Chapter Text
It was morning.
The air in the dorm was terribly cold. Cold enough that Rui, who thought of herself as a morning person, was still tempted to stay in bed under the covers, away from the chill of winter. The building was old and the heaters just as old, and this was the price that they paid for that.
But no, there was no time to be lazy. Rui had set her alarm clock early for a reason. She steeled herself, turned off the alarm, and got out of bed.
“Yukko. It’s morning.”
No response.
Yuyuko looked comfortable, still wrapped entirely in a layer of blankets. Not that there was time for that. They had morning practice to make. Rui wasn’t going to let them be late, not when Fumi would be there to still her with a glare. Not when she would have to face Tamao’s look of disappointment.
“…you’re awake, aren’t you?”
Yuyuko shifted slightly, but made no effort to actually get up. So she really was awake. Though, most likely, it would take a few more minutes for her to actually wake up.
Rui had a general idea of what would happen next: She would give up on trying to wake Yuyuko, get ready, maybe greet Tamao in the common room, then eat breakfast — and come back to find Yuyuko still in bed. After that, it was simply the ordeal of getting the chronically oversleeping girl out of bed and out the door in a reasonable amount of time. Or, failing that, turning the morning commute into a sprinting exercise.
— It’d been a long time since they’d had that routine. It was a relief that things had gone back to normal. The Performance Department was truly gone now, but not much had changed.
They still had their classroom. They could still do their practices. They still had more opportunities to stand on stage together. Rui could still perform with the others, as one of them.
But first —
“Yukko? Do you want to be late for our morning practice?!”
At that, Yuyuko frowned without opening her eyes.
“Urgh…just give me five more minutes —”
“Yukko!”
They didn’t have five minutes. Still, Rui wasn’t all that worried. This was how things usually were, after all.
She really had missed that routine.
…
…
Fumi and Ichie were already in the rehearsal room doing warm ups by the time Rui was able to drag Yuyuko to practice with her. She’d spent the whole walk over thinking of apologies to make if they were late, but fortunately, they were just on time. She wasn’t surprised that the senpai had all gotten here early, though —
“Huh? I thought Tamao-senpai left earlier. Did she not come with you two?”
“She was called over to the admin’s office to talk to some Performance Department alumni,” Fumi said. “It sounded like they had some big plans, so she’ll be pretty late. In the meantime, I’ll be leading the practice.”
“As long as you don’t turn it into boot camp again…” Yuyuko said with a yawn.
“We’re gonna do some dance practice! It’ll be fun!” Ichie. “I helped come up with the schedule, you know.”
“Yes, yes. Anyway. We don’t know exactly what we’ll need to do for the Performance Festival, so it’s a good time to keep our bodies in shape. And you two need to brush up on your dancing.”
There was no malice in Fumi’s words, but Rui could feel herself shrinking back anyways. It was true. Rui hadn’t been practicing as much as she probably should’ve. Compared to her senpais, compared to Tamao, she really was fairly clumsy.
“The General Education curriculum doesn’t include a dance class, so let’s take the time to do some review. But warm up first! It’s cold, and you don’t want to hurt yourself.”
“Yes!” Rui said.
“…of course it’s cold, the sun has barely come up.” Yuyuko said. “Please, take mercy on me…”
…
Was it possible for something to be nostalgic after only having gone for a mere few days?
Rui had missed it all. The rehearsal room. The dancing, as stilted as it was from the lack of practice. Ichie’s goofy facial expressions and even goofier movements. Even Fumi’s shouting. Gradually, Rui’s body loosened up, and the moves that had been etched into her from practice months before began to return to her.
Besides her, Yuyuko was also doing the same, stretching, warming up, then dancing — and maybe muttering curses or rakugo lines under her breath. Rui wasn’t going to say it aloud, but she had missed that too.
It was if a stopped clock had been rewound to start again. Morning rehearsal so easily slotted back into her routine, like it had never been gone. Maybe they could go back to how they used to do things, and everything would be the same.
Yet — there was something hollow. About everything. And not just because Tamao wasn’t here. In the moment, if she focused, Rui could almost believe that they could continue where they left off. But in the breaks, in between steps, Rui’s mind wandered.
The Performance Department no longer existed. The Performance Association now existed in its place. Something must’ve been different about that. Maybe not morning practice, maybe everything else.
…
Rui’s mind wandered.
…
The rehearsal room fell away. Rui found herself at Seisho Music Academy, in a conference room along with a group of strangers.
Rui didn’t want to be here. But Tamao had requested that she be present, and so here she was. “They’ll be checking in on every school’s Performance Festival preparations,” Tamao had said. “There shouldn’t be any issues, but they requested we send two representatives to help with the planning. Ichie volunteered to go, but the rest of us have schedule conflicts. Would you be able to make it, Rui-chan?”
So…strangers plus Ichie, who was also here, somewhere. Ah, there she was. Deep in conversation with girls Rui didn’t know, looking truly in her element. Rui watched from her corner, unsure of what to do, uncertain of what to think. Mercifully, the meeting began soon after, and the chatter fell away.
She’d discussed with Ichie what to do on their way to Seisho. Ichie was going to present Rinmeikan’s current preparation status to the group. Rui’s job was to take notes. “And! It’s a good chance to introduce yourself to the other Stage Girls,” Ichie had said. “You’ll be performing together with them in a few weeks, after all.”
Everyone was way too intimidating for Rui to want to say anything, though.
“That’s fine too. It’s good enough just to show your face and listen. You’ll become more comfortable with them in time,” was Ichie’s response.
…
…
Rui took notes. A lot of them. The Performance Festival wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined; or, rather, she had no idea what to imagine, beyond ‘being on stage together with Tamao-senpai’. She wasn’t expecting them to create one big play, and have the qualified performers from all the different schools perform together.
A play of six acts. A play that hadn’t even been written yet; all of the schools’ scriptwriting departments were collaborating on it. And in turn, every school was also providing part of the set.
“Would that be a problem, Otonashi-san?” The girl who had been explaining the plan asked, and turned to Rui and Ichie. “Rinmeikan’s Performance Department is much smaller than the theater departments of the other schools, and, to my knowledge, doesn’t have a dedicated stage management course. Will you need any assistance with the set design?”
That had been one of Tamao’s concerns. “We can’t let the other schools overshadow us completely,” she’d said. “Whatever they bring to this performance, we have to match them for the sake of our stage.”
But — was that really okay?
“Don’t underestimate Rinmeikan’s Performance Department,” Ichie said, with all the confidence in the world. “We’ll be fine!”
— Did the other girls in this meeting even know that the Performance Department was shutting down? Rui wasn’t going to bring it up, and it didn’t look like Ichie would, either.
Tamao must’ve had a plan. And, judging from the look on Ichie’s face, she wasn’t concerned either. So…maybe Rui was wrong, to worry so. But whatever future they were looking at, Rui couldn’t quite see through it. Even being at a different school with all these strangers was an ordeal. Getting through the Performance Festival intact felt like trying to climb a mountain.
…what did they need to do to make it a success…?
…
“Rui! That was way too slow! What happened to your rhythm?!”
Fumi’s voice brought Rui back to her senses. She wasn’t at Seisho, she was in that familiar rehearsal room. She was trying to dance. Yuyuko was smiling at her, a smile that meant both ‘hang in there’ and also ‘I’m glad it’s not me, for once’.
“Sorry, Fumi-senpai! Let me try it again!”
“That’s what I want to hear. Alright, once more, from the top!”
“Oh, it’s the long-awaited return of drill-sergeant Fumi!”
“Don’t talk about like it isn’t your problem. You’re doing it too, Ichie.”
“Sir yes sir!”
This wasn’t the time for worries! Rui continued practicing. It really was all coming back to her.
The rest of practice passed quickly, as time always did when she was able to focus. The hollowness remained, but it was plastered over with that joy. Yes, she was rusty, but she could get back to it. She would continue to improve.
It was over before she realized it.
“Good work, everyone. Let’s leave it at that for now,” Fumi said.
“Guh…my legs feel like they’re going to fall off…I need to take a nap…”
“Please don’t. We have to get to class at some point, Yukko.”
— The Performance Department was gone now.
Was everything going to be okay?
Before, there were teachers and staff to guide them, give them lessons, set up their shows. But now, their classroom was empty. It truly was only the five of them. They had Ukaji-sensei as an advisor, but that was only for the logistics. She couldn’t help them with their practices, nor could she help them make their stage.
Was Tamao going to be okay?
Another thought floated through Rui’s mind.
A confrontation during lunchtime, what seemed like eons ago. If Tamao could break down so much during the time when the department fell —
— if Tamao had, in the past, led them all to their deaths —
No. There wasn’t a point thinking about times gone by. She shouldn’t doubt Tamao so. This was the path she had chosen. She had to squash down that anxiety.
They had the Performance Festival.
But then what?
Ukaji-sensei had told them the grim truth earlier. No one in the incoming class had wanted to join the Performance Department. And it didn’t look like there was much interest in this new Association either. If nothing changed, then even after this year was over, the Association would still only be the five of them. And then the year after that —
— what could the future even look like?
Beyond the mountain that was the Performance Festival, there was only an uneasy haze.
“Ah, good, you’re all still here.”
Rui turned, saw Tamao at the entrance to the rehearsal room in her school uniform, ready for classes.
“Tamao! You missed everything!” Ichie said, and Rui couldn’t tell if Ichie was happy or sad about that. “How was your admin meeting?”
“You look pleased with yourself. It wasn’t that bad, I presume?” Fumi asked.
“I have some good news for everyone, and thought you’d all want to hear as soon as possible.” Tamao smiled, and there seemed to be a certain mischievousness in that smile. “The details are still being worked out, but if all goes well — we’ll land another show for after the Performance Festival.”
“You work fast,” Fumi said.
“It’s not as amazing as you might be thinking,” Tamao said. “It’s the same cultural group that requested us to perform Urashima Taro. We’ve been in communication even as the Performance Department was being disbanded, and they were very happy to know that we would still be performing. They requested that we put on a rerun of Ghost Patrol for the next cultural event.”
— Ghost Patrol, huh? The play that, at one point, Rui had thought would be her last. The play that had started this whole dream.
“Yes! I love that play!” Ichie said.
“Heh. It’ll be a good chance to show everyone how much we’ve improved.” Fumi said.
“Is it going to be the same venue as last time?” Yuyuko. “I could take some time to edit the script…”
“Haha, we still have to figure that out. I’m glad you’re all excited, though,” Tamao said. “But remember, we should be focusing on the Performance Festival first. I’ll handle the administrative work in the meantime.”
“And we should all get ready if we don’t want to be late for class. Come on now,” Fumi said.
Rui hadn’t managed to say much of anything at all. If she even had anything to say.
…Ghost Patrol, huh? Rui was the same as Ichie. She liked that play a lot…it had become a performance with many fond memories attached to it.
And now they were going to have a chance to relive / revive those memories.
Rui — admired Tamao. For being able to see into the future like that. For so quickly securing a future like that. Just like that, her thoughts had cleared some. The haze was lifting, a future beyond the Performance Festival.
If only they could clear this mountain right in front of them.
Rehearsals hadn’t formally started, but they had already been planning a bit for the festival. It would be different from all the shows they’d done before, a show made in collaboration with students and departments from other schools. A grand stage, with her closest friends, with total strangers. The script wasn’t done yet. The sets were all still in pieces. Rui didn’t even know her own part.
“Rui-chan. Something on your mind?”
Rui returned to reality once more — saw that everyone had already left for the locker room. Only Tamao had remained. Rui tried to swallow her anxiety.
“N-no, it’s nothing, Tamao-senpai.” There was so much to say, so much that couldn’t be said now. Not when morning classes would start soon. It wouldn’t do to make Tamao worry about her. “We missed you at practice today.”
“I know. I’ll have to make it up later. I can’t let my skills dull now, can I?” Tamao laughed lightly. “I’ve missed practicing with all of you.”
“So have I!” Rui said, then took a breath. “Tamao-senpai. You’ll…join us tomorrow, right?”
“Of course. There’s a lot of work to do for the Performance Festival. Even without a full script, there’s still basic skills to go over.”
“Right…”
The Performance Festival was their next stage, so it made sense for all of them to pour their all into preparing for it.
The Performance Festival —
— it would be nice if we could perform there.
…
It was hard to think in this atmosphere. It was hard to speak. It was the same classroom that the four of them always used, and they had gathered here after class as always — but it felt almost unreal. A heaviness had settled into every corner of the room.
But maybe that was to be expected. After all, there’d been an assembly earlier in the morning. Announcing the Performance Department’s closure.
Today’s rehearsal had been cancelled. So here they were, without much else to look forward to, thinking furiously about what they could do. Or, maybe thinking was the wrong word. Yuyuko and Ichie had been trading words the whole time, but Rui could barely pay attention to them. Tamao had remained uncharacteristically silent, her expression deeply troubled.
“What? The department wasn’t popular?” Ichie asked.
Of course not. Rui wasn’t sure how big departments were supposed to be, but there were fewer people in it than there had been in her middle school drama club. No matter how you sliced it, it wasn’t a popular department. Maybe it shouldn’t even have been a shock that they were going to close it down.
It couldn’t end like this. But she couldn’t imagine the future. What could she do? What could they do? Boycott the school? Start a petition? Demand a meeting with the administration?! Everyone was arguing.
“We don’t have that much longer, so instead of going around with a petition, wouldn’t it be better to put on a play?” Yuyuko asked. “I don’t want to nag people to sign things.”
— Putting on a play. Upon hearing that, Rui’s frozen brain began to turn again.
Come to think of it, since starting high school, Rui hadn’t really put on a play. Sure, they’d had class performances, but they hadn’t staged anything from beginning to end for an audience that wasn’t just their teachers and fellow students.
If they could put on a play, then —
“…maybe we could try to participate in the Performance Festival?” Rui asked. What did that look like? How would they even get there? Rui couldn’t even imagine it. But what else could they do? “I’ve never been on a big stage like that…so I thought it’d be nice to perform on one with Tamao-senpai, just once…”
Her voice had worked faster than her brain. As she spoke, she realized that yes, she could imagine the Performance Festival. A giant room, a grand stage, a sea of people for the audience — how big was it, anyway? Rui hadn’t actually seen the Performance Festival in person before. It must’ve been big enough to have its own venue, big enough to encompass multiple schools.
She could dream. That she could stand on that stage, that Tamao would be there with her —
“Oh, that’s a good idea! Siegfeld got really popular once they started appearing in the Performance Festival. If we attend, we’ll also get popular, and they won’t shut down the department!” Ichie said.
“Such impeccable logic, Ichie-san,” Yuyuko replied sarcastically.
It seemed too far away to ever come true. It’d be a dream that Rui couldn’t see the end of. And yet —
“Yes. Rui-chan…everyone — I want to try for the Performance Festival too,” Tamao said.
— Tamao had supported it wholeheartedly. And in turn, everyone put their commitment into it.
It felt like being on a cloud. A feeling of responsibility. A feeling of elation. Like that, Rui had a dream for the future, and that haze cleared from her mind.
It was (supposed to be) a dream that she could share with her cherished friends in the Performance Department.
Rui opened her eyes, and the stars stared back at her.
There was something heavy sitting on her chest. She took it, and saw that it was a sword. A long sword, resting heavily in her hand. Her sword. It felt like she’d been holding onto that sword forever.
— So this was a dream. She sat up, and saw the grass swaying in the wind, pointing towards those same stars, towards a fire burning in the distance.
Something was burning.
Deep red flames sprouted from the ground like flowers, the smoke snaking up to swallow the stars. There was something familiar about this scenery. She’d seen this fire many, many times over.
She watched, from afar, on a cool winter evening, as the heavy wooden roof fell to cinders, as the sky was painted that lurid red —
“How can you say that those days were painful?!”
Everything in Rui’s body was screaming at her. It took her whole will to try to keep herself from shouting, and she wasn’t sure she succeeded. She wanted nothing more than to run away. She couldn’t even bear to think about running away. She knew she was making a scene; she could see the second-years staring at her from the corner of her vision. But her sight blurred, and she could no longer see them, and all she could see was Tamao in front of her, and Fumi standing off to the side beside her.
If Tamao was at all surprised by Rui’s outburst, she had not shown it. Her expression was cold, like she’d been possessed, or perhaps replaced by something slightly demonic. It was nothing like the painfully sad Tamao Rui had seen last, and it was nothing like the sweet and smiling Tamao that Rui had in her memories.
“Rui-chan. Didn’t I tell you not to come here?”
— Had she? It didn’t matter right now. Rui’s thoughts were spiraling around, to no end.
How could they be painful?
The days they spent together.
The joys they had shared.
Tamao’s glare was at once gentle and terrifying. Rui had grown fond of that steel in her eyes, that look of gentle confidence, that reassurance that Tamao knew how to cut a path to the future.
Right now, that same look was almost menacing. The certainty was there, and it only led to more anxiety. Rui swallowed that fear, and clenched her fists.
“Our shared experiences are not only painful things, Tamao-senpai,” Rui said, trying not to let her voice waver. “There was a lot of joy there too. Even if we’re suffering hardships now, they’re still irreplaceable treasures to me.”
Rui couldn’t deny it. There was pain.
There was pain, all the times they fell short. The clumsiness as they practiced their Tales of Onikurenai, their Urashima Taro. When Rui couldn’t quite see to the end of a show, where her senpais had to clash with each other. The times where Rui felt lonely, and she was certain that Tamao had felt an even deeper loneliness crushing down on her.
In the end, they weren’t enough to convince the Committee that the Department should stay.
There was pain.
The auditions at the underground theater. There was no forgetting about them. Rui was still ashamed of how they’d behaved back then, about how much they couldn’t see. They had lost every round.
At the time, she didn’t think they’d done that badly. But — more than anything else — it meant that she still couldn’t see where she was even lacking. There was still so much more she had to do.
There was pain.
It was a pain that Rui had always grappled with: the fear that everything they fought for would vanish. And now, that fear was coming true.
— If only they tried a little harder, then they could’ve saved everything.
There was pain.
…but that wasn’t all there was, right?
…
— Rui had to protect them, those cherished memories. Surely, they must have been precious to Tamao too, even as she disavowed them. Surely, they were worth celebrating, even if that meant going against Tamao’s wishes herself.
“They were sweet days,” Tamao said, her voice soft and distant. “But that is why —”
The words weren’t coming out right. The feelings weren’t flowing right.
Rui stood in the second-year’s classroom for a moment to collect her thoughts. This reminded her of something. Precious days, painful memories, they all collided in her head.
…
“What kind of tragedy is Tales of Onikurenai?” Fumi had yelled at her, once. “It’s about two people who can’t face each other save by casting aside their emotions and fighting to the death! Their heartlessness is what moves the audience! If you agree, then act like it! You’re the lead, Rui! This is where you have to put yourself out there, don’t you understand that!?”
…
They had clashed, but this was a place of deep care and understanding.
…
“Rui, what are you even talking about? You’re amazing too, you know,” Yuyuko had said, once. “You have an endless curiosity, and you’re always so dedicated to everything you do. You’re really quite reliable. …so there you go, Tamao-senpai. You don’t have to worry so much about us.”
…
They had constantly supported each other.
Rui had learned so much from those precious, painful days. And — she thought that she had given as much as she could, so that the others could feel the same. No, Tamao had said it. Those days were indeed sweet.
So don’t go around talking as if you regret them all —
She knew none of this would mean anything if she didn’t speak. But faced with Tamao’s glare, Rui found herself at a loss for words. She needed to gather her courage.
“Rui-chan. That’s why — please don’t entrust your important treasures with me anymore. Don’t place your hopes and dreams upon my back.”
The courage died.
“Fumi. Let’s go.”
Tamao walked by Rui without a backwards glance. Rui didn’t stop her. Rui couldn’t stop her. Those eyes were boring a path to a future Rui couldn’t see.
Fumi went afterwards, and said nothing. But she gave Rui a glance before she went. ‘Take care.’ Her face was as sharp as ever, but somehow, Rui thought that there was something gentle in her eyes.
Only when the two of them had gone did Rui notice — that all the second-years were still staring at her. She quickly excused herself, and left the classroom.
Please don’t entrust your important treasures with me anymore.
What did that even mean?
Tamao’s expression had been stone throughout, but Rui thought she could see it — a flicker of sadness. She had no basis for believing so, but something about Tamao’s words had seemed forced.
There was still so much Rui couldn’t see through. There was so much more she wanted to say.
I’m sorry, for making you recall all that pain once again. Words that spun around and around in Rui’s head. But I hate it, how quickly you’ve left them all behind.
Rui had decided long ago. She’d follow Tamao to the end of the world. There was still so much that Tamao had done for her that she could never hope to repay. The fact that she could stand here and burn with such a strong passion, that she could have these cherished friends and memories to begin with — she still owed Tamao that much.
— But what did all that mean now, that the Performance Department was gone?
A nameless anger burned.
You, who have left me behind —
— Rui swung her sword, trying to dispel her troubled thoughts.
She was the only person at the dojo right now. It was a wide space, a quiet space, where she could close her eyes and hear the air moving around her bamboo sword, her own breaths in between swings. She swung her sword again and again, letting the repetition cut through the haze of her mind.
Imagine your worries as an opponent in front of you. Acknowledge them — and then cut them down.
Kendo was all about surpassing the self. Rui had never been particularly good at kendo, nor could she dedicate herself to it when she already had the stage — but it was something that she had done through her whole childhood.
Rui swung her sword.
So many thoughts still raced through her mind, eluding her swings. There was still something she was afraid of, in that haze of the future, in the mirage of the past. There was something she had to face, something she couldn’t face. She couldn’t see through that fog right now, but that was okay. She could concentrate her scattered mind at the tip of her sword.
Her swings grew fiercer, more focused. She dashed across the dojo, fighting imaginary enemies. She cut them down, one by one.
What was once nothing but a tangle of emotion was starting to gain clarity. Rui slashed through them, let those thoughts dissipate. They became tangible opponents, and they could be cut. The people who had mocked them. The humiliation in the underground theater. The frustrations of losing the department. The resentment of being the only one who didn’t know —
You, who have left me behind —
Rui froze. No. She couldn’t think that. Not about Tamao. Even if Tamao was willing to cast away everything for the sake of that stage. Rui had understood. Rui did understand. She still owed it to Tamao — that understanding.
Her chest hurt. Rui lowered her sword, realizing that her thoughts were scattering again.
Ugh.
This was the one place that was supposed to be sacred to her. Where she could dispel her constant anxieties. No, that was being too defeatist. Her discipline may have wavered, but she could still regain her focus. Rui tightened her grip on her sword, tried to well up whatever strength she could.
She admired Tamao. She owed Tamao. For everything.
Rui swung her sword.
She knew she had to find her own stage. Fumi had told her that once. Tamao had told her that once. What did that look like? Once, she thought she could grasp that. But it seems so far away.
Rui swung her sword.
Tamao said — not to entrust her precious treasures with her. Rui had spent a long time trying to understand what that had meant. She understood. Maybe.
Rui swung her sword. It was hollow.
She shattered them. Those thoughts. Those shortcomings. Tamao — and everyone else — had always been guiding Rui, helping her grow. They believed in her…right?
Rui swung her sword, tried to put some power behind the swing. She had done enough swings now that her muscles were starting to tire. Those were the best swings, she’d been taught. When the body had limited strength left, and so had to use as little of it as possible. Those were the simplest swings.
She felt particularly powerless.
You, who would sacrifice everything — were my feelings meaningless?
She was trying to collect some courage. To do what? To find her own stage? To surpass Tamao?
To prove her wrong?
Rui breathed in. She took her sword once more, sharpened her thoughts, ignored the ache in her arms. If all those questions would form a haze, she had to cut through them. She breathed out, and raised her sword.
Imagine your worries as an opponent in front of you. Acknowledge them — and then cut them down.
In that haze of her thoughts, Rui could only see Tamao.
Rui swung her sword.
It was pretty late.
Rui was in the common room by herself, reading through a few loose sheets of notes. It was an outline for some of the changes to their new Ghost Patrol performance. A very early outline, given the giant WORK IN PROGRESS written across the first page. She wasn’t sure how Yuyuko did it. Rui hadn’t even begun to think about what to do for the new Ghost Patrol yet, and here Yuyuko had already written enough to fill up multiple pages.
It was really late. Tamao and Ichie had already turned in for the night. Yuyuko…well, it was probably still a few hours before she’d even think about going to sleep. Rui normally would’ve gone to bed by now, but it didn’t feel right yet. She wasn’t tired enough to sleep. Her mind was tumbling through too many thoughts for her to sleep. At least reading this gave her something to distract her from those thoughts.
The silence was broken by a door opening. Rui turned, saw Yuyuko come into the common room from her room, holding something in her hand like it was a delicate treasure.
“Yukko. Did you need something?”
“Just some water. But it’s good that you were still around. Here. This is for you.”
Yuyuko approached, and held out her hand. Now that she was closer, Rui could see that she was holding a small glazed donut, partly wrapped in a napkin.
“…what?”
“I know, I know. Donuts are for special occasions. But this is a mini-donut. It’s not a full donut, so you can have it now, right?”
Rui took the donut.
“Sorry. It’s not that warm. I wanted to give it to you earlier, but you looked pretty busy today. I didn’t really want to be a bother.” Yuyuko looked around. “Do you think the senpais would mind if I used the microwave at this hour?”
“It’s okay,” Rui said, confused. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Hmm…no real reason. Let’s say it’s a…a peace offering,” Yuyuko said, in that sing-song tone of voice she used when she was only being half-serious.
Rui waited for her to elaborate. Yuyuko didn’t elaborate. Instead, Yuyuko got herself a glass of water, and returned, hovering over Rui’s shoulder. “Oh dear. You were reading that. How far did you get?”
“Through all of Act I. I can’t believe you wrote all this right before the Performance Festival.”
“All of my nervous energy had to go somewhere,” Yuyuko said. “Something in my mind was telling me to write, but I can’t exactly write the Performance Festival script now. So I might as well put that motivation to use on something useful.” She paused, looked thoughtful for a moment. “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think I’ll get anything else done before the festival. And any feedback I get now will probably tumble out of my head before then. So…it probably wasn’t all that useful to have you read it. Sorry.”
“That’s fine. I did ask if I could see it,” Rui said. “And I know you said it’s early, but I like where it’s going so far. We can get back to it after the Performance Festival ends.”
“Right.” Yuyuko walked around the table and sat down across from Rui. They sat there for a bit, the quiet only broken by Rui turning the page, by Yuyuko sipping at her glass. “…you’re not going to go to sleep?” Yuyuko finally asked.
“I wanted to finish this. Unless you’d rather I not read this in front of you?”
“You’ll really keep going? Even after I said it was useless?” Yuyuko smiled a mildly defeated-looking smile. “Very well then. I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but make sure you get to bed. You like to get up in the mornings, after all. And don’t forget about your mini-donut.”
“I won’t.” It’d be hard to forget. Rui was still holding it.
“Just checking.” Yuyuko stood up. Then her face became very serious. “We need you on the stage with us, Rui. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have this Performance Festival to even dream about. Let’s make the show a success.”
— There was something buried in those words. Yuyuko did this sometimes, speak in roundabouts that almost acted like riddles. Which was fine. It was something neither of them wanted to talk about, not now.
“Yeah. Let’s,” Rui said. “And thanks. For the donut.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
With that, Yuyuko retreated to her room. The air fell to silence.
Rui looked at the mini-donut in her hand. Was it okay to eat this? The Performance Festival hadn’t happened yet. It felt wrong to have a reward like this before they’d even climbed that peak. But it was a ‘peace offering’. In that case —
Rui took a bite.
It was sweet.
It was morning.
Rui walked into the practice room, and saw that Tamao was there. No one else. Rui wasn’t too surprised by that: she was pretty early. She was even less surprised that Tamao was earlier than her. The teacher hadn’t even arrived yet.
“Rui-chan…”
For some reason, Tamao looked so small in the empty rehearsal room. It felt like the air was on the verge of shattering.
Rui swallowed her fear, and found it in herself to speak. “What is it, Tamao-senpai?”
…
In the end, their efforts had been for naught.
It was only a few days ago that they’d gotten their acceptance letters for the Performance Festival. How they’d celebrated then. Yet —
“It’s just not fair,” Rui said. “We created the best play we could. We got selected for the Performance Festival! But our department is going to be shut down anyway…?”
Tamao nodded, a strangely flat smile on her face. “So much has happened…it feels like a lifetime has passed, but it also seemed to have gone by in the blink of an eye.”
Tamao looked away, that smile still on her face. “At first…I just thought it would be great if we could participate in the festival together. As a final memory of our time together in the Performance Department.” Her voice was so wistful. “But then, Fumi joined us, and we put on our Ghost Patrol…and everything started going so well. We worked hard, and we were selected to perform in the Performance Festival for our efforts.”
— It had been a lot of fun. Like a dream —
“Part of me started hoping that maybe Ichie was right. That qualifying for the Performance Department would miraculously save our department. But that was a mistake. I was — being greedy, I suppose.”
Tamao paused for a moment. Rui didn’t dare interrupt.
“Reality isn’t so forgiving,” the smile faded for a moment, but just as quickly, it was back on Tamao’s face. “But those days that were filled with dreams and hopes, even if they were merely a fantasy — I loved them.”
Yes. Me too.
Rui couldn’t say that. Not when Tamao was forcing herself to smile so. Not when her own heart felt like it was going to shatter.
Tamao was confiding in her. Tamao, who always had taken on the burdens and duties of leading the department. If she was going to allow herself to be vulnerable for this moment — the least Rui could do was to listen without letting her own feelings get in the way.
— Something burned in the back of Rui’s mind. A nameless anger welled up in her, and she tried to push it down.
I loved them, Tamao had said. Rui thought she’d been sincere. Had she been sincere? The words were real, but they were hollow. Like Tamao herself had been lost along the way.
After all, in the end —
— didn’t everyone end up dying for your sake?
…
…
“There. That’s the last of them in this area.”
Rui got down from the stepladder, holding onto a small bundle of dead branches. Ukaji-sensei was waiting for her on the ground. “Good work, Akikaze-san. Thank you for all your help today as well.”
— She’d been helping Ukaji-sensei for a few days now, pruning the empress trees in the school grounds. At first, she’d kind of been dragged along into it, but at this point, it had become relaxing work. Like tending to the flowers, but on a much larger scale.
From what Ukaji-sensei had told her the other day, there were over a hundred empress trees here. One for every year when students entered Rinmeikan. But she’d only needed to prune a dozen or so; the older ones which had begun to collect dead branches.
It was a bit like kendo. Work that she could do with her body, that her mind could attach to to focus. She didn’t really have much of a say in it the first day when Ukaji-sensei asked the favor, but when there was more work to be done the next day, Rui volunteered.
“How often does this happen? Pruning the trees like this?”
“On this scale? Not often. Once a year or so in the winter, before the trees start to flower,” Ukaji-sensei said. “But there’s always work to be done. Everything needs to be maintained. These grounds, this garden…I heard that Tomoe-san had taken the initiative to tend to the flowerbed as well.”
“Yeah…”
Rui looked at the rows of trees. They were pretty bare right now, but Ukaji-sensei had told her that come spring, they would bloom beautifully with flowers. Come to think of it, it’d been like that when she first stepped foot into the school, even though she didn’t notice these trees specifically. She’d always thought of Rinmeikan as a beautiful school.
The trees, too, represented 100 years of legacy. She, too, was now a part of that.
“Have you had a chance to speak to the others?” Ukaji-sensei asked.
“No, not yet. Since the Department’s closure, everyone seems to have gone their separate ways. Or maybe, it’s just me that was left behind,” Rui said. “It feels like there’s so much I don’t know.”
Rui immediately regretted her words. Her friends must’ve been dealing with their own hardships. She hadn’t wanted to let those unnecessary frustrations show, least of all to the teacher.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a bit. She had to clarify her thoughts. She didn’t know how to clarify her thoughts.
“What is the purpose of a school?” Ukaji-sensei finally asked. “A school — any school — exists in service to its students…to provide the students with the best learning environment possible, and to prepare them for the future that those students will be stepping into. Rinmeikan Girl’s School is no different.
“At the same time, the students shape the school they attend, and do their own part in creating the environment for future generations that will enroll. So in that respect, the old Performance Department was something that was yours to mold. It’s natural to grieve when something like that changes under your feet.”
Grief…was that what it was? This strange numbness that felt a bit like a waking dream? But what was Ukaji-sensei saying before that? About how the school should serve the students who shape the school…
Rui’s thoughts were beginning to go in circles.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I quite understand,” she said.
“I apologize for being obtuse,” Ukaji-sensei said. “I suppose I wanted to say…that it’s okay for you to still be figuring things out. And if you have any questions about what to do, I’ll answer them to the best of my ability.”
“Thank you, Ukaji-sensei. I just — don’t know what I can do.”
Staring at the rows of trees, Rui felt particularly small.
“This doesn’t quite answer your concerns, but would you like to help take care of the gardens in the mornings? We don’t have a gardening club, but there’s a small group of volunteers among the students and staff who maintain this place and the trees. You did very well at the delicate work, and I’ve seen you come to school early in the morning and sit in the classroom. It could be relaxing.”
A void settled into Rui’s heart.
She knew that she had been doing exactly that these past few days. But — that was a simple favor. This felt more like a commitment. Like something real. Like she was giving up something real.
She had the time, she knew. Time that she didn’t know what to do with, now that the rehearsals that used to fill it had been gouged out. Time that would slip away even if she were to do nothing.
“…I’ll consider it,” she said.
“Rui-chan? Are you feeling alright?”
Rui had a headache. She winced, shook her head, tried to clear her scattered thoughts.
The Performance Association classroom was a righteous mess, filled up with all the various materials, old props and backdrops they’d borrowed from the alumni, from their senpais. All kinds of bits and bobs that they could use to build their part of the Performance Festival set.
Ah, that’s right. They were making the Performance Festival backgrounds. The Association was only the five of them, so naturally they had to do this work too.
The room smelled like paint. She was getting lightheaded.
“Rui-chan?”
Right. She hadn’t answered. Rui looked up, and saw Tamao, who had stopped painting. Before she could process what was happening, Tamao had taken her hand, enclosed it in her own.
The Tamao before her was the one who cast away those fantasies. There was something harder in her eyes now. More mature. Like Tamao was so, so far away. So lovely, and so terrifying —
— as if flames were circling around her.
“Guh!”
It was warm. It was hot. It burned.
Rui flinched, took her hand back. Tamao’s face flickered. In confusion? In contempt? Rui couldn’t tell. She didn’t wait for that expression to change, and turned away. She couldn’t think straight.
“Let’s continue this tomorrow, then. This is a pretty good stopping point. Shall we go back to the dorm?” Tamao’s voice cut through the fog. Rui turned back, saw that Tamao was already starting to clean things up. Rui wanted to tell her that everything was fine. She didn’t want to be an inconvenience. Something unpleasant was rising to the top of her mind.
Something that was stuck to her imagination, that image of Tamao on the school’s rooftop —
“Rui-chan?”
Tamao was right there. Too close. There was concern in her eyes. Too much of it. There was a coldness in her eyes. Rui’s mind went blank.
Rui took a step back. Then another. She had to say something. I’m okay. She couldn’t say that. Her voice wasn’t working right. They had to finish this backdrop. They had a mountain of work left to do. She was going through all the possibilities in her head, but her heart was beating so fast and there was this strange anger polluting her thoughts —
There really was only one thing she could do.
“I-I’m sorry, Tamao-senpai! Please pardon my rudeness!”
Rui ran out of the classroom before Tamao could respond.
What was going on with her? That bitterness was still there, clogging up her throat. Something burned in the back of her head. A ghost, staring at her through the flames, atop a burning school.
That blasted nightmare that wouldn’t leave her —
“It’s unusual for you to be up at this hour, Rui,” Yuyuko said.
“Is it?”
“It’s past midnight.”
“Oh.”
Yuyuko walked up to the table, peering over Rui’s shoulder. “Huh? You aren’t reading anything today.”
Rui couldn’t sleep, so she’d gone to the common room to get some air. She’d stayed here for longer than she expected. The ceiling was swimming.
“Hey, Yukko? How do you do this all the time?” Rui said quietly. “I feel like I’m about to collapse.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“I know. But I can’t sleep.”
From the nerves. There were too many thoughts and regrets, all pouring out of her head.
“Well, if you won’t sleep, then why don’t you keep me company for a bit? I’m going to make myself some hot chocolate,” Yuyuko announced.
“At midnight?”
“The night’s still young. It’s the perfect time for a snack.” A pause. “Do you want any?”
“Yes. Please.”
Yuyuko went to the kitchen, stayed there for a bit, and came back with two mugs of hot chocolate. “Careful. It’s hot.”
Rui set it down. Yuyuko did the same for hers, then sat down next to Rui. They stayed there in silence for a bit. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why she liked being out here, even at this hour. Silence with company was calming.
“I saw you run away from Tamao-senpai today,” Yuyuko said finally. “It’s been a while since something like that happened.”
Rui didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to intrude, but if it’s something you want to talk about, I’ll be here to listen.” Yuyuko’s voice was quiet, more measured than usual. Maybe she was imagining it, but Rui thought she almost sounded afraid.
Rui nodded, then drank some of her hot chocolate. Oh, it was good. She hadn’t realized how cold she was. Tokaso Dorm’s heater was always somewhat suspicious.
“…I don’t know. I couldn’t think,” Rui said. “Maybe I haven’t been sleeping enough.”
“It’s because you always get up so early. You could sleep in, like I do.” Then, a pause. “Or maybe not. It’s probably not a good idea to mess up your sleep schedule this close to a performance.”
“It’s not that. It’s that — I’ve been — my dreams have been…” Rui trailed off.
How could she even explain? The fire of her dreams. The feelings that threatened to poison everything.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Rui said. “Mornings have been harder for me lately. Even though it’s the same it’s always been.”
“Mornings are always hard. Fumi-senpai’s been merciless lately.”
"No, that’s not it either. It’s just…I just — " Rui breathed. Why was it so difficult for the words to come out? This was Yuyuko. Yuyuko wouldn’t judge. “I can’t help but feel that — something will go horribly wrong for us at the Performance Festival. That I’ll mess something up at the Performance Festival.” With how jumbled up all my feelings have been. Rui didn’t say that part.
She exhaled, and drank some more hot chocolate.
“I guess I always thought that everything would be miserable after the Performance Department was disbanded.” And it had been, for a time. “But we’re still here, still performing together. And we’re still going to the Performance Festival.”
“Hm? Isn’t all this a good thing?”
“It is. Maybe I’m being silly. We still have the classroom and the rehearsal room, and Fumi-senpai’s instructions are as good as the teachers’. And — I really worried about how Rinmeikan would be able to contribute to the Performance Festival’s set, but we were able to get so many materials from the alumni that we can touch up…” Rui’s voice trailed off. Yuyuko shifted her weight, rested her head on Rui’s shoulder. “It feels like things went a little too well. We lost our stage once. We can’t take any of this for granted. We’ve been lucky lately, with everyone supporting us. But…I worry that one day, that luck will dry up.”
Like those painful days in the winter.
Unpleasant memories played on repeat in Rui’s mind. She laughed. She groaned to herself. She wished she had her sword. To dispel those troublesome thoughts.
“I can’t believe I took it out on Tamao-senpai, and that we had to stop our work early. I’m the worst,” Rui said. “I didn’t even apologize to her for it.”
The Performance Festival was their shared dream. Rui had to look forward to it.
Performing with her closest friends. Performing with talented strangers. No…they weren’t strangers anymore. Not all of them. And Rui knew that everyone there at the festival was skilled, that they were all working so diligently to make the festival a success.
— At the same time, it was frightening.
They’d done some practices now, together with the other performers at the Toho Art Theater. The environment was nothing like the rehearsals they had at Rinmeikan; the tension was so great that it took Rui all she had to maintain her presence. The stage was so grand that it felt like it could swallow her whole. The Stage Girls were so ruthless she felt like she’d be eaten alive.
…
“You’d think — with all the times we’ve performed now, I’d have gotten better about my nerves,” Rui said. “But I feel like I’m more anxious than ever. Like…one wrong move, and everyone will be laughing at me.” Or worse.
Yuyuko shifted slightly, but said nothing. Rui took another sip of hot chocolate, realized that she was shaking. She breathed in and out. Speaking her worries aloud, they really did feel silly. Everyone was working so hard. They’d had a track record of successes now. Why was she so…?
No, she couldn’t think like that. There was no use dwelling on regrets. Rui took one more breath, tried to steel her heart.
“I have to overcome this.” These worries. These feelings. Before they corrupted everything. “I won’t let you all down. I won’t let you down.”
Yuyuko lifted her head from Rui’s shoulder, turned away. “I know you won’t,” she said quietly.
Gears were turning in the distance. A fire was raging all around her.
There was still work to be done. Rui took a breath, and lifted her sword once more.
This was an unfortunately familiar dream.
How long has she been here? She’d lost track long ago. A mountain of enemies, a mountain of work without end. She was going to suffocate in all this smoke.
But she had to keep fighting. She had to protect what had once been lost. She had to defend that dream she’d inherited. The others needed her, needed her, needed her —
You, who have fought for an eternity. Do you have any regrets?
A voice cut through the smoke. Rui turned around, readied her sword.
Standing against the haze of the flames was a ghost cloaked in red, staring back at her.
The promised day arrived.
This wasn’t the first time Rui was here, at the Toho Art Theater. She’d actually been here several times now, to rehearse, to watch rehearsals, to help finish up the preparations for the Performance Festival.
But it was different now. This time — there’d be an audience. An audience massive enough to fill that seemingly endless sea of seats.
It was overwhelming. The tension that had always been thick during practice had now grown to the point of being suffocating.
“Rui! There you are!”
Someone grabbed onto Rui’s shoulders, which meant that it could only be Ichie. Somehow, Rui managed to stop herself from screaming. She turned, and saw the obvious.
“Ichie-senpai! Don’t scare me like that.”
“Sorry! I didn’t realize you hadn’t noticed me! Something up?” Ichie said.
“Um…” Rui’s brain went into overdrive, trying to figure out what to say. “I don’t know where everyone else is…”
“Tamao’s already off with the other school representatives, so it’s up to the rest of us to make sure everything’s in place. Fumi was somewhere around here earlier, I just saw her. And Yuyuko? I guess I’m also looking for her! But she has to be around here somewhere.”
“Oh, right…”
“It’s too bad that the school reps aren’t around right now. I wanted to do our Rinmeikan Performance Association cheer! …which doesn’t exist yet, but I wanted to make one up for our grand debut as Performance Festival-ees! I came up with all these slogans too, you know, and —”
Ichie had kept talking. Rui was thankful she was here, talking about all the normal things. Rui didn’t know how she did it, how she effortlessly walked through that tension that Rui had been caught up in. Ichie was smiling as she always was, like she had never been nervous in her life. Being with her now, Rui could imagine that she, too, could calm her nerves.
— If only Rui could actually understand what she was saying.
As helpful as Ichie’s presence was, it wasn’t enough. Rui’s heart was beating too fast, her mind was moving too quickly, and the words were all blending together into one cacophonic sound. Oh, why did she ever decide that going into stage performance was a good idea, if it felt like she was going to die before each show?
“Ichie! Don’t go distracting Rui right before the show!” Ah. Fumi was here. Somewhere, in this sea of people and light and darkness — “Rui? Are you okay?”
“…”
“…Rui?”
“…”
Rui blinked.
Ichie was gone. In her place, Fumi was there, concern written across her brow. Everything else was still moving too fast.
“Fumi…senpai?”
“Oh, good. You’re back with us,” Fumi’s body relaxed. “Everything’s going to be fine, Rui. This might be a big stage, but it’s a show like any other.”
Rui nodded hesitantly. “I-I’m fine. I think. It never gets any easier. The nerves.”
“Yeah. But it’s a good thing to be nervous sometimes. It means that it’s important to you. That you’re putting yourself into it.” Fumi furrowed her brow. “Though…if it’s to the point that you’re freezing up, that’s no good. Take some deep breaths.”
“Ah, yes.” Rui took some breaths. Tried to focus her mind, as if she had a sword with her. Link her self back with her body, with her breath.
Her heart calmed a little.
“Feeling a little better?” Fumi asked.
“…I think so. Thank you, Fumi-senpai.”
It was the same nervousness, right? It had to be that same nervousness. Just more raw, more powerful. All those expectations she had of the future were now the reality of the present.
Yes. This stage. This show. It was her dream. Their dream. So why did it feel so wrong? She had a role. The Hanged Man. Pause and surrender and change. Fitting, for a time like this. She’d be one of the first people to go out on stage today. And yet, standing amongst all these Stage Girls — Rui felt like she didn’t belong.
Hadn’t I overcome this doubt already?
She could never tell this to anyone. It’d be like she was betraying her own role, that she’d fought so hard to obtain. It’d be betraying her friends at Rinmeikan, who had shared this dream with her.
But haven’t I already been betrayed?
If there was anyone who would listen…no, she had to keep these thoughts sealed up. Not when the show would be starting soon. Also, she couldn’t find Yuyuko anywhere.
Fumi’s expression became a little tense. “You don’t look that great. Something is still on your mind.”
— She couldn’t tell Fumi. But Fumi was still there, staring at her with those piercing eyes.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But just in case…I want to check everything over once more —”
“Rui. Whatever’s on your mind, it looks like it’s eating you up from the inside. I can’t very well let you go in this state.”
“…the show’s starting soon.”
“Soon, yes. But not that soon,” Fumi said. “If you really think that it’s something you can ignore, then tell me that, and I won’t press further. But if it’s something that can affect the stage, then…”
Fumi didn’t need to say anything more. Rui knew what she meant.
Don’t step out onto that stage with regrets already in your heart.
…
…
Rui clumsily told Fumi about her worries. Some of them. Not all of them. There wasn’t enough time for all of them.
“I see,” Fumi said, her expression neutral. Almost neutral. Rui could see an emotion buried deep beneath it, measured and guarded. “Despite all your fears, you made it here anyway. If anyone is going to say otherwise, even if ‘anyone’ is your self…then prove them wrong.” Fumi looked wistful for a moment. "These kinds of feelings aren’t that uncommon. Everyone has their doubts, and there’s a lot of pressure to get things right.
“But if you’re going to question your place in this play, the time to do that was during the auditions. You wanted the role, didn’t you? You wanted to stand on this stage, didn’t you? You wanted it badly enough that you put all your time and effort into it. So cast those doubts aside. It doesn’t matter whether you deserve it, or whether you belong, or whatever. What matters is that you see it through.”
…
“You’ll do great, Rui.”
Rui nodded. She took a few breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Fumi was right. This was exactly what she had wanted. So any ugliness that crept into those feelings were things she had to keep at bay.
For a moment, Rui was thankful that Tamao wasn’t here to see her in this state. She’d definitely worry. Actually, would she worry? The Tamao of right now was someone inscrutable to Rui.
…
There was still some time before the curtains would rise. There was really nothing left to do. Rui had double checked everything she could. Ichie was still off talking with everyone she could. That was how she dealt with her nerves, probably. Fumi looked like she was deep in thought, and Rui didn’t want to bother her further.
— Where was Yuyuko, anyway? Now that the nerves had calmed a little, Rui could finally take in her surroundings again, and — oh, there she was. Resting her head on a table backstage.
“Yukko! Why in the world are you sleeping in a place like this?”
Rui approached, stopped when she noticed a notecard placed on the table next to Yuyuko. Wake me up when we have to go on was written on it.
Rui sighed. “Honestly…”
…
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. Take a nap, try to settle the feelings that had remained unsettled. Rui sat down, mirroring Yuyuko, trying to rest her head —
Nope, this wasn’t going to work! There was a reason why almost all of Rui’s relaxation techniques involved moving around!
Maybe she could go for a run, or borrow a prop sword, or something…
The show was starting.
— This could easily be her final show. Maybe not the last one she’d ever do, but it certainly could’ve been the last one she could put on with Tamao. There was no telling if the Performance Department would even exist after this.
She’d already double-checked, no, triple-checked everything. There wasn’t anything out of place on her Ghost Patrol uniform. She had her sword, and all the props that she’d need were in the proper places. She’d practiced over and over again, to the point that her lines were still running through her head.
Rui’s heart was bursting.
This shouldn’t have been that much pressure. It was a school show. She’d done this before in middle school. The audience consisted of the girls of Rinmeikan, and their teachers. And some family. And the members of the Performance Festival committee.
“How are you doing —” Yuyuko said, then frowned. “Actually, maybe I don’t need to ask. You look like you’ve seen the waking dead.”
Rui was nervous. As if it could be described with just that. “I-I’m fine! Probably.” She felt like she was going to throw up. “No, I’m not fine. I can’t do this, Yukko!”
“You performed in middle school, right? Is this any different?”
“It’s totally different! I didn’t realize how big Rinmeikan was. There’s so many people in the audience. Everyone’s going to be staring…”
“If they’re staring, then you’re doing a good job. Let’s create a stage they’ll never forget.”
Rui fidgeted. The costume seemed so heavy all of a sudden.
“…what if I faint?” she asked quietly.
“In front of Tamao-senpai?”
“No! I —”
Yuyuko smiled. “You’ll do great. And…it’s not like you’re the only one who’s nervous, you know. But we have some time to work out our nerves. We don’t show up for a few scenes yet. Maybe it’s a good time for a nap.”
Yuyuko said that, but she didn’t seem to have any inclination to take a nap, and Rui didn’t feel quite like chiding her for it either. Everything about her was a bit sharper than usual, too. On edge. Yuyuko had said as much. Rui wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
The future was riding on their Ghost Patrol.
If only Rui could still her beating heart. If only she could calm her ferocious emotions.
But — there was a warmth there. They could see that future together.
Rui took a deep breath, and waited for the curtains to rise.
The show was starting.
Rui swallowed, tried not to think about how badly she was shaking. She was the lead. She would be the first person to step out onto that stage tonight. She couldn’t imagine it.
She took a breath, tried to calm her nerves.
Someone pat her on the back. Rui startled — fortunately managed to avoid screaming — and turned. Fumi was there, fox-mask in hand, smiling an encouraging smile.
“Nervous?”
“…a little.”
It was more than a little. But it was no longer clouding all her thoughts. It was progress.
“We’ve practiced long and hard for this,” Fumi said. “You’ve shown me your Onikage many times over now. So, do it once more. Show me the Onikage you admired, the Onikage that strikes fear and awe into everyone’s hearts.”
“I will, Fumi-senpai.” Rui reached behind herself, took hold of the grip of the sword on her back. Having a sword always calmed her down. The stage, somehow, could calm her down. She could make her heart steel, if only for this moment.
There was a certain joy in performance, wasn’t there? For the sake of the future, for the sake of this moment, she would abandon all her emotions, and lose herself.
For the sake of her friends and this precious Department.
The show was starting.
The Performance Department had been lost long ago. The Performance Festival still stood in front of her. This was a nightmare. This was a dream come true.
The gears turned. The Performance Festival stage was now covered with the backgrounds that she had so painstakingly created with everyone else. The audience far bigger than any show she’d performed before.
Rui’s sight blurred. She shook her head, wiped her eyes, and watched from the wings.
What was wrong? This was nothing like what she imagined. Of course it wasn’t. Rui hadn’t even known what to imagine.
Tamao was there, and Tamao was Death. Death and rebirth. Change and beginnings. The department was no more. Tamao had moved on. Everyone had moved on.
How lovely she was.
It was no longer enough to watch. Rui felt like she had to watch. A well of resentment was pooling in her heart, as she watched, and watched, and watched —
— and watched.
It was morning.
It was a sunny day, an ordinary day. It wasn’t ordinary at all. By the time Rui got ready for class, Yuyuko was already gone.
The routine had been shattered, but time moved ever onward. Rui walked to school alone, only to see a crowd gathering at the school’s gates. Just the sight of it was enough to drive any lingering tiredness from her mind.
She’d seen this kind of crowd once before, at the beginning of the fall.
It was just like that day, many weeks ago, when they first saw the notice that the Department would shut down —
No, that couldn’t be it. No one was looking at the bulletin board.
“What’s going on?” Rui asked. A student pointed up at the sky. Rui followed her finger, to the school’s roof.
Tamao was there. Everyone was there.
Rui watched.
A spark of a fire lit on Rinmeikan’s school roof.
There, the world caught aflame.
There, she realized that she would be trapped in that fire.
Rui watched, and watched, and watched, as the world burned around her.