If Serizawa has to wait a second longer than necessary, he’s going to panic.

“I need your phone,” he repeats more vehemently. “I’m out of articles on the Yodeler site, and I ran out of my VPN free trial. Please, Kurata-san. I have to see it right now. You said yourself — the press can make or break a campaign.”

Last time Tome saw Serizawa stare at her with this much gravity, he was pulling her arm out of the bone-shifting grasp of a deadly curse in the shape of his husband.

She bites her lip, closes the paused livestream, pulls her phone from the videography peripherals, and passes it over.

“No going through my search history,” she hisses.

He brings up the article. She reads from over his shoulder.

He covers his mouth with a hand.

Tome growls, “Mezato.”

The screen glitches in his grasp.

.

> Loading https(://)yuzupepperyodeler(.)co().jp...
> ...
> Loading...

THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”

November 28, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #97

Letter to the Editor: Please help my son

To whom it may concern,

I’m writing out of an abundance of concern for my beloved only son, Reigen Arataka. You may have read about his plans to run for “president” of some “psychic union” in recent issues of this very newspaper. As his mother, this development is deeply troubling.

My son doesn’t have psychic powers. He doesn’t have any kind of powers or anything special about him. He’s a normal, everyday, working man. He certainly doesn’t belong in some occult union. In fact, if you knew him, you’d know Arataka is kind, naive and all-too-trusting of the world around him.

I firmly believe he has been tricked or perhaps threatened into participation in this nonsense. And if that’s not the case, then he’s suffering. I beg you all not to feed into his delusions. Please forgive him.

Arataka, if you’re reading this, please return my calls.

Thank you for your consideration.

— Reigen Azumi, Seasoning City

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:16 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

Reigen sets his own phone on the podium. He doesn’t say a word into the mic as the room fills with murmuring. His head hangs, expression hidden from the crowd by the curtain of his bangs. His closed fist knocks over the wood like a metronome.

Serizawa stews in his seat as he scans over the glitching screen a third time, burning the letter into brain despite the ghost on his shoulder and the secretary attempting to yank her phone from his iron hold.

“You need to chill,” Dimple warns him.

“I’m trying.”

“You need to stop breaking my phone,” Tome adds.

“...Sorry. I-I’ll buy you a new one.”

“You definitely can’t afford that,” she says, eyeing his cheaper model.

That smack of reality is enough to lodge his firm grasp over her device. She restarts the phone and taps back into the suspended livestream.

“I’d like to unpause this,” she says. “Can I do that, Serizawa-san? We’re going to lose viewers if we stay offline too long.”

Dimple waves a ghostly hand in Serizawa’s face, begging interruption from his stewing angst. “This is nothing Reigen hasn’t heard before.”

“It’s never come from his own family.”

He wonders if this is what had been weighing on Reigen over the past week. Serizawa had seen the collection of obdurate voicemails from Reigen’s mother, collecting in his inbox like dust. Serizawa had even gone to the trouble of responding to one of them — but Reigen’s mother insisted she wanted to hear from her son.

As angry as Serizawa would like to be with her off the bat, he recognizes it’s not his relationship.

It’s Reigen’s.

Serizawa knows personally just how complicated a mother-son relationship can be. Knows it down to his core every time he sees his own mother. Knows it every time he visits his old room and remembers the day she agreed to have Toichiro lead him away without a single follow-up question. Knows it every time he sits in her living room and remembers the day decades ago that he dented a cabinet when he sent her flying. Knows it every time she still flinches when he raises a hand. Old habits die hard.

At its heart, it’s all complicated — a knotted-up web of emotions he’s spent years painstakingly unraveling with his therapist. He’s told Shigeo, Reigen, Dimple, Sho, even Tome about it.

Reigen never talks about his family with Serizawa — aside from the superficial.

He never talks about it with anyone.

And the publishing date was at the top of the hour.

How did Roshuuto know?

“This is part of politics,” Dimple says. “It’s what he signed up for. It’s ugly, but both of you knew this was coming. You have to let him get roughed up.”

It’s a static shock to Serizawa’s brain, like Dimple tapped him with a taser. At the end of an embrace with the electrodes, a familiar memory arises.

Are you Reigen-san’s protector? Or are you his partner?

“It’s a battle of who can talk faster and louder,” Dimple reminds him as Tome restarts the livestream. “And you know what Reigen’s best at.”

On cue, Reigen picks up his head. There’s a smile plastered over his face. And to the average viewer, it might look genuine. But, Serizawa thinks, it’s like Reigen poured a layer of asphalt over a sinkhole.

“Roshuuto,” he remarks in the podium mic with the barest hint of a hollow chuckle. “Isn’t it a bit rude to bring a guy’s family into this? It’s not like my mother signed up for the election.”

Roshuuto’s wide grin dampens. “I think the crowd here and I would agree. It’s important to know a candidate’s family life. A man’s relationship with his mother can tell you a lot about his character. My mother and I? We couldn’t be closer. She’s been a big help with the campaign.”

“And I’m glad you have such a close relationship with your parents,” Reigen says. “That’s admirable. Some people don’t have that privilege. It doesn’t make them lesser people, as you imply.”

Serizawa’s stomach dips when Reigen’s expression shifts from brittle to bloodthirsty.

Roshuuto starts, “I never said —”

“Not everyone’s lucky enough to bare their whole self in front of their family, right? You’re a lucky guy, Roshuuto. Seriously. I envy you. I’m glad you’re close with your mother. That’s really sweet. And hey! Don’t get me wrong — I love my mom. And I know she cares about me. That doesn’t mean she has to know everything about my business. To me, there are other opinions from people who know me well that bear more weight.”

Serizawa nods, affection bursting through his chest. Reigen can’t see him through the blinding lumens of the stage lighting. He’d cast his powers out if there were fewer psychic witnesses. He’d be Reigen’s sturdy support; he’d push him forward if he could. His fingers relax over the scrunched folds of his trousers, aura relaxed back into a puddle.

“If you’re so concerned about what my family thinks of me,” Reigen says, “you can ask my partner about my powers. See what he says about me instead. You’ll find a more accurate assessment.”

Roshuuto’s eyes flash at the brief mention of Serizawa, but Reigen prattles on before Roshuuto can cut in.

“Anyway, both you and I had to prove to the election commissioner that we have powers. I did that. Did you?”

“Of course I did,” Roshuuto snaps.

“Then the point is moot if you believe in the political process.”

“You could have faked—”

“You think I lied to Matsuo? Maybe! Or maybe not! It’d be impossible to prove, wouldn't it? Or maybe you simply think Matsuo is unqualified for his job. And either way, it goes twofold for both of us. If one of us lied, we could have both lied — and that calls into question the sanctity of the entire election! You wanna pack it up and start over?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Nah, I knew you wouldn’t. You’re a practical guy. I know! If you’re so concerned about what my acquaintances think of my powers, Roshuuto — why not enlighten us all about what your friends think of yours? Perhaps one of your former apprentices? Maybe the one I rescued from the woods when you abandoned him and my secretary?”

Serizawa’s aura shivers again. The curse seemed to react to Reigen’s dialogue. Serizawa swivels his head around the audience, looking for a source of the psychic vibration.

Because Reigen can’t help but twist the knife while it’s in there, adds, “You haven’t said much of anything of substance for a while. I’m sure the audience would love to finally hear from you.”

There’s a brief chuckle from the crowd.

Roshuuto scowls.

“I’d talk if you stopped cutting me off,” he chides. Reigen holds up his hands innocently.

Tome busies herself responding to a flood of incoming comments. “That wasn’t great for us,” she says, “but I think he recovered okay. We gained more viewers and the comments are surprisingly neutral.”

Roshuuto scrambles for purchase back in the conversation, leading with something nearly incoherent about premonitions and reading auras before launching into his mentorship over his apprentices.

And there.

That spike again.

Closer this time.

“Serizawa-san,” Shigeo says. While he doesn’t lift his voice, his tone reflects the dread gnawing at Serizawa. “It’s in here.”

“Yes.”

Serizawa turns himself into the couch, knees over the cushions, to give himself a better vantage point over the crowd behind him. His election primer tumbles off the back of the couch, landing with a smack at Jodo Kirin’s feet. Serizawa’s too focused to notice. He ignores the dirty looks from the row of union officers behind him. Scanning the aisles, he searches for an aura that might match the sinister frequency.

His scope is rife with interference, smearing with the auras of the actual psychics in the room. He can spot Teru, Ritsu, and Sho easily — by far some of the most powerful espers in the room. He recognizes the crystalline patina of Tanaka Kenji (clairvoyant) emanating from the warehouse section that used to house picture frames. Everything else is drops of watercolor paint on his canvas, obscuring his target in blended layers, some more opaque than others.

It takes him a while to sort out what he’s seeing. Like a puzzle, it’s invisible until he spots it — but once he does, it’s all he can see.

And he wonders how he could have ever missed it in the first place.

“Ah,” says Dimple. “Shit.”

Yeah, agrees Serizawa.

It’s Hoshida Origo.

He’s sitting in the back of the garden care aisle, fidgeting uncomfortably and sweating through his suit and tie. There’s a swirling purple force sprouting from him, like his body’s the unwilling bulb of a sprouting hyacinth. And while the rest of the crowd seems perturbed by the influx of negative energy, Serizawa doesn’t think anyone aside from his group has noticed.

“I have to deal with this.”

He’s obligated, he figures. Hoshida has acted strange all week. The phone calls, the flightiness, and the binge drinking at trivia night. He should have said something then. Maybe if he hadn’t been so zeroed in on the campaign, zeroed in on everything on his list, zeroed in on Reigen.

But it doesn’t matter.

For now, there’s an exorcism to be done. The sooner, the better.

Serizawa grabs a stack of Tome’s handout cards. He’s pleased with the pointy corners. Even without his aura, they could inflict a wicked paper cut.

“I’ll come with you,” Shigeo says, rising halfway from his spot on the couch.

“No,” Serizawa replies quickly. “I have a feeling… I should handle this alone. Help Kurata-san. I won’t be long. And if I’m not back in twenty minutes, then come help.”

“...Okay.”

Serizawa rushes as quietly as he can from his seat, as Roshuuto monologues about his purported powers. Dimple slithers along like a shadow. Serizawa slides along an aisle of the warehouse, creeps closer until he’s close enough to see Hoshida struggling in his viewfinder. Close enough to reach out with his aura, smother Hoshida’s yell into silence, and yank him through the emergency exit.

.

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Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:27 | Warehouse 4 (Ballpit) | Latest poll: 50%

Serizawa flies past security so fast the attendants barely see him, all the while encasing a wriggling Hoshida in a cloak of his powers. Dimple trails behind him, scurrying through the air as fast as his useless ghost legs will carry him.

The curse is strong, barely containable, burning a hole through the energy imprisoning it. It’d be more excruciating if Serizawa wasn’t so keyed up.

Serizawa turns down the first empty corridor he finds, barges through the double doors, and finds himself face-to-face with one of the ugliest murals he’s ever seen. He promptly dumps Hoshida in the adjacent ballpit, where Hoshida sinks into a sea of red plastic orbs. The curse sprouts from the Hoshida-sized depression in the pit like the first bloom of spring poking through the soil. Energy blazes around it — sensing the peril Serizawa poses. It smells like burning rubber, stings Serizawa’s nostrils.

He should have known. He should have done something sooner.

Unfurling the business cards into a psychic katana, Serizawa dodges the lash of one of the curse’s vine-like psychic tendrils, and it slaps against Dimple’s barrier, throwing the spirit back toward the far wall. Serizawa turns a flip, weightless in the air with his powers, and lands crouched on the ball pit’s edge.

“Dimple!”

“I’m fine,” Dimple returns, shaking off the impact. “The thing’s stronger than it looks!”

“No kidding.”

“There’s something about it though…”

When the curse lashes out again, Serizawa vaults, slicing the tendril in half. The curse screams in fury, shedding petals from its bloom. They land melting in a goopy mess of ectoplasm in the ballpit.

He waited too long to help. What good was he? He could have prevented this.

The cursed energy whips around more violently and randomly. Serizawa parries the next few blows, while Dimple examines the scene from over Serizawa’s shoulder.

Beneath the curse, Serizawa only spots Hoshida’s legs peeking through the plastic. He’s not moving much — so Serizawa figures he needs to act fast. The longer the curse stays embedded in Hoshida, the worse off he’ll be.

How could he be so negligent? Really, this whole thing was his fault, his failure.

“Get closer,” Dimple advises, dodging another swipe of energy that ruffles his smoky body. “I have a feeling it only fights well from far away. If you get in its face, you might have an opening.”

Serizawa storms from his station at Dimple’s behest, slipping adroitly out of reach of an encroaching vine. He tightropes over the edge of the ballpit to the mural wall. Another whip follows him. He launches himself, running horizontally along the wall as the vine crashes over the elephant, the giraffe, and the zebra until he lands on the other side of the ballpit.

Dimple shreds it with a blast of spectral energy — the tendril explodes into ectoplasm that paints over the unsettlingly-anthropomorphic lion. Serizawa shields against the incoming angry onslaught that follows every lost limb.

Someone like that could never be enough for the people he loves.

There’s a pang in his chest. He nearly stumbles off the edge.

“Stay focused!” Dimple cries. “It’s messing with you.”

Serizawa chops away the next vine before it can get near him — and there he finds his opening. Leaping from the edge, he limbos under an attack. Something slices his face from above — a thorn he hadn’t noticed.

Someone like that would be better off alone.

Despite the pain, he surges forward, plops into the ballpit beside the kicking bottom half of Hoshida, and swings the paper katana with all his might.

It’s a clean slice.

The hyacinth tumbles into the ballpit, melting immediately into sludge.

The stalk remains firmly embedded in Hoshida’s trembling chest. Serizawa grabs hold of it.

The curse is white-hot in his grasp — even through the oven mitt of aura over his hand — but he can’t let go. His head is heavy and his skin is burning. He’s not going to let Hoshida suffer any longer.

Someone like that would be better off dead.

Serizawa squeezes his eyes shut, wills his mind blank, and yanks as hard as he can.

Hoshida chokes through a phlegmy cough.

The root comes free in Serizawa’s hand.

It’s immediate relief, like he’s shed away an anchor’s worth of weight. He tosses the lifeless root away. Exorcized, it’s already fading into the air. Dimple flies forward, seizes the bulb, and gnaws at it like a freshly-buttered corn cob.

Serizawa collapses backward into the ballpit, chest heaving.

Dimple cringes as he swallows. “Yep. Guilt spirit. Absolutely awful lingering aftertaste.”

“Guilt?” Serizawa says, flicking away a dirty plastic ball from his face. He wipes the blood on his cheek away with the back of his wrist, tsking when it stains the edge of his white shirt sleeve.

“The kind of spirit that feeds off living wraiths of people consumed with regret. The longer people get exposed, the more they start to feel that way too. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Ah.”

That overwhelming pressure he felt as he fought it, only worsening the closer he came to it, nearly unbearable when the curse was in his grasp.

It makes sense.

Hoshida’s eyes fly open. He gasps and abruptly wrenches himself to a sitting position, torso still submerged in the ballpit, whimpering at a phantom pain in his torso.

Serizawa starts, anxiously waves Hoshida down with one hand as he presses into his facial cut with the handkerchief in the other.

“Please be careful!” Serizawa cautions. “Take it slow. That was a terrible curse! I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner. I could have helped you.”

“Serizawa-san, I…”

Hoshida reaches for Serizawa’s bloodied suit sleeve. His shift sends several dented plastic balls bouncing out of the ballpit and clattering across the exterior concrete floor.

“Hm?”

Dimple watches over dubiously.

“...I-I have to tell you something,” Hoshida mutters.

.

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REIGEN DEBATES ROSHUUTO LIVESTREAM (edited)

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(auto-generated transcript:)

[...]

[Roshuuto folds his hands over the surface of his podium as he finishes his spiel. Tome’s straight fingers meet her thumb, snapping open and closed — a ‘blah blah’ gesture, signaling Roshuuto's endlessly flapping gums.]

Roshuuto: …and that’s what you need to know about my powers.

Reigen: I’ve never heard someone say so little with so much before.

[The crowd reacts with a laugh. Roshuuto grows visibly annoyed.]

Tome: Zinger! More of those if you like and subscribe!

Roshuuto: Then discuss your powers, if you’re so insistent! That is, if you even have them.

Reigen: Sure. But if you have to know, I prefer living my life without powers as much as possible. The important part of running a psychic business is looking out for people, and you don’t always need powers to do that. I’m a professional. I only use them when necessary. Life’s better that way.

Roshuuto: This is the sort of thing someone who can’t control their powers might say, isn’t it?

Reigen: Do I have powers or not, Roshuuto? Pick a side already.

[The crowd reacts again, buzzing.]

Shigeo: It seems he has opinion back on his side again.

Tome: Roshuuto-san seems desperate, doesn’t he? He’s just saying stuff to see if any of it will stick. It’s too bad Serizawa-san is missing this.

Roshuuto: Let’s say you do have powers. You’d agree — for folks like us with special gifts, it’s especially important to wield them responsibly, yes?

Reigen: It’s important to be responsible with or without powers.

Roshuuto: But for those with destructive powers, it’s even more important?

Reigen: …Where are you going with this?

Roshuuto: It’s a simple yes or no question.

Reigen: Then, sure, yes, whatever. People shouldn’t hurt other people, powers or not. What’s your point?

Roshuuto: Let’s take a look at another exhibit.

[Tome gives a thumbs down.]

Tome: They really should have told us about the projector. I have lots of pictures of Reigen-san he could have used.

Shigeo: Good pictures of Reigen-shishou?

Tome: Some of them, definitely.

[Roshuuto snaps his fingers again. The projector shifts to a blurry image from November 2012 — a floating camera captures Reigen’s press conference. Reigen frowns in recognition.]

Roshuuto: You lost control of your powers at the press conference back then, didn’t you? Per reports from the media, all of their equipment went flying. Would you agree — this wasn’t a responsible use of powers?

Reigen: There’s no proof I did it. It happened while I was there. People are allowed to draw their own conclusions.

Roshuuto: Not what I asked.

[The camera drifts out of focus. Tome’s hand appears to wave in front of the lens until the focus returns.]

Tome: Why’s he being so cryptic? Do you know about this?

Shigeo: …No idea.

Tome: You’re a bad liar, Mob-kun…

[Reigen waves away Roshuuto’s concerns in a gesture of nonchalance.]

Reigen: No one was hurt, and the equipment was left behind in working condition. I don’t see the problem. You’re making something out of nothing. You’re wasting precious debate time when we could discuss the actual issues.

Roshuuto: I’m just asking what the voters want to know.

Reigen: Then let me help you with this. I’ll be as clear and direct as possible: I would never, ever use my powers to hurt another person. I wouldn’t use them to damage people’s property either. And if someone else did that, I wouldn’t approve. That’s all.

[The crowd murmurs in agreement.]

Tome: Nice, Reigen-san. Did you hear that, dear viewers? He sounds presidential.

Shigeo: What’s ‘presidential’ exactly?

Tome: Someone who sounds like a president, of course. C’mon, Mob-kun, I know you don’t know much about politics, but you have to keep up!

Shigeo: I don’t really get it, but I’ll take your word for it… Shishou sounds like shishou, but louder because he has a microphone.

[On stage, Reigen looks satisfied with the bout. Roshuuto gazes out beyond the stage lights, waiting for the crowd to settle.]

Roshuuto: And that’s all?

Reigen: That’s what I said.

[Roshuuto’s grin returns in full force. Reigen balks, looking a bit unnerved at the shift.]

Roshuuto: You wouldn’t approve, hmm? How about your network, Reigen? The company you keep? You said earlier that your chosen family would reveal the most about your character.

Reigen: Obviously. What’s your point?

Roshuuto: I’ve carefully pruned my own network. But you, rival — who do you associate with?

[He snaps his fingers again. The intern at the projector changes the slide. There's a door swinging noise off-camera.]

Tome: Oh.

Shigeo: That's S—

[ERROR. This livestream has stopped unexpectedly.]

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:27 | Warehouse 4 (Ballpit) | Latest poll: 50%

“Get on with it already,” Dimple barks. “Every minute we waste here is a minute I could spend watching Reigen embarrass himself in public.”

“He’s actually doing well despite everything,” Serizawa says. “I’d like to go back and watch the rest. So Hoshida-kun, what is it?”

Hoshida’s eyes shimmer, his lip trembles, and his body shrinks back like he’d much rather dunk himself headfirst into the ballpit ostrich-style than say whatever it is he’s decided to spill to Serizawa.

Serizawa tries to keep his face placid — but after dealing with the curse, he’s still tense in the shoulders. There’s a firm line drawn between his eyebrows that’s difficult to smooth over.

Reigen tells him he comes off intimidating sometimes when he’s not careful — usually it’s when he’s most introspective, coming up with the right thing to say to a client or figuring out which dipping sauce to get with his tenders in the MobDonald’s line. He’s self-aware, but it’s difficult to balance concentration with self-awareness.

He smooths a hand over his forehead, like he could press out the wrinkles like a clothing iron. Reigen told him about pressure points once that could help. Or was it sinuses? If his cheek would stop bleeding, he’d have both hands to work with.

“I told Roshuuto-san,” Hoshida finally blurts, “about your relationship. And… A few other things.”

“Oh? But that’s public record,” Serizawa replies, shoulders finally softening. “He could have figured it out himself.”

Hoshida continues, “He wouldn’t have known. I’m the one who told you to come to trivia at Roshuuto-san’s request. He wanted to see you himself. I told him that Reigen-san’s mother kept leaving him messages… And that day… That day you and Reigen-san were ambushed by the protestors. I told Roshuuto-san when you were leaving.”

Serizawa’s shoulders return to full tension at that. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He can still faintly taste the finer notes of Elmer’s glitter glue.

“That’s…unfortunate. I actually had a midterm that day. I haven’t gotten the score back. I’m not happy about this, but… There’s nothing I can do about it now, I suppose. As for the letter, I’m not sure what to think.”

Serizawa lowers the handkerchief, happy to finally quell the bleeding. Facial wounds always bleed more for some reason. Was he supposed to wash out a ghost wound? They didn’t cover that in his supplementary night school first aid course. Was ghost tetanus a thing?

“Katsuya,” Dimple says, looking increasingly furious, smoke body rippling without a breeze.

“Hmm?”

“You’re taking this too lightly.”

“Why? It’s not like he did those things himself. He didn’t write that letter, and he didn’t dump slime on us. So… I don’t see why I need to be angry. I don’t like that it happened, but it’s not the end of the world. I appreciate you coming clean, Hoshida-kun, even if it’s a bit late.”

Serizawa prides himself on his patience. After all, if the world could forgive what he did and welcome him back into its embrace, then who was he to stand guard and judge the misdeeds of someone else?

Dimple looks increasingly perturbed by Hoshida’s confession and Serizawa’s acceptance.

He stabs a ghostly finger at Hoshida.

“No, no, no,” Dimple says. “Stop being a goddamn saint and think for a second, Katsuya. There’s more, isn’t there, Origo?”

“More?” Serizawa repeats, creeping anxiety tinting the tone of his voice. "You were helping us, weren't you? We made it this far in the campaign, because you signed our petition! You were helpful with the livestream, with the fundraising, with tasks around the office... Right? We were glad to have you around."

Hoshida averts his eyes, fixing his gaze over the tips of his loafers poking through the sea of balls.

It strikes Serizawa. A memory. A week ago. Hoshida clutched his stomach and wiped his mouth. He crouched over the rabbit logo on the side of the accursed crepe stand, painting the panel with sweat, like he was trying to stuff his soul back into his body.

He begged Serizawa: I did a really bad thing. Please don’t tell Kurata-san. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… You and everyone.

The recollection weighs in Serizawa’s stomach like he swallowed a handful of dirty arcade coins. Heavy and nauseating. And it’s not just remembering Hoshida’s awful retching, although that doesn’t help. It’s something deep. Deep like the guilt spirit’s roots through Hoshida. Deep like the tinny plink of a lonely coin at the bottom of an empty, abandoned wishing well.

“Trivia night,” Serizawa says slowly. “You tried to tell me something. I thought you were stressed about school. But that’s not it, is it? There’s something else. There’s something worse.”

Hoshida whitens. He lifts his hands in an attempt at placation of the accusation.

“You have to understand. You can’t have a career in the psychic business without allying with the union! And Roshuuto-san… I tried to do something without him, but I couldn’t get off the ground!”

It’s impossible for independent espers to start businesses without membership. Koyama had told Reigen and Serizawa that in Smile Mart weeks ago. A sentiment Matsuo echoed. And that went for accomplished espers.

What was left for someone like Hoshida?

“At first, I really did want to help!” Hoshida blubbers, blinking furiously. “When I visited his hospital room, I meant what I said! You and Reigen-san saved me once. I was grateful! I thought that if Reigen-san won the election then… Maybe I could have a shot at making it too! But business is hard and… Roshuuto-sensei told me he could refer clients when I had none. All I needed to do was help him out.”

An outsider, someone without ESP or powers of any kind, someone weak and impressionable — what choice did he have but to cling like a barnacle to some more established entity?

“What happened?” Serizawa demands.

“You have to understand, Serizawa-san! I-I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen!”

“Hoshida. Please tell me.”

Hoshida swallows. “The day of Reigen-san’s campaign event, I…”

Serizawa’s eyes flash in realization. The pit around him shudders. A few balls levitate behind him.

“The podium. You knew, didn’t you?”

“I had suspicions! But I didn’t… I couldn’t tell it was truly haunted. And even if I knew, I didn’t think it would be dangerous!”

More red plastic levitates, revolving in an asteroid belt around Serizawa. The spinning quickens, until its nearly a solid ring of red about Serizawa’s neck.

“You knew about that podium, and you kept it to yourself. Hoshida, Reigen almost died!”

“I tried to drop hints, but…”

“You could have killed him! And Kurata was with him!”

Serizawa’s hair lifts off his head, blood pulsing in his ears. A few of the balls crush like soda cans through a compactor.

The noise startles them both — Hoshida flinches; Serizawa clenches his teeth, dropping the crimson plastic back raining over the pit.

“Sorry,” Serizawa grits. “That’s too much.”

Hoshida cries, “I’m sorry! I never wanted to get Kurata-san involved either…”

“What did we do wrong?” Serizawa says. “What did we do wrong that made you do this?”

“Nothing! I’m sorry, I…”

Dimple says softly, “Katsuya.”

“I’m plenty calm,” Serizawa snaps.

“That’s not what I was gonna—”

“You think I shouldn’t take this seriously, Dimple? That I should let things happen to Arataka? That I shouldn’t protect him? If I let my guard down for a minute, bad things happen.”

Dimple huffs, “I’m on your side, pal. Actually, I was gonna suggest we kill him on the spot, but Shigeo wouldn’t approve.”

Serizawa glares at him.

“Relax, relax. I’m joking. Sort of.”

“...I can’t relax about this. Not about people I care about. Not about Arataka. I…”

“I’m sorry, Serizawa-san,” Hoshida whispers, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I really am.”

Serizawa takes a shuddering breath. His hair ripples then falls back flat with gravity. “I don’t think I can do this. I-I can’t think straight. And I think… Hoshida, you need to get out of here.”

“Please, please, don’t tell Kurata-san,” Hoshida begs.

Serizawa lifts his head, so shaken by the request that it nearly snaps him out of his psychic death spiral. The jagged cut on his cheek trickles blood again, a small drip to his jaw.

“What?”

A fat teardrop plops over the space between plastic balls. Another.

“I had to do it! She can’t know! I-I’m in love with her, Serizawa-san. So she can’t know…”

Dimple groans. “What the hell.”

“You think I won’t tell her?” he says, utterly incredulous. “When she could have gotten hurt? I’m the last person who can say this but… No. No. This is really bad, Hoshida-kun. It’s too far. I think some things can’t be forgotten. Not like this.”

Hoshida sniffs. Serizawa presses his handkerchief back over his wound.

“Just…leave,” Serizawa murmurs. “Get out of here. And please… Don’t come back to the office. Not anymore. I don’t want to see you near us.”

Hoshida nods mechanically, like a lever with a rusty hinge. He wipes his nose over his sleeve and reaches for the edge of the ballpit, nearly tripping on one of the crushed balls as he scrambles clumsily over the wall. He’s about to push through the double doors when he turns back, looking abruptly horrified. Like after all this time spent in the pit, he’s just recalled the pendulum.

Hoshida says in a quiet voice. “The other day… We played video games. You told K-kurata-san and me about your past.”

“My…?”

“Shit,” Dimple says.

Serizawa doesn’t know if Hoshida leaves after that. He no longer cares once all the secrets are out in the open, wrung from the hapless kid like a citrus rind. The handkerchief slips out of his hand. Serizawa pulls himself from the ballpit, a patter of plastic in his wake. He flies back down the hall, ignoring the hails from security, ignoring the protests from Dimple.

Serizawa pushes through the heavy fire doors back into the main warehouse.

All eyes are on him.

Not on his person.

He gawks at his own picture, stretched over the projector screen. It takes him a second to even recognize himself, but when he does, he flinches.

Serizawa Katsuya, the man in the eye of the beach tornado.

There’s a word underneath.

Dangerous.

.

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Chapter Text

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:42 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

Reigen’s seen some crazy shit in his life.

When he was a kid, he watched a lightning strike hit a tree in his backyard, saw a shooting star cross the sky, gawked at the biggest kabocha ever grown at an autumn festival, and once picked a perfect four-leaf clover. He tried to show the latter to his sister before the neighborhood dog gobbled it out of his hand. She didn’t believe him.

The psychic business broadened his horizons. With Shigeo in his life, the weird gradually became the mundane. Shigeo was used to crossing paths with spirits and bending all his soup spoons. Once Reigen became accustomed to seeing the world through the spirit goggles Shigeo gifted him, Reigen became more difficult to surprise.

He’s seen espers across talents, concentrations, and levels of adjustment to reality. He’s seen ghosts and yokai and cults and aliens and terrorists and kaiju and a giant downtown broccoli. He’s been yanked by a possessed middle schooler into a concrete wall, devoured by the vicious paparazzi, pelted with fried food, bogged down with swamp monster mud, blasted off a skyscraper, and dumped over the side of a crumbling lighthouse into the unforgiving ocean.

He’s even seen the other side of a wedding ceremony, despite everything.

When the lightning struck that maple tree, it hadn’t even rained. Down came the lightning anyway. Because of the heat, his father said. Something about electrons, and how electrons don’t give a damn if you’re peacefully sleeping, reading, or slurping up noodles while browsing the family computer. Electrons are happy to ruin both the peace and the keyboard.

That lightning strike coursed violently through the end of an unsuspecting branch. It rampaged through the bark until it met the junction of the roots in the earth, leaving a twisted Lichtenberg scar in its wake.

It happened in a moment, over as soon as it began — and yet that tree was thoroughly and irrevocably burned. Leaves didn’t grow on that branch after that. And his mother didn’t trust the rope holding up the homemade swing either. Reigen attended the playground down the street for all his airborne needs instead.

The tree remained in that charred state through Reigen’s adolescence until it rotted from the inside out. One day, they felled and carried it away — scar, tire, swing, and the rest. It was strange to see something he’d regarded as an immovable fixture shredded so easily through a woodchipper. So it goes.

All of this to say, the craziest shit only happened when Reigen least expected it.

Perhaps this should be obvious.

But Reigen expected nothing good from this debate. His conference with Mitsuura ensured that. He’d been ready to fling his usual bullshit. He would dodge and weave through whatever accusations of fraud Roshuuto could lob at him in return. He planned to overwhelm any competition with a righteous wave of word count when the going got tough. It’s how he’d always lived his life.

While the letter from his mother had stung — the idea of letting the audience gawk at him hurt worse. So he soldiered on. There wasn’t any other way.

More importantly, he knew he had to keep his head on straight for when things went south. He anticipated plenty of tomatoes. Roshuuto was the type of sleaze who feigned high only to swipe at a kneecap. Reigen had to be ready when the conversation inevitably turned to Shigeo. He didn’t want that outcome — but it’s what he came ready to fight.

The craziest thing Reigen’s ever seen was a downtown tornado with his bleeding student in the center.

The picture and the caption on the projector screen right now?

Dangerous, it reads.

What the hell.

Reigen’s white-tipped fingers slide clumsily over the wood surface of the podium. They’re cold and stiff even under the heat of the stage lighting. He’s sweating. The audience’s expectant attention is a sunburn on his forehead. They're surely waiting for a rebuttal. But his skull’s heavy over his shoulders and his arms feel like lead, and that’s hardly the right condition to serve back some pithy quip. The air around him is too thick a soup to breathe, much less to wade through.

Roshuuto’s blathering through some commentary, pairing misdeeds together in perfect complement, wine for the meaty entree, the cross punch that follows the first jab to Reigen’s unguarded teeth. Mercifully, Reigen can’t hear a word of the undoubtedly insufferable bloviation over the roar of blood pumping in his ears.

It’s all too goddamn loud.

His eyes dart around the cavern of the event space, past the half-moon of mismatched furniture, through the metal frames of industrial shelves, looking for something, anything, the smallest patch of steady ground. A brief respite. That alone would be enough to weather the shock. Enough to buy the time to will his brain back to full capacity. The stage lighting is bright and blinding. He squints through the cracks, enduring the spiky neon after-images that the spotlights burn into his retinas.

Initially, he finds nothing beyond a sea of strangers ogling ruthlessly at a projector screen. Voyeurs, he thinks. Or better yet — vultures.

And, as he continues his search, he finds something even worse.

Reigen’s seen some crazy shit in his life.

He’s never seen a guy as big as Serizawa look so small.

.

the parachute candidate

chapter nine: fight or flight reflex ~how green was my rally~

.

mobtter — @xx_iwanttobelieve_xx

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Today —18:13

I still don’t feel well, but I want to go. I’ll try to make it.

cool see u there

I’m sorry

for being sick?? it’s not like you can control that

just take ur vitamins or whatever

Today — 20:32

hey where are you?? i thought you said you were coming?

i need ur help

mob’s arms aren’t long enough for the selfie cam

(read 20:40 ✔)

why’d you lock your account?

hello?

*hiatus*? wtf??

???

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:44 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

From up high, from behind the shield of a wooden podium, Reigen locks eyes with Serizawa across the warehouse aisle. Serizawa’s back is to the wall. His hair is wild, mouth open, body stuck in place, a tent stake planted in rapid-acting quicksand. There’s a cut on his cheek dripping blood over his collar and a rip in the arm of his suit that Reigen can’t even begin to process.

Katsuya…

No, no it’s not that bad. No. It’s recoverable! It’s not that bad. Reigen, Serizawa, they both can move past this. Reigen can fix this. He can open his mouth and pave it all with a fresh coat of paint. It’s not that bad. He can turn it all around like it never happened at all. Serizawa doesn’t have to wear an expression like that. Not if he can just—

No, it’s bad. Fine. If he can’t wave it away, then—

He could tear it all down. His hands clench over the edges of the tabletop, acid rising in his throat. His molars grind enamel into dust. He could march over, tear apart the projector screen. Tear away that stupid smirk he knows Roshuuto’s wearing as he continues to blather on. Tear it down, the union, the election, all of it, everything, every last trace that any of this ever existed until he strikes bedrock, and there’s nothing left behind.

The idea of Roshuuto, Jodo, and the rest of the union chaff enjoying the satisfaction of an unreturned ace here makes Reigen’s skin crawl. And he’s incensed over this transgression among many, still so furious at this precipitous threat against everything he holds dear, that it’s burning in him bright and blue and icy.

No. Dangerous. Serizawa’s still staring across the way. No. He can’t get this riled up. He sucks in a breath against the stony-enclosure of his diaphragm, tries to downgrade his fury from a boil to a simmer.

He has to find a way out. And if it’s not with bare hands, he’ll have to be more creative. He needs to think. He needs to settle down before he blurts out all the acerbities on his tongue and gets himself fined for besmirching the sanctity of public television with excessive vulgarity. He’ll be damned if they make a Mobtube remix of this, because Reigen couldn’t control himself.

Reigen let this happen — no, he agreed to it. He could have skipped the debate. He could have skipped out on Mitsuura. He could have skipped out of everything entirely. He’d set out to keep things off Serizawa’s plate, ignorant and unburdened. How’d that go?

It’d be one thing if it were Reigen alone. The ill-fated TV spot, the press conference, the traumatizing one-two punch of the Mimic and Rusty, and the catastrophic parfait-eating contest that will remain obdurately undescribed — all of it he’d endure again alone if it meant he could go back and fix all of his mistakes. But he involved Serizawa.

Even if Reigen picks things up and ekes out a win, he loses. How could he tally a win? There’s a blown-up photograph of Serizawa on one side of Reigen, a roughed-up real-life Serizawa on the other — and the whole thing, every bit of it, down to the last demeaning drop —

It’s his fault.

He wants to run. That’s always his instinct at first sniff of danger. He’d like to dash out to the door or feel around for some ejector button and rocket through the ceiling — anything to erase away the shock etched over Serizawa’s face.

No. Wait —

Reigen miscalculated. But the watch on his wrist is still ticking, and it won’t stop ticking until the whole thing ends. Whether or not it ends with any of Serizawa’s remaining dignity or marital faith remains in question. If Reigen panics at this crucial moment, Roshuuto assuredly wins, and Serizawa loses. He can’t live with that.

The gravity of it all smacks Reigen back down to Earth with all the tender gentleness of a fully-torqued counterweight trebuchet. He gazes up from the ensuing Reigen-shaped crater with a stunning sense of clarity. Fight. Defense is offense. Screw campaigning or debating or any other flimsy nominal pretense for wielding a mic and casting stones. It’s personal now.

First things first — he needs to stem the bleeding. In this case, a psychic spouse across the warehouse who is literally and inexplicably bleeding.

For years, Reigen has watched Serizawa banish curses, slay yokai, and shepard wayward ghosts to the afterlife with ease. Bashful at first, Serizawa grew from stammering out warnings to stepping in front of Reigen with a shield to full-on manhandling Reigen out of harm’s way. He’s a force for good, studious as hell, and considerate to a fault. He’s rigid. He likes rules and guidelines and structure and finding some semblance of order within chaos. Despite all of that, he’s still a man. Even someone as talented as Serizawa has limits.

When things go wrong, it’s okay to run away.

He’d told Shigeo that a long time ago. He’d tried to tell Serizawa the day of the kaiju attack. He wishes he’d told Serizawa that the night after the campaign event when Serizawa had been so upset.

This time around, Reigen will be clear, and Serizawa will listen, and Reigen will be alone. But it’ll be okay.

“Katsuya,” Reigen mouths with a hand over the eavesdropping podium mic. “Go.”

.

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Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:49 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

Reigen watches through the brilliant faults as Dimple phases back out of the room. A streak of red, Sho dashes along the wall and grabs Serizawa's wrist. Serizawa hesitates at first, but they distort and vanish into the concrete. Teru and Ritsu scurry after them. The side door swings open and shut, waving until it comes to a rest. It’s as if they were never there at all.

Good. No one in the audience noticed Serizawa’s brief cameo from what Reigen can tell. Not Roshuuto either, still busy flapping his gums. One less distraction.

Next order of business — to focus and find his bearings. That starts with determining how deep Roshuuto’s claws go and recalibrating his strategy to salvage everything he can.

What did Roshuuto know?

The beach tornado, the kaiju attack, the press conference, his relationship status — all of those are public knowledge. Anyone with a newspaper subscription, a library card, or worse, an active Mobtter account might know about them. The knowledge only confirms Roshuuto knows his way around a search engine — a natural talent for any practiced fraud. Next.

The letter to the editor? That’s more of a mystery.

When he read it, Reigen could practically hear the words in his mother’s voice and cadence. There’s no question that she wrote it. Somehow, Roshuuto knew about it too. Mezato could have leaked it to Roshuuto’s campaign, maybe. He figures it’s unlikely that Yuzu Pepper’s intrepid reporter would compromise her sources so readily during an election season.

Instead, Roshuuto could have contacted Reigen’s mother himself. The thought is revolting, but his image-conscious mother would never have contacted a psychic of her own volition. So if Roshuuto did… Why? A gamble? A projection? A shot in the dark? Something more targeted? Reigen tucks that thread away for later — if only because the idea of Roshuuto meeting his parents makes his stomach turn. Poor Mitsuura. Next.

Roshuuto’s knowledge about Serizawa — how deep did it run?

Reigen has been careful to obscure the details of his colleague-turned-spouse’s troubled past. Serizawa isn’t at risk of criminal charges per the mysterious government agent handling the Claw case. That aside, staying quiet wards off any unwanted journalistic scrutiny, legal embroilment, or subpar online review.

Bits and pieces of the past lurk in the wild. That can’t be helped. Social media postings during the takeover. Government records. CCTV footage from downtown Seasoning City. The leftover fragments of civic memory. Still, it’d be hard for someone to piece together the full picture without insider knowledge. Roshuuto doesn’t know about Serizawa and Claw.

Not unless someone fed it to him.

“Unless there is a gun or an oath involved, you shouldn’t say things to official-looking people you don’t know,” Reigen had informed the office one day, apropos of two weeks spent sleepless after what Reigen now referred to as “The Lawyer Incident.” Then he’d looked over his near-bulletproof colleague and sheepishly revised the statement to oath only.

That was three years ago. Serizawa wouldn’t have spilled anything. Not on purpose. It could come from a former Claw lackey. After Rusty, it’s not hard to imagine Roshuuto sticking his head into a lion’s den of former terrorists, utterly ignorant to the inherent danger.

It could have been a friend.

Paranoid or not, he has to consider it. Someone close to the campaign with ties to Roshuuto. Reigen chews the inside of his cheek, flipping through the rolodex of contacts made throughout the campaign.

He stops abruptly on a page at the sneeze of an audience member. The more he thinks about the past month, the more it all clicks together. Maybe if he wasn’t so occupied and concussed and occupied again, he would have realized sooner. No casual supporter bothers with the trouble of visiting someone in a hospital room.

If Reigen’s hunch is right, then Roshuuto could have wrung out any information Hoshida consciously or unconsciously sponged from the office. Fighting the worst case scenario means defending against every outcome. Reigen has to assume Roshuuto knows everything about them. And if it’s not Shigeo, but Serizawa in Roshuuto’s scope, Reigen must adapt.

“Whatever you decide,” Serizawa told him from the start, “no matter what, you know you have my support.”

Trust like that didn’t come for free. Reigen had taken advantage of it far too much for a single political whim, far too much to put Serizawa through whatever inconvenience — or worse came of this. Whatever Roshuuto threw, Reigen could take it all — and not a single speck of mud would land on Serizawa.

As the shock melts away, Reigen reassumes acute awareness of his surroundings. He’d only been numbly entrenched in his internal monologue a minute or two per his wristwatch. With his return comes another nearly unbearable indignity — the grating monologue.

“—so how about it, Reigen? I don’t know about the gentlemen in the audience—”

There’s an unhappy muttering in the audience that sounds distinctly Mezato.

“—but personally, I wouldn’t want this on my front porch,” Roshuuto says with a dramatic gesture to the screen. “Care to explain how you could possibly approve of someone as destructive as your spouse with your rigorous set of principles?”

“Are you still talking? About the weather?” Reigen says with a forced snort of a laugh. It feels less jovial and more like he’s sucked chlorinated pool water through his sinuses — but it’s all about toppling Roshuuto off his high horse.

And Roshuuto would know if he’d ever been on the other side of an episode of public humiliation — a photo didn’t prove a damn thing. If it did, Reigen wouldn’t have a job.

“This is a joke, right? Waterspouts happen all the time. Anyone with a power level high enough would know that.”

Roshuuto skids mid-monologue, looking less self-aggrandizing and more than a little self-conscious. “...Huh?”

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:46 | Warehouse 4 (Parking Lot) | Latest poll: ???

Dimple led the group to the underground parking lot. He was a fairly effective navigator despite the warehouse’s labyrinthine layout. Only once did he forget that his corporeal companions couldn’t phase through the concrete at the edge of the section that formerly hawked bird feeders and wind chimes.

“You have to teach me that invisibility trick,” Teru bubbles to Sho. “That’d come in handy for all my undercov—understudy work. Uh, at the thespian club. Get up close to the performances, you know? Really learn all the blocking.”

“Sounds like you need to spend more time there,” Dimple mutters under his breath.

“I dunno,” Sho says. “It’s pretty advanced. Not everyone’s up to it.”

“Seriously?” Teru says.

“Yup,” Sho deadpans. “And if you mess up, you could totally die.”

“Please. I’m sure an incredibly average guy like me can—”

“I don’t think Ritsu’s brother can do it.”

“Kageyama-kun can’t…? No way!”

Sho suppresses an impish grin at how the comment riles Teru up.

Ritsu bristles at the offhanded mention of his brother, but after a brief ponderance, elects to allow it. “Maybe. I’ve never seen him try.”

Dimple says, “If Shigeo knew how to disappear at will, he’d never do a reading in literature class again.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Ritsu says — equal parts reflexive and unconvincing.

Teru slumps. “I suppose if I sprint so fast no one can see me, it’s basically the same thing.”

Serizawa sits on a curb stop, staring at the faded oil stain in the center of an empty compact-only parking space with his head in his hands. At the moment, there’s a lot to consider. The debate. The campaign. His marriage. His ability to leave the parking lot without ogling stares. But mostly, he’s occupied with smothering his volatile powers before he accidentally rips out any loose catalytic converters.

Sho offers him a half-crushed box of cookies-and-cream Pocky sticks from his track jacket pocket. Ritsu offers him temporary ownership of an 18/0 stainless steel spoon. Teru offers to help him return that floating 2006 Honda Civic back to the safety of the parking lot. Dimple offers to defenestrate Roshuuto out the fourth floor Vinegar Avenue overlook.

“It’s not like I’d get caught,” Dimple says, wiggling his ghostly hands. “No fingerprints.”

Serizawa graciously accepts the first three favors.

He’s too anxious to spare any remaining energy on self-consciousness over it. Help is help, even if it’s from a handful of teenagers and a morally-ambiguous spirit. If anything, the mechanical act of holding open a foil bag and shimmying biscuit dust into his open mouth is a nice break from the incessant jaw clenching. And he’s too keyed up to properly drive the floating car without risk of incident. The worst thing Serizawa can do after, well, all of this, is add an insurance premium hike to the mix.

There’s an echo across the lot as the vehicle’s tires return to rest, cushioned in the psychic whips conjured from Teru’s golden aura. There’s a dent in the car’s side, but Serizawa is 90% sure it was not Serizawa-induced.

Teru fiddles telekinetically with the locking mechanism before the alarm can sound. If Serizawa wasn’t busy playing overwhelmed traffic cop to his highway lane of speeding thoughts, he’d pepper Teru with a gentle but insistent inquiry about that particular set of skills.

But it’s one less weight off of him. Literally and figuratively, and every bit helps.

While Dimple dramatically recounts the tumultuous haunting of the defunct kids entertainment area for the rest of the group, Serizawa presses his bloodied shirt cuff to his dribbling cheek wound. He focuses on bending the borrowed spoon in a ring around his free thumb and continues sorting out his own internals.

When his powers slip out of control, they knot over his hands like the twisted ribbon strings of a thousand wayward balloons. He can’t tell which end connects to which head. Cutting it all away is simpler than sorting through the impossible tangle. But letting go causes its own set of problems, namely with gravity. Years ago, he used to tie all those strings to the frame of a plastic umbrella and pretend he never felt anything at all. It’s a reflex — to want to stuff all the worst feelings away where he doesn’t have to process them.

He’s overstimulated — simultaneously too hot, too cold, too twitchy, too fatigued, too everything. His cheek hurts, something’s burning against his thigh, and all the gymnastics in his dress shoes gave him blisters. It’s hard to tell, but he thinks he’s holding strings right now. He’s pretty sure. While he has no clue where they lead, he’s confident that his aura-aware comrades would warn him of any impending bodily harm or property damage.

Serizawa should be better at managing his powers.

During his first few exorcisms at the office, he got carried away. He calibrated over time. Having Shigeo there had been like learning to ride a bike with the sturdiest set of training wheels money could buy. A month with this mentorship, he learned to live in symbiotic harmony with the aura he’d spent nearly two decades suppressing.

Since leaving Claw, he’s regarded his powers as neither a blessing or a curse but another neutral option he’d never previously considered — a feature. Another demographic facet of his person. Here is Serizawa Katsuya: thirty-three years old, married, curly hair, above-average height, double-jointed in one thumb, predisposed to hypercholesterolemia — and yes, in possession of psychic powers. It’s a paint stroke among many, a piece in his puzzle, nothing remarkable compared with the whole.

“Characteristics alone don’t make you a good or bad,” Reigen told him once, red-faced over a watered-down lemon sour. “It’s about the things you do with them.”

At the time, Reigen was complaining about a one-star Yelp review from some no-show massage client. But sometimes, a good mantra strikes hard even without proper context.

Psychic powers don’t make anyone special. Some people are good at sudoku. Some people read quickly. Some people can whistle through their teeth. And some people can explode the overhead mercury vapor fluorescent tube lighting with an errant thought.

Still, they’re people all the same. Serizawa’s one of them. Just another guy.

It’s a great life philosophy except for one part —

Reigen isn’t another guy.

It’s Reigen, Serizawa thinks. It’s always about Reigen, isn’t it?

In the past month, hardly a day’s gone by without a floating pencil or two in the apartment, inadvertently rearranging the office furniture, jostling the fire extinguisher, shuffling through the backstage storage of an improv theater, or deflating a hefty chunk of the dilapidated ball pit.

And then, a beach tornado.

“Dangerous.”

That was about Reigen too.

When Serizawa was in his room, he’d accepted that breaking things was an inevitability. It’s less acceptable in a concrete expanse full of mid-tier automobiles. He can only imagine the look of abject terror Reigen might throw at him if Serizawa came back to explain that he’d inadvertently crushed six cars into a neat cube like a human trash compactor.

It’s one thing to cause problems for himself. It’s another to drag down another person. Hurt another person. There’s a word for that, according to Serizawa’s election booklet — wherever he left it. He has the damned thing memorized, so he hardly needs it anymore.

Though Dr. Sasaki’s words have tumbled through Serizawa’s brain ever since the last session, neither ‘partner’ nor ‘protector’ is the word on the tip of his tongue.

The word is Dijon Kori’s:

In financial accounting, he wrote, any cost to the campaign is called a liability.

Liability. That’s the one.

Is that why Reigen had kept secrets from him? Did Reigen know what was coming? Was Reigen keenly aware himself? Is that why Reigen hadn’t wanted him to manage in the first place? He was aware from the start that Serizawa was nothing more than a lia—

He’s wrenched off the derailed train of his thoughts when Teru pokes his shoulder. Serizawa’s aura snaps back to him with the exaggerated force of a retracting tape measure. It almost stings.

Without a hint of jest, Teru says, “Hey, uh, Serizawa-san — do you want us to kill that Hoshida guy for you?”

Serizawa jolts. “I—what?”

“He’s not gonna go for it, Teruki,” Dimple says. “I already asked.”

Teru taps a temple. “Great minds, Dimple-san.”

Serizawa still can’t tell if he’s joking.

“Anyway,” Teru says, “there are other ways to make people repent for their actions. For example, if we can find a bucket somewhere, I can—”

“Actually,” Serizawa says, cutting away any of Teru’s potential exploration into that realm of possibility, “I think I was too hard on that kid.”

Dimple stills. “What.”

Teru stands tall with his hands clasped behind his head. Dimple floats above him, precisely out of manual exorcism range as if the exact distance is etched into his spectral muscle memory. Sho’s next to them, hanging his weight on one hip with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He’s searching around the parking structure, probably in search of moths. Checked out of the immediate circle, Ritsu leans against the wall near the parking pay machine with his arms folded over his chest, meditative expression plastered over his face.

Serizawa honestly expected more distress. Maybe they don’t understand the direness of the situation.

“He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Serizawa explains glumly. “Maybe he wouldn’t have known if I didn’t tell him things — but they’re facts. I’ve done some bad things in my life.”

“It’s not like you’re doing bad things now,” Teru says. “People can change, y’know? That’s something I wholeheartedly believe. I’m not the person I used to be, and I don’t think you are either. You stopped wearing the tan suit. You’re much cooler now.”

“It’s a political campaign,” Serizawa replies. “People deserve to know what they’re voting for.”

“They’re voting for Reigen though,” Sho says, waving a half-eaten Pocky stick, notably intact. “Why does what you do matter?”

“I think…the choices people make reveal a lot about their character. I know Roshuuto-san said that, but… He’s not wrong. Reigen-san’s a part of me. And if I had to make important decisions, I don’t think they’d be free of his influence. It goes both ways.”

Serizawa stares back down at the oil spill, noticing how it looks a bit uncannily like a mallard perched in an armchair.

“If that’s the case, I might have ruined his campaign completely. If he can’t win the election, it’ll be completely my fault for dragging him down.”

Ritsu exhales a throaty sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s blasted through some ceiling for tolerance. He kicks away from his lean against the wall, rejoining the circle.

“I think you’re all missing the point,” he says bluntly.

.

Mobipedia - The Free Encyclopedia

Article | Talk
Talk:Basil Beach Kaiju

This is the talk page for discussing improvements to the Basil Beach Kaiju article.
This is not a forum for general discussion over the article’s subject. Please use mobbit for that like normal people.

Do:

• Assume good faith
• Avoid personal attacks
• Welcome and politely direct newcomers
• Use verified sources for edits (e.g. newspapers of record, academic journals)

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Contents

(TOP)
Official Height Estimate????
Who is @roshuuto_official and why do they keep changing this article
External Links Modified
How The Basil Beach Kaiju would Wear Pants!!!
Lizzy is not a species or otherwise taxonomical name pls stop editing with it
Is this image fair use?
If You Make Gojira/Godzilla References Toho might Sue Us
Grammar correction, comma splice
Isn’t it actually an amphibian if it survives in water?

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:55 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

Meanwhile, back at the circus, Reigen attempts a careful balancing act without any semblance of a safety net — offering a convincing debate performance, while carefully diverting the conversation from the elephant in the room.

It began with knocking Roshuuto off rhythm —

“...Huh?” Roshuuto says.

— which seems to work.

“This is a joke, right?” Reigen continues, straining for lightweight joviality. “You’re not serious.”

“I— Ah. …Did I touch a nerve, Reigen?”

Reigen’s not about to let this guy piss him off again on live TV. In his best attempt at continued nonchalance, he waves a dismissive hand.

“Nah. But per federal communications law, you’re obligated to tell the truth on air,” Reigen says. Is it true? He doesn’t know. But it sounds true, and that’s gotten him through every seance he’s ever attempted. “Thought I should tell you. It seems like you didn’t know. Waterspouts are a common meteorological phenomenon.”

“It’s low to call someone a liar so flippantly,” Roshuuto huffs overdramatically. “Serizawa Katsuya was in the middle of it, so it must have been his powers. For the record, I took that photo myself from my beachside property. I used the same expensive camera I use for my self-portraits. It’s completely authentic!”

That’s exactly what Reigen tells his photo exorcism clients too.

“Is that proof? Ha! Anyone can PhotoShop—”

“Immediately suggesting that I would PhotoShop it?” Roshuuto says, like he was waiting for the pitch with an open catcher’s mitt. “Isn’t it incriminating how quickly you think like a fraud?”

“I’m offering a healthy dose of skepticism. They say people should only believe half of what they see. Even if it’s real, anyone can misrepresent a photo. Even witnesses to crimes misreport the truth.”

“Context is important, isn’t it?” Roshuuto oozes, thicker than grease. “Then yes — this is a picture from November seventh, the day the lighthouse was destroyed. All that needless damage to a property of historical record! These things are irreplaceable.”

“And why’s it so historical?”

“Because historical things happened there. Presumably.”

“What you’re giving isn’t context at all,” Reigen says with gestures more wild. He’s burning through his unbothered disposition quicker than he’d like. “If you’re gonna keep bringing this up, then I’ll set the record straight.” He stabs a finger into the surface of the podium. “Were Serizawa and I there that day? Yes. Did the lighthouse fall down? Yes. Does that mean it’s our fault?” Reigen grabs his bag of salt from his pocket and drops it on the ground with a thump. A few grains spill out. “Oh no!” he says in mock concern. “My salt fell. Must have been Roshuuto! He’s standing right there!”

He pulls a groan from the audience. Roshuuto’s lip curls derisively.

“That’s what you sound like,” Reigen says. “You’re telling me an old lighthouse doesn’t have structural issues already? The audience wasn’t born yesterday. I see why you didn’t bother to bring in a fact checker for this, or his hands would be too full every time you spoke.”

Roshuuto sputters, “I— You—”

“And here’s another thing! A pretty important big detail if you ask me — or did you miss the fact that we exorcized an attacking kaiju first?”

Reigen hesitates for a split second and amends the statement — a lie, but not one that anyone could prove on film. The more he keeps the conversation away from Serizawa, the better. “I exorcized a kaiju. That should have been within the vantage of your ‘beachside property.’ I guess your view isn’t as good as you claim if you missed it.”

A few members of the audience laugh, Shinra and Jodo among them. As uncomfortable as he is being on the same side as the latter, Reigen seizes the confidence boost.

“The lighthouse fell because of the kaiju attack, not because of the tornado. Check the tapes yourself. Maybe I shouldn’t have been in the lighthouse, but either way — isn’t it better to destroy some empty old property than allow any harm to come to innocent lives?”

The comment receives a murmur of approval from the crowd. Reigen nods along in encouragement, glancing over, hoping to find defeat or embarrassment on Roshuuto’s side of the stage after such a thorough haranguing. Outside, there’s a clattering noise, as if someone knocked on the warehouse door. It seems to jolt Roshuuto back into action — and sensing a lost cause with the projector image, he seizes a new thread of argument. With a snap of his fingers, the attendant ceases the projection, and Reigen breathes a sigh of relief as the danger of “Dangerous” fades away.

“The lizard,” Roshuuto says slowly. “You’re the one who killed it, yes?”

“I said I took care of it, didn’t I? You must not have been listening,” Reigen says arrogantly. He seizes the opportunity to take it a step further, spend more of Roshuuto’s precious airtime on a subject that only helps Reigen’s campaign and keeps Roshuuto’s claws out of Serizawa. “You’ll see it on our campaign website and our social media. Go ahead and search for it. I neutralized the kaiju threat before it reached the shore.”

“That poor animal,” Roshuuto bemoans. “Gone too soon from this world. Dead at your hands.”

Reigen gapes at the rhetorical whiplash of the moment. What was Roshuuto playing at, garnering sympathy for a —

“—giant lizard? That ‘poor animal’?” Reigen repeats incredulously. “It was an evil spirit. That kaiju attacked us. It almost killed Ka—Serizawa! And I nearly busted my head open! What the hell are you—?”

“Kaiju is a derogatory term,” Roshuuto says disdainfully, as if Reigen committed some cardinal sin — strode into his home in muddy shoes or smothered his pizza in ketchup. “That’s what my dear donor friends are saying. You’re supposed to call it an oversized anole.”

“Excuse me?”

Reigen wonders deliriously if he’s having some long, strange and very specific nightmare. If he isn’t, he sure would like to rip Roshuuto a new oversized an—

“You’ve heard of the People for Ethical Treatment of Psychic Anoles, haven’t you?” Roshuuto continues. “It’s okay. I know as a union outsider, you lack proper connections, but I’ll throw you a bone. They’re an up-and-coming fan club, and they were on the cover of the paper of record this month.”

A fan club? On the Asahi Shimbun? Reigen’s pretty sure the National Diet was on the morning’s copy he spied in the self-service newsrack when he’d walked home from union headquarters. Not some weird lizard fan club. As he ponders, the audience gets louder, chatting, seats shifting. Beyond them, the knocking sound intensifies.

“As a leader,” Roshuuto says, “you have to listen to the will of the people. What an enormous cruelty! What a loss for science! Before that loveable creature could—”

Reigen barks, “You think we should have let the evil spirit just pass us by? You think it would have wandered into town and what? Hung out? Attended your trivia night? No! Serizawa didn’t kill it. I didn’t kill it either. It wasn’t alive! We—I exorcized it, because I’m a damned good psychic and that’s part of the job. This is a union full of exorcists! It’s not unique! Even someone as low-level as you would have—”

“Surely, there were plenty of other options if you’d cared to consider them,” Roshuuto deflects. “Any union member might have handled the threat in a more dignified manner with zero casualties, people or property. Does the government animal control service execute creatures on sight? Absolutely not. That’s why we need proper licensing and oversight.”

“Shinra Banshomaru was there! He’ll tell you. He didn’t exorcize the threat.”

Reigen can practically hear the “please no” from the audience. And more knocking. What the hell’s with all the knocking?

“Shinra-san assisted the evacuation effort. His priorities helped prevent casualties,” Roshuuto rapostes. “You clearly stated your deeply-held morals earlier: people with powers bear incredible responsibility. Do you believe that or not? For yourself? Does your husband get special treatment for murder and property destruction?”

Reigen steams at the impossibly childish argument. It’s like talking to a toddler, completely lost to facts. But it signals something — if Roshuuto’s depending on such a flimsy argument for a cornerstone, he’s either in debt to some donor or it’s his last hail mary in the debate. Reigen figures if he can stay on course, he might be able to snap the guillotine and wrap this whole debacle up.

He wonders if Serizawa’s doing okay, wherever he went. He wonders if he’ll be able to look Serizawa in the eye when he comes home tonight after everything.

“If you’re going to blame anyone for the lighthouse, cut it with the Serizawa stuff and blame me,” Reigen says, unable to stifle the irritation in his voice. “Whatever! But lives are lives and spirits are spirits. Exorcisms are a standard part of any psychic office, yours included. Something we’re good at, or did you forget about the time we had to exorcize the curse that almost killed you?” He points an accusatory finger at his opponent. “You’re negligent, your comparison is crap, and you sound disingenuous.”

“And you sound like a lovesick hypocrite. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? Maybe an investigation is in order,” Roshuuto replies mockingly, as if Reigen hadn’t said anything at all. Over the background crescendo of knocking, adds, “As I understand it, Serizawa’s had some other past difficulties, right?”

Okay.

Alright.

That is enough.

Thoroughly incensed, Reigen opens his mouth to let free loose the angry deluge that’s lapped at the confines of his chest since the projector screen first blinked on — divisive, yes; loud, most likely; coherent, possibly; riddled with expletives, certainly—

Something else beats him to it.

The auditorium doors burst open, banging hard against the walls. There’s running, stomping, yelling, chanting.

Just when Reigen thinks the debate hadn’t lobbed enough lemons, rocks, boulders, flaming piles of crazy shit at his campaign, his marriage, and his belief in basic human decency —

“Lizard murderer!”

— in comes the next circus act, hurtling toward their ringleader.

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 20:59 | Warehouse 4 (Parking Lot) | Latest Poll: 50%

Ritsu lets his first utterance adequately sink into his captive audience before continuing. Serizawa recognizes this public speaking technique from Winning your Supernatural Election Campaign: A Primer Chapter Seven: “How to Give an Effective Speech without Drawing Laughs, Groans, or Legal Scrutiny.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Ritsu says — the usual grim preamble he mutters before denying pollyannaish budget proposals or rejecting love confessions. “But Serizawa-san, you aren’t special.”

The spoon in Serizawa’s grasp crushes into a crumpled, grotesque marble in his palm. It slips through his fingers and clatters to the concrete.

He blinks. “Oh. Oh, god, sorry, I’ll just—”

Sho snorts, punching Serizawa’s shoulder. He stabs a thumb in Ritsu’s direction. “Can you believe this guy?” Sho dons his best overly-serious Ritsu voice, “‘I don’t mean to be rude.’ Seriously! And then he says the rudest thing you’ve ever heard! After you took us to that movie and everything!”

Ritsu grumbles, “I’m pointing out the obvious since none of you are looking at the big picture. If Reigen-san’s campaign can’t win the election, it’s because Reigen-san’s campaign can’t win the election.” He waves a flippant hand toward Serizawa. “Hiring you is part of a series of choices. You have no idea if they were bad choices until election day comes.”

“You’re probably the only decent choice that dumbass has ever made,” Dimple adds. “Well, you and Shigeo. And upgrading the air conditioner.”

“Saying anything about the campaign outcome without evidence is completely irrational,” Ritsu says.

Serizawa says, “But polls—”

“There’s no polling this quickly,” Ritsu dismisses. “And the debate hasn’t ended either.”

“And Mezato-san’s reporting—”

“Press, even bad press, only brings more attention to your campaign,” Ritsu says. “It’s free advertising. In a weird way, Hoshida-san, and by extension, Roshuuto-san, might have done you a favor. A campaign should take advantage of opportunities as they come and discard anything that doesn’t work. In the end, you need to win with whatever means you can. You shouldn’t knock any approach unless you’re completely sure it’s detrimental.”

“You’re kind of twisted, aren’t you?” Sho says to Ritsu’s chagrin.

Ritsu flushes. “I’m just saying. I mean, it’s not like it’s over. Even in school politics, I’ve recovered from worse than this.”

He and Dimple share a meaningful look before he concludes, “Ignore it and move on. Only apologize if you have to. Most importantly, keep fighting.”

“Fair point, little brother,” Teru chirps. “My life didn’t end after I lost my clothes, my hair, my pride, and my entire middle school gang. Actually, it ended up being a good thing. I don’t know you that well, but I think you’re resilient, Serizawa-san. If you can survive fighting Kageyama-kun, I know from experience that you’re pretty tough.”

Serizawa says, “I don’t know if a middle school gang is exactly the same thing as psychic business politics.”

“You’d be surprised,” Teru says cheerfully. “It’s very organized, and there’s heaps of subterfuge.”

As normal as Serizawa wishes his childhood was, sometimes he’s grateful he forwent aspects of the middle school experience. Mercifully, the only subterfuge Serizawa experienced at night school was when he went drinking with a seatmate after a geography exam — and when the bill came, his seatmate claimed his “cat” ate his “wallet.”

“Even if it’s about Claw… My mom and I, we had to lie low after everything happened with my pops,” Sho says, regarding the flex of the toe boxes on his sneakers. “Got everything delivered. We can go to the grocery store without weird looks now though. I dunno. I guess people forgive things after a while. Or maybe they just forget.”

“Sho-kun…”

Sho picks up the lumpy hunk of metal from its rest over the oil stain, straightening it back to form with his powers.

“No offense, but you were pretty bad at being a bad guy. And even if that fake psychic guy brings it up — at least this isn’t cable TV,” Sho says. “That’d be a tougher recovery. Trust me! Going without SmileMart pork buns for that long was a real bummer. I like seeing how long I can turn that glasses guy’s tongs invisible before he notices.” He hands the spoon back to Serizawa. “Anyway, bellyaching about this stuff is boring. You’re more interesting than that, y’know?”

It’s warped and grainy — a ghost of its original form. The neck is too thin, the handle too pancake flat, and the bowl too lopsided. Still, it’s unmistakably a spoon.

“Hm,” Ritsu observes. “Metal fatigue. You can only warp spoons so much before they fall apart entirely. And you put so much pressure on it that it practically melted.”

“...Sorry.”

Ritsu says dismissively, “No. It’s pretty cheaply-made stainless steel, so I’m not surprised you crushed it. It’s not as nice as Mitsuura-san’s spoons.”

Teru hums knowingly. “He has real silver. That’s the Lamborghini of flatware.”

Serizawa says, “This isn’t yours…?”

“I swiped it from the kitchen section,” Ritsu admits. “It’s called Mobsig, and it doesn’t contain an ounce of nickel. I’d never own something like this myself.”

“Spoon elitist,” Sho accuses.

“I take my hobbies seriously!”

The banter continues. Serizawa bends the worn-out spoon into a final resting loop and twirls it around a finger, resuming his attempt at self-regulation. This time, the traffic feels more manageable. No strings that he’s aware of. His heart isn’t pounding in his chest, and he can feel the ends of his toes in his dress shoes.

He’s not okay. Not really. But he’s grateful.

Between Sho’s lasting familial trauma, Ritsu’s emerging machiavellianism, and nearly everything about Hanazawa Teruki, the whole experience leaves Serizawa wondering if he should refer his therapist’s services more gratuitously. He gazes at Dimple and decides she probably doesn’t take ghosts.

For now, he’s usurped the steering wheel of his psychic faculties. That’s more than enough to re-enter the action.

But more importantly…

Arataka.

Serizawa checks his watch and frowns. He’s tuned out for longer than he thought.

“Ar—Reigen-san has things under control, right?”

Teru pulls out his phone. “Hard to say. Mobtter’s kinda broken right now, but I’ve been following the feed. The debate’s still going, but everything’s taking forever to load.”

Ritsu glances at his own phone. “Mezato-senpai’s tweets say there’s been a lot of mud-slinging. I suppose that’s Roshuuto-san’s style.”

“I’m going to—”

“Stay out of the warehouse,” Sho warns, “You don’t want to attract attention from Ritsu’s brother’s master, right?”

“Yes. Right. Then I’d like to watch Kurata-san’s livestream.”

Dimple asks, “Even if it’s about you?”

Sho brings up the feed. He has the best cell signal in the basement level, and, he tells them, his phone plan gets charged to his father’s account. He backtracks several minutes so Serizawa can watch what he missed.

If there’s still a chance left, Serizawa decides, the worst thing he can be is a liability. The second worst thing? Useless. If Reigen’s winning, he’ll happily support him. But if Reigen’s losing, if they’re both losing — then he’ll share that as well, however he can. Part of being married is that Reigen’s pain is his pain too.

“Yes,” Serizawa says. He regards the 2006 Honda Civic, pleased that it remains firmly planted on the pavement. “I have to see things through. Even if it gets messy.”

.

> Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @sho_not_tell

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@reigen_for_president • started an hour ago

let’s all just settle down now (edited)

⏯️ —————————————— 🔈

401 comments • 542 retweets • 752 likes • 5321 views

(auto-generated transcript:)

[...]

[The camera points to Tome’s wide-eyed face. In selfie mode, she pans around the warehouse front row until the stage is visible behind her. It’s chaos. Speckled head-to-toe with green, Reigen’s clutching Roshuuto by the collar, yelling something unintelligible, and Roshuuto is white as a sheet.]

[Next to them, there’s an overturned bucket bearing Roshuuto’s campaign logo and the phrase #ReigenPailsInComparison and #ThirstyforRoshuuto. It’s spilling out an unidentifiable liquid. In front of the stage, a security guard missing a chunk of an ear wrestles a wriggling masked stranger to the ground.]

Tome: You guys are never gonna believe what just happened!

Shigeo: Please be careful.

Tome: Seriously, I’m never gonna forget this!

Shigeo: I should have skipped arm day.

[Behind them, someone yells, “Leave Lizzy alone—!”]

Shigeo: Kurata-senpai, you need to duck.

Tome: Mob-kun, look at these engagement numbers!

Reigen: [Faintly in the background] Fucking hell, Roshuuto—move!

[The phone shakes, showing nothing more than a green-tinged blur.]

[This livestream has paused.]

.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 21:09 | Warehouse 4 (Parking Lot) | Latest poll: 50%

The group stares in stunned silence at Sho’s glitching smartphone as the feed dissolves into colorful static. Whatever semblance of calm the group managed to achieve quickly dissipates. Sho raps the phone over the back of his hand as if he can manually coax the pixels back into position.

“That guy looked kinda familiar,” Dimple says.

“Yeah…” Teru says, tapping his chin. “You’re right.”

“This,” Serizawa bleats, “is too messy.”

Serizawa jumps up from his seat on the parking block. His tense muscles had finally relaxed before the stream started, only to pump back full of raw adrenaline at the first sign of trouble.

Sho refreshes the glitching stream a few more times unsuccessfully, mumbling about the ads loading better than the content. He pulls down to refresh once, twice, three times. Each attempt yields nothing more than a halfhearted spin of the loading wheel, a distorted two second clip shilling a tower defense game, and disappointment. He closes and reopens the app. Still nothing.

When Sho looks up from his handiwork, the rest of the group is gone — the only proof they were ever there lies in the swinging door and the misshapen spoon left over the oil-blotted parking surface.

“Geez,” Sho complains. “You guys couldn’t have waited a bit?”

He ties a loose shoelace into a neat little bow and takes off too.

.

> Refreshing feed…
> Refreshing is taking longer than usual…
> …
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> …
> Refreshing feed…
> …

mobtter — @reigen_for_president

For you | Following

⏺️ Your live stream is paused. Continue?

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LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 1 hour ago
🧵RSSU DEBATE LIVE TWEET THREAD 🧵⬇️

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 1 hour ago
@mezato_writes Opening statements from @reigen_for_president are…fine? Nothing to write home about. Standard issue campaign promises. Where’s the drama?? 😴

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 1 hour ago
@mezato_writes Breaking news! My pen ran out of ink.

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 1 hour ago
@mezato_writes Yup, ended as boring as it began! @roshuuto_official is up next. Hopefully this is less of a snooze fest. I wanna see some action!!

|
~ Open 40 More Tweets ? ~
|

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 9 mins ago
@mezato_writes They’re having some back and forth about something. The sound quality isn’t very good. Reigen looks pissed. Is it loud in here or is it just me?

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 8 mins ago
@mezato_writes WHOA WHOA HOLD UP

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 8 mins ago
@mezato_writes くぁwせdrftgyふじこlp

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 8 mins ago
@mezato_writes ….L.

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 7 mins ago
@mezato_writes …sorry, dropped my phone

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 6 mins ago
@mezato_writes Breaking news! Lizard protestors have slithered into the building. They’re attempting to scale the stage!

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • 3 mins ago
@mezato_writes INCOMING!!!!! [WTF.mp4]

[alt text: A twenty second video clip. In the clip, several masked protestors run past security and approach the debate stage with two buckets. Roshuuto greets them happily and attempts to thank them for their support of the campaign.

Reigen seizes the back of Roshuuto’s jacket before the first wave of slime can hit him. The bucket flies through the air and splatters green sludge over the stage and between the podiums. The second bucket gets thrown at Reigen from the other side of the stage. He ducks with the agility of a man well-practiced at dodging projectiles. The wave of goo is about to hit a dumbstruck Roshuuto in the face, mere centimeters away when the video cuts.]

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • just now
@mezato_writes OH SHIT that was wild

└ Yuzu Pepper HS Student Council @YPSeitokai • just now
@mezato_writes Use of vulgar language violates student social media policy. This will go down as a demerit on your permanent record. Please refrain from further transgressions. Thank you. #AlwaysWatching

└LIZZY-POCALYPSE @mezato_writes • just now
@YPSeitokai you guys are so obsessed with me! a girl commits seditious libel ONE time and suddenly she’s the bad guy

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Mitsuura @ESPerEnthusiast • 7 mins ago
Hmm… The broadcast keeps getting interrupted. I really wanted to watch the #RSSUDebate live! What’s going on, @BS_WTF_TV? #MyMoneysOnReigen #Literally

└Wilderness, Transit, Finance @BS_WTF_TV • just now
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Asagiri Masashi’s Jet @MasashiJet • 13 mins ago
Landed at Seasoning City International Airport (OMOB) 40 mins ago. Remained grounded due to ongoing electrical interference.

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.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 21:08 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

“Fucking hell, Roshuuto—move!”

Reigen braces instinctively at the pending impact. Roshuuto’s doing a piss-poor job of protecting his vital areas. And since Reigen’s been on the other side of that bucket already this election season, he knows the heavy sludge will smack Roshuuto with enough force to turn him into next Tuesday.

But the goopy impact doesn’t come.

Reigen opens his eyes, thinks wildly, There’s absolutely no way Roshuuto has powers—

“Reigen!” calls Tome from the audience. And when he turns his head, he can see Shigeo, hair floating, outstretched arm directing his invisible aura into holding the bucket afloat a hair’s breadth from Roshuuto’s face.

“Ah,” Reigen says, relieved to be wrong for the first time since he took the stage. “Right. That makes more sense.”

Reigen appreciates the subtlety of Shigeo’s disdain for his opponent — that even though his student stops the brutal execution, he still holds the threat looming overhead. Or he might just be oblivious. Either way, he can see the sweat gathered in the crease through Roshuuto’s forehead.

He relinquishes his grip on Roshuuto’s emerald-lined suit jacket and brushes himself off, surveying the danger.

The two attackers already threw their buckets and dashed away, pursued by the frazzled stage manager and her assistants. Reigen can only assume it’s the same group that drenched him and Serizawa earlier in the month.

There aren’t many protestors out in the audience. They’re dressed in black and green, holding signs and buckets and megaphones, and one of them is dressed in an iridescent lizard suit — an unfortunate choice as a security guard grabs them by the tail. Only a few lucky protesters made it past the backrows to the stage in the first place, hampered by a combination of security and limited audience ESP.

Roshuuto’s stunned into silence, and Reigen wants to comment on it — but then the floating bucket drops to the floor, spritzing Roshuuto with a thorough coating of green paste. Some chunky splotches land over Reigen before the bucket rolls away, oozing over the stage between the podiums. The spill soaks through Roshuuto’s ostentatious patent leather shoes. Roshuuto spits green onto the stage, making a face at the acrid taste on his tongue and the glitter particles stuck between his molars. Reigen curses both Roshuuto and the pending dry cleaning fees.

“Sorry, Reigen-san!” Tome bellows. “Mob said his arm got tired. He’s sore from training.”

Reigen waves them off, wipes his face of slime and leftover makeup, and then affixes Roshuuto with a glare. After everything Roshuuto put him through in the afternoon, the whole campaign, Reigen should be steaming with anger. But the protest interruption threw him off, and frankly, Roshuuto looks so helplessly pathetic as he stands in front of him — betrayed and splattered.

“Did you seriously trust those people?” Reigen says. “They’re basically a cult.”

Roshuuto says nothing. He wipes his face with the black handkerchief from the pocket of his elaborately-trimmed and equally elaborately-stained trousers. He trudges past the spreading ooze of slime and sits down on the stage far behind the podiums, watching security scramble through the aisles.

Reigen continues exasperatedly, “You pulled out this many stops. Geez. Are you that desperate to win this?”

“You’re not in the union,” Roshuuto says from the floor. He wrings the handkerchief out beside him and then smushes it in his hand. “You don’t get it. You barely know what the union does.”

“I know plenty about this union,” Reigen says. “Even before all of this… I know how it all works.” He whips his hand around. “It’s all business. You think I don’t know what a promotion cycle looks like? When I worked corporate, everyone went absolutely insane every time a higher-up left. Half the time, the whole thing got so messy that the loser had to quit the company entirely. I didn’t get it then, and I don’t get it now.”

“Nope. Wrong. As usual, dear rival, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well, I know more than I wish I ever did.”

“Then you’d know that if you hadn’t interfered, I would have won. There’s no question. My policies protect all the existing member businesses from outsiders like you. I’d make them money,” Roshuuto offers. “It’s actually amazing that you managed to tie up the polls at all.” He coughs a laugh. “What sort of promiscuous deals did you make behind closed doors, hm?”

Reigen’s eye twitches. “Your apprentice yakked all about it.”

“Origo-chan,” Roshuuto says with a quirk of his lip. “How’d you figure it out?”

“You,” Reigen says. “Just now.”

Roshuuto stills.

“You had his cold. It went around my office too.”

“I see. l’ll give you this then — you managed to hire a good team. Your secretary, for example. Origo never shuts up about her. I should have poached her when I had the chance. Then it would have been a landslide.” He pauses. “But there’s still time.”

Of course he had a good team, Reigen thinks. It’d be an affront to humanity to think otherwise.

In the audience, he finds Tome waving her phone at the action. Shigeo rubs his aching bicep muscle. In the chaos, the other esper kids managed to squeeze themselves into the front row, stuffing themselves three to a loveseat with Ritsu unhappily squished in the middle. Dimple settles on the back of the loveseat, crossing one popped-out leg over the other. It’s remarkable — the way all these people can spend weeks, even months apart throughout the year, and yet in these moments throughout the campaign, come together as if time had never passed at all.

Then Reigen’s breath catches in his throat when he notices — Serizawa returned. He settles back next to Tome. He’s harried, worn, worse for wear, dried blood, clothes ripped. But he’s okay. He’s okay.

“Maybe you’re right,” Reigen says, hesitant to tear his eyes away. But he too wanders over and settles, seated on the stage as security bangs through the doors. It’s over, and he’s tired.

He’s so tired.

“I don’t get the union, because I don’t get all of this.” Reigen gestures at the abandoned bucket in front of them. Roshuuto grimaces at the visibility of his own name on the exterior. “Why bother? You have your business alr—”

“Business and gift shop,” Roshuuto corrects. “And I’m working on a licensing deal. Maybe books too. I know a guy.”

Reigen rolls his eyes. “You have your shitty business already. Why do more?”

“Because I’m running for president,” Roshuuto says.

“But…why?”

“Because I’d like to be president.”

“But why go this far?”

“Because,” Roshuuto emphasizes each syllable in the most churlish manner possible, “I’d like to be president. What an inane question! Why does anyone want anything?”

“You want to be president for the sake of being president,” Reigen summarizes warily. “So you call a guy’s mother.”

“It’s part of the game,” Roshuuto says dismissively. He pockets his damp handkerchief and checks his cuticles. As if he can’t help it, he smirks, “She was lovely by the way. Maybe I’ll add her to my network. She’s well-connected, you know? She said her shogi league started up again.”

“She doesn’t play shogi,” Reigen snaps.

“She doesn’t play shogi,” Roshuuto agrees. “You act all high and mighty, but you’re running for the same job I am.”

Reigen hesitates. Security sweeps the last fragments of PETPA out the backdoor.

“I’m not running for president,” Reigen insists. “I didn’t— I’m…opposing. I’m running for you to not become president.”

“How admirable. Truly, you’re above all of us.”

“Look,” Reigen says. “It’s been a long, tiring, and incredibly gross day. I don’t care about this anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like you. Actually, I hate you. I’m furious about all of this, but watching you get hit in the face made me feel a little better. Lucky for you, Serizawa tends to be more forgiving than I am. So. I can’t believe I’m saying this but… Let’s wrap this up.”

Roshuuto narrows his eyes. “A truce?”

“Whatever you want to call it. I want a shower, and I’m sure you want to recoup your remaining dignity, so…”

“But I wasn’t losing,” Roshuuto argues. “Why would I do that?”

Reigen gestures at the sheen of residue splattered over his opponent. “All of this. I thought—”

More desperately, Roshuuto presses, “What? That I’d roll over?”

“What? No? But we’re done here.”

“You think this means you win, Reigen?” he rises to his feet hurriedly. A little too fast. He holds his head, blinking away lightheadedness and stumbling haphazardly toward the goo. “...Don’t be ridiculous! Why would I stop when I’m winning?”

“Who said you’re winning? I thought I was—”

“So one thing went wrong!” Roshuuto all but shouts at him. “It’s not over. I’m not done here! Not by a longshot.”

Reigen rises to his own feet, seized by pending fear. Roshuuto nearly slips on his frantic dash toward the podium. “We’re not done at all. The voters have to know! They have to know about you, who you really are! The whole story. And I know they’ll be shocked to know all about who Serizawa really is.”

Reigen’s blood runs cold.

“Don’t you dare.”

.

> Opening Mobtter…

> Refreshing feed…

mobtter — @serizawa_k

Vote Reigen Arataka is live (unfollow)
@reigen_for_president • started over an hour ago

Debates are just one facet of a campaign (edited)

⏯️ —————————————— 🔈

481 comments • 567 retweets • 811 likes • ??? views

[…]

[The camera fixes on Reigen and Roshuuto, seated and chatting unintelligibly behind the podiums, as the rest of Reigen’s campaign, gathered on sofas out of view, spin idle conversation.]

Serizawa: —came back as soon as I saw what happened. It seems like I missed it. I-is everyone okay? I was worried.

Tome: Never better! If Reigen-san told me politics was gonna be like this, I would have told him to run ages ago! …Oh, but um, Serizawa-san, I’m sorry about…

Serizawa: It’s fine.

Shigeo: It must have been hard to see that.

Tome: But Reigen-san said…

Serizawa: I saw what he said too, bits and pieces. I was upset but… I’m okay now. I promise. I’m more worried about Arataka.

[Roshuuto looks visibly more agitated, the longer Reigen speaks to him.]

Serizawa: I could never do what he does. I could tell things got to him, but he stayed so calm. He’s amazing, isn’t he? And I couldn’t…

Dimple: You had your hands full, Katsuya.

Serizawa: Sure but… Aah, Kurata-san! I have to tell you something!

Tome: Mob told me you went after Hoshida-senpai.

Serizawa: He—

Shigeo: Sorry. I didn’t think it needed to be a secret.

Serizawa: I see.

[On stage, Roshuuto stumbles to a stand.]

Serizawa: I wanted to make sure you were okay.

Tome: I don’t want to talk about this on stream. But…he’ll get an earful from me later.

Dimple: That’s surprisingly mature.

Tome: What can I say, Dimple-chan? I’m a charming and talented woman with a budding online career.

Dimple: Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Shigeo: Hey, uh, everyone, is he—?

[Roshuuto seizes the mic, and Reigen looks furious.]

Tome: Oh shit, there’s more? I thought they’d call it. I gotta make sure I get this. Roshuuto’s last stand before Reigen strikes him down for good!

Serizawa: Let’s maybe watch the language on the official account.

Tome: Yeah, yeah.

[Roshuuto yells something into the mic, but the mic is muffled. He shakes the mic, taps it a few times, and points an accusatory finger at Reigen. Reigen stares defiantly into the viewfinder.]

Roshuuto: My opponent, Reigen Arataka, is married to —

Reigen: [Muffled] Don’t you dare say—

Roshuuto: —some kind of criminal!

[The audience rumbles confusedly.]

Shigeo: Oh.

Tome: I didn’t know he would say something like… Ah, Serizawa-san, what should I…?

Dimple: That’s kind of open-ended.

Serizawa: …Shit.

[...]

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r/relationships — posted by u/psychic_saboteur_throwaway ??? secs ago

i (20M) ruined my crush’s (18F) boss’s (31M) husband’s (33M) life at my former boss’s (35M) request (pls help me)

hi this might be a longshot but i think i have messed up my chances at happiness, love, and career. it’s a long story but it all starts with my lifelong desire to bring potential paramours to sketchy locations and

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mobtok

Following | For You

@noster0ids how i trained to lift a car axle without psychic powers
??? likes | 122 comments | 101 saves | 29 shares

(auto-generated transcript)

[…]

[A tall and extraordinarily beefy man with a spiky haircut drops a fully-loaded trap weightlifting bar to the ground with a resounding thump. He chats at the waiting car axle.]

Shibata: It’s just you and me on a Saturday night, buddy…

[…]

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mobstagram — @serizawa_k (New Post) (Likes) (Messages(???))

@reigen_for_president | 99 posts | ??? followers | 99 following

[profile_picture.jpg – ERROR, this image failed to load!]

⚡REIGEN ARATAKA 4 RSSU ⚡
The century’s greatest psychic runs for president, and you can help!

(People who follow @reigen_for_president also follow @serizawa_k, @??? and @roshuuto_official)

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mobtter — @serizawa_k

For you | Following

(@roshuuto_official liked)
anole to dig 🦎 @mezato_writes • ??? mins ago
this is definitely one of the Debates i’ve watched

└some guy idk @hater123 • just now
@mezato_writes these guys all suck

Uh oh! Your timeline failed to load. Check @mobtter_status for service issues.

> Closing
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mobbit.

r/personalfinance — posted by u/imanaccountant ??? minutes ago

Learning to distinguish between equity, assets, and liab

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Mobipedia - The Free Encyclopedia

This article is about the Basil Beach Kaiju (Lizzy the Lizard), a mysterious and one-of-a-kind psychic disturbance. For other uses, see Lizzy the Lizard (disambiguation).

Contents
History
Scientific View
In politics
???
See also
References

The Basil Beach Kaiju, also commonly referred to as Lizzy, is a giant quadruped psychic lizard alleged by enthusiasts to inhabit the depths of the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Seasoning City, Japan.[???] While some other sightings have been reported in other parts of Japan, scientists have dismissed the provided evidence as a hoax [???] and

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mobtter — @serizawa_k

For you | Following

The Yodeler @YuzuPepperHSYodeler • ???
Developing story: Striking new allegations in the race for RSSU president: https://…

Uh oh! Your timeline failed to load. Check @mobtter_status for ???????????????

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.

Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 21:15 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%

“Serizawa-san,” Shigeo says, tugging at Serizawa’s still-intact shirt sleeve. “You need to turn off your phone.”

“…Huh?”

“Your powers. It doesn’t feel very good. Can’t you hear it?”

Shigeo’s powers tug the device from Serizawa’s pocket. It’s practically sizzling, too hot to touch. The battery bulges, pushing out the boundaries of metal and plastic and bulging the screen. The screen itself is nearly burnt over white, and what few working pixels remain are sluggishly processing through a rotation of the most-used app tray — social media apps in endless rotation.

“Yikes,” Dimple says.

“That’s super bricked,” Tome adds, pulling her own phone closer to her chest.

It explains the burning sensation against his leg earlier.

“Ah. Yes. Sorry.”

Shigeo shakes his head, dismissing the apology entirely.

He finds the psychic string, adhered sloppily across the fingers of his shaking hand. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been stuffing it away. Maybe, he thinks, he thought no one could see it. He cuts it away, and his aura returns. The phone returns to a faded home screen — a picture of Serizawa and Reigen outside the Seasoning City government building on the day of their wedding. The pixels over Reigen’s face are completely dead.

As Serizawa holds the power button down, the pixels fade from the phone lock screen. It feels like a prayer. He wonders if the phone will ever turn back on, thoroughly electrocuted as it was. He waits for the screen to go dark, and he turns his attention back to Reigen, wishing all the while he could restart everything up there too.

There’s quiet on the stage, a hush over the audience, the reaction to a dropped bomb. Roshuuto pants over his microphone in the harsh ray of the spotlight. Reigen remains in the shadow, still as a statue.

[alt text: A row of glitch (Zalgo) font reading “Saturday, November 28, 2015 — 21:15 | Warehouse 4 (Main) | Latest poll: 50%” gradually fades to nothing, indicating the phone turned off.]

.

“Is it a curse?” Shigeo had said.

On a Saturday evening in November, in the bowels of a former boxed furniture store, with much more than the election on the line, Reigen finds himself cornered.

“You’re not seriously considering it,” Tome had said.

He’d set out to strike down Roshuuto’s argument like the pitiful semblance of rhetoric it was.

“You’ve been burned before,” Dimple had said. “What are you gonna do if they go after you? What if they humiliate you on TV again?”

He’d set out to set the record straight, sense over nonsense.

“I’m worried all of this might snowball into something terrible,” Mitsuura had said.

Now he’s a tree, burnt-out and pulpy and rotten and face-to-face with the chute of a rumbling wood chipper.

“Arataka, I feel like I’m going insane,” Serizawa told him.

It should have ended then.

He hardly remembers why he set out to run in the first place anymore. Only a month and it all feels so long ago. To be there for the esper kids? He only knew about that a week ago. To protect his hard-earned business? That hadn’t been it either. To hire an accountant? No. To dissolve the treacherous union in some sort of convoluted revenge plot? What a ridiculous reason to go so far.

That day in the office, what had possessed him?

When he juggled through an endless sea of tax documents and spreadsheets and complete boredom, and Tome had piped up about Jodo’s retirement, Reigen made up his mind in an instant. Impulsive, the way he so often was. He’d seen Shigeo float a teacup and instantly offered mentorship. Saw Serizawa unfurl an umbrella in front of a blast and instantly offered a job. Saw a psychic whirlwind and instantly ran into the fray. Saw a silver ring in a velvet-lined box and said yes.

And this too.

Under a spotlight, behind a microphone, suffocated under the attention of a crowd of strangers and camera viewfinder, he’s afraid the shameful answer might be all too familiar.

“With a chosen family like that, you can’t be trusted,” Roshuuto says breathlessly, sticky fingers splayed over the edges of his podium. “I don’t know exactly who Serizawa is either — but I know enough to know it was a real shady business! You spent all that time denying he was dangerous, but you knew it too! Not someone to be trusted by any reasonable member of this union! But you wanted to hide it, didn’t you? And the voters want to know who you really are.”

“I want to be someone you can rely on.”

Serizawa had said that so earnestly, as if he was the unreliable one.

“Ha! Based on the look on your face, I was right! He was a criminal, wasn’t he? Then Reigen Arataka — will you submit to an investigation?”

He never learns.

“I—”

“It’s a simple question. A yes or no! Will you submit to an investigation?”

What a terrible time to be lost for words.

“And if over time the investigation finds you or Serizawa culpable for damages to the city at any point, will you take responsibility? Will you do what’s needed?”

“I’d like to be whatever you need. And if you need time to figure out what that is, I’ll wait for you.”

As if Serizawa had to change a damn thing about himself for someone like Reigen.

Reigen starts, “It won’t—”

“Will you take responsibility? It’s a simple yes or no question! If an investigation finds you or Serizawa guilty of any harm, will you condemn those actions? Will you work in the interests of the people? Will you do what they want?”