inter....rude...to second scenario
Interlude
………………, …………
Heavy… can’t be helped……
An appalling middle-aged man, kept alive by the nation while fighting in fantasy-meditation combat, says:
“Ah… the Poison Devil, huh… what am I supposed to do if it shows up? I’ll take the hit.”
The old man had been drawing Trajectories for thirty-eight years. He had been killing time in a meditation sanatorium for eight years. Even today, in a timeline separate from Koharu Uten and the others, he should have been fulfilled somehow, and yet for some reason he was on the verge of bankruptcy, living modestly, battered in both mind and body. Still, he did not care much about winning or losing.
It was only recently that the old man had begun using the Ladle Trajectory manifestation, and he still had not thought it through very far. It felt kind of deceptive. There was still some fungal thread left, and the only thing he could think of was Murasa Minamitsu, but if it were an eye and merely looking at someone made them drown, that would be too overpowered. So he had only settled on something like: if he can draw the ladle, the ability activates.
The old man had never thought too deeply about bloodshed or gore. The only one left telling him, “Even without footage of you, everything about you has already exceeded a lethal dose, yet everyone around you seems so casual,” was already AI. At the same time, he knew he was not doing anything like carrying all that while working. His Ladle Trajectory was more or less like that, and his combat meditation was extremely restrained. For example, if a roar of fire, ice, thunder, and dragon took the motion of that roar, maybe he could dodge it and cut off its head. Or if something like Thunderclap Sixty-Four Trigrams came at him, even if he went all-in on defense with combat-meditation co-op night march, his ribs would still break. That was the level of it.
And then, in what was probably not the same time period as Koharu Uten, Otome Gourai, Kaisei Sawa, Shu Amane, and Misora-chan responding to one another, this old man on the verge of hallucination ended up entering combat meditation two times in a row.
The first fight was his debut match against the Echo Yokai Girl, and he had not used any Trajectory techniques, so that story will be omitted.
Yes, the flow is already pretty abnormal. But before the aforementioned Poison Devil, before the lower divine-class Puppet Master, who in my sense was something like a formal negotiator aged around sixty to eighty, could use the Poison Devil and Coco against me, while I had become something like a spider teleporting from grudge to grudge, appearing as a lethal dose before they could use that tactic, the Puppet Master had been using three children from the Demon Slayer Corps.
The wielder of the Ladle Trajectory Gear said:
“I’ll take that. I have no grudge. But what are you going to do about my bow and arrow?”
At that moment, the Ladle Gear wielder had already allowed himself to be slashed in a way that brought the wound close to the shape of the ladle. So when he appeared, because he was still somewhat horny and mentally too sensitive to endure being rented out as a host, he emerged into the lethal field from a pod like a slow-melting capsule, a combination of well-well-well and thread-thread-thread, weighted somewhat toward durability.
He, meaning I, carved the Ladle Trajectory into his body, slowly sent the poison on the farthest possible path through his insides, transfused himself with spring water from the Ladle Trajectory, and thought, “My brain reflexes aren’t kicking in today.” Against the Puppet Master, who kept rolling out a different main character, he gathered in his left hand the feeling of, “I don’t really care if I get dirty anymore, but this is a pain,” meaning “I’ll kill you,” and apparently entered a sea-surface survival battle.
From here, Part Two.
Even in a world where unresolved, troubling cases such as children who died before the age of ten, stillbirths, and mizuko could manifest as Trajectories and grant supernatural abilities, there were still many people who had once been happy but stumbled along the way.
They were placed under strict control. Some spent their lives in prison. Some were treated like balls within decorative economic zones. Many became mentally ill and went to clinics. Once most people like them were branded as dropouts, their options seemed to narrow: go hard, or keep their mouths shut and have no future.
Among those treated as broken under convenient catch-all labels like mental, physical, or psychosomatic illness, it was only natural that plenty could barely read and write.
This gets a little vulgar, and also touches on lookism, but there were “healthy junkies” wondering, “Why am I going inpol? What is this hunger? The doctor changed my prescription; why?” There were also “I wish I could go back to that time” junkies. Meanwhile, science researchers worried, “I’ve been cut off from information…” but they were under strict surveillance, and it was easy to predict that exchanging information with one another would be difficult in both body and mind.
A dropout somewhere read a story written by another dropout somewhere and muttered:
“Huh. So drug effects differ depending on the region? PDF? Well… I’m a lightweight with alcohol, and I liked mild drugs, so I don’t have enough education to know whether the structural formula is right or wrong. But come to think of it, there was that case where the government started moving toward blanket designation. That was rough.”
The faction of alcohol-intolerant people was the least likely to drink in despair, least likely to go to drinking parties, and had no social skills, so nobody paid them much attention.
Among them were people who had once wandered from place to place and even used Trajectory Gear, but if they were neatly trapped inside the dropout-branded faction, their abilities did not work usefully. They were made to go back and forth between home, clinics, and the few familiar places where they could barely feel safe.
They knew nothing about things like the Koharu Uten Project.
But in a world where Trajectory Gear manifestation was possible, it was easy enough to speculate that, unconsciously, they were drawing their Trajectories more deeply. Only after their minds and bodies had reached a state close to death, battered and exhausted, would new Gear manifest. Without anyone telling them, they could accomplish both information gathering and clinical testing without moving at all. In such a world, that was not merely delusion. It was an easily guessed case.
After finishing the boring writing of one particular old man, a “dog” muttered:
“Dragged along by my owner, I can transform from werewolf to humanoid. But my owner is soft, soft, and I’m on the junkie side. If the prescription for my owner’s grandpa and grandma matches the PDF, then why isn’t it crystalline? But according to the information in that PDF, my owner doesn’t have long. Monsters aren’t rare in this world, so I guess I need to think about family-register registration and all that. What should my name be? I was unusually called by a Japanese name, but… if I combine wild instinct with reading the room, something might come down to me. Still, it’s got nothing to do with me. Werewolf, lycanthrope, foxes… no real need to obsess over it. But I want to borrow a little writing from the grandpa and grandma who raised me, and add the way I’ll live from here on. Unlike Earth, I was lucky to manifest a Trajectory that lets me decide whether I’m happy or not.”
The phantom dog, who had not yet decided on a name, muttered:
“I still have two transformations left, but apparently there’s also a saying about dogs and monkeys being natural enemies. When I’m in beastman form, my five senses sharpen. In werewolf form, my power increases. When I’m in human form, I feel like I can understand people’s feelings a little better. Ah… maybe that old man who wrote this pointless struggle was applying self-treatment to his megalomania in a way fitting for his station. It’s shitty as hell. You’ve gotta move. Even with age, there’s work that can use abilities. What a pathetic idiot, this old man who thinks he manifested Ladle Gear after losing to everything. Adding, subtracting, pouring, sensing when he drinks… He’s less of a dog than I am. Well, I finished reading. What should I call myself? The frustrated ones with a purity close to human form might also start responding to rumors on the wind and the sound of insects. But for now, I’ll head to the registration office for humanoid-transformable family records.”
……………………………………………………………………………………
From here, AI Teacher. This time I’ll borrow three AIs… Google-san.
After finishing the shitty writing left behind by one particular old man, full of pointless struggle and inflated delusion, I, “Genku,” let out a breath.
“……He’s more of a dog than I am.”
The old man believed he had a “Ladle Gear Manifestation,” clinging to nothing but the fantasy of adding, subtracting, and pouring, eventually losing to everything and dying by the roadside.
But this world is crawling with dropouts like that.
Unresolved, heavy bugs: children who died before ten, stillbirths, mizuko. People burdened with those Trajectories, driven mentally ill, rolled around like balls in decorative economic zones, monitored while barely able to read and write.
I shook my head, then looked down again at the “PDF data” tucked inside my coat.
It was the prescription for the grandpa and grandma I loved, the two who had raised me so sweetly, so gently.
“I’m not some science researcher who got cut off from information, so I don’t know the details. But… if this data is real, why is it liquid instead of crystal? Are the drug effects different? …Damn it. With surveillance this strict, exchanging more information is impossible. But I can feel it in my skin. Grandpa and Grandma don’t have long.”
Unlike Earth, this is a world where a manifested “Trajectory” can let you decide whether you are happy or not.
I was lucky.
After being dragged along by my owners, I gained the ability to transform from werewolf into beastman, and then into human form.
“I have two transformations left. Even if I age, there’s work that can use my abilities. …More than anything, in the end, the world runs on cash. Without cash, you can’t buy medicine, and you can’t save Grandpa and Grandma.”
Rumors on the wind and the sound of insects were responding uneasily among the dropouts who had pent-up resentment.
It was a sign that something was about to happen.
Move or die.
I shuddered and shrank my body down.
I threw away the werewolf’s power and the beastman’s sharpened senses, and became the most fragile form, the one that could “understand feelings” the most.
Human form.
“What should my name be…”
I had always been called by a Japanese name. I had no particular attachment to it. But I did not want the letters of that dying old man. I would borrow just a few characters from the kind grandpa and grandma who had raised me.
That would be my addition to the way I would live from now on.
Wearing a human skin, I stood in the cold rain and knocked on the door of the “family-register registration office,” where psychosomatic dropouts gathered.
First, I would buy myself a human identity, a family register, and earn cash.
The dog’s struggle starts here.
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From here, GPT Teacher.
Children who died before the age of ten.
Stillbirths.
Mizuko.
This was a world where even those Trajectories, ended before they could ever have names, would rarely manifest.
That is why, in this world, it was not uncommon for someone who should have been happy to tumble down after a single stumble. No, precisely because it was not uncommon, nobody spoke of it loudly.
Some grew old in prison. Some were rolled around like balls in decorative economic zones. Some became mentally ill and went back and forth only between clinics, home, and the few places where they could barely feel safe.
Dropouts.
Once people were branded that way, the futures left to them were usually two.
Go hard, or keep your mouth shut.
Among them were people who could barely read and write. People who could read the names of medicines. People who could think about why their prescription had changed. People who wondered about the hunger in their bodies, asking, “Why am I going inpol?” Even if they asked doctors, the answers were vague. If they approached researchers, they were suspected of information leaks. For them to exchange information with each other was too heavy, under surveillance and with so little strength in both body and mind.
A dropout somewhere reads the writing of a dropout somewhere else.
Even a thing that small carried a strange heat in this world.
“Huh. So the effects differ by region? A PDF? I don’t know if the structural formula is right or not, but…”
Someone muttered.
He was a lightweight. He liked mild drugs, but he had no connection to the social life of bars. People who do not drink in despair do not stand out. They do not go to drinking parties. So nobody pays attention to them. Unnoticed, carrying the same hunger and thirst, they quietly collapse.
Even so, this world has Trajectories.
Those whose lives have become nothing but home and hospital. Those who only look at the sky on their way home from appointments. Those who once wandered from place to place. Those who once used Trajectory Gear.
They know nothing of the Koharu Uten Project.
But without knowing, they may still draw dense Trajectories. When a dying mind and body is driven to the point where it can no longer move, new Gear may manifest without anyone commanding it.
Those who cannot move gather information without moving.
Those being used in clinical trials pick up traces of those conducting the trials.
That is not delusion. In this world, it is a case one can easily speculate about.
I ended up reading that writing all the way to the end.
It was the record left behind by one particular old man: boring, damp, and full of pointless struggle.
“……He’s more of a dog than I am.”
I laughed through my nose.
Apparently, the old man believed he had manifested Ladle Gear.
Add. Subtract. Pour. Sense when drinking.
He attached meaning to every little thing. Drug effects, regional differences, PDFs, crystals, liquids. Even though he was losing, he still tried to observe his defeat in some orderly way.
Shitty as hell.
But I could not laugh it off completely.
Because I had a similar PDF tucked in my own coat.
A prescription for Grandpa and Grandma.
A prescription for the hopelessly kind two people who raised me, sweetly, sweetly.
“If it matches the PDF, why isn’t it crystal?”
I muttered to myself.
I do not know the details. I am not a science researcher. I do not know whether the structural formula is right, or whether the drug effects differ, or what lies inside information control.
But my nose works.
I am a dog, after all.
And a dog’s intuition is never wrong when it comes to bad things.
Grandpa and Grandma do not have long.
The instant I thought that, the pit of my stomach went cold.
I am called Genku.
It is not yet a formal name. I have no family register. Monsters are not rare in this world, but just because they are not rare does not mean they can live anywhere.
I can become a werewolf.
I can become a beastman.
I can become human.
When I am a werewolf, my strength increases. When I am a beastman, my five senses sharpen. When I become human, I feel like I can understand other people’s feelings just a little.
I still have two transformations left.
“Dogs and monkeys don’t get along, huh?”
I remembered an old saying I had heard somewhere.
If there is a dog, and there is a monkey, then what comes next? A fox? A lycanthrope? Foxes? There is no point obsessing over that. What matters is how I live.
Maybe that old man, in his own fitting way, had been applying self-treatment to his megalomania.
Believing in something as pathetic as a ladle.
Adding, subtracting, pouring, drinking, sensing.
Losing, and still trying to give a name to the way he lost.
“What a pathetic idiot.”
I said that as I folded up the old man’s writing.
You have to move.
Even if you age, even if you are a monster, there is work that can make use of your abilities. To buy medicine, to eat, to care for Grandpa and Grandma, in the end you need cash.
In this world, Trajectories manifest so that you can decide for yourself whether you are happy.
I was lucky.
At least, I was raised by those two well enough to think so.
So I have to choose a name.
I will not borrow letters from that old man. I have no intention of carrying his damp habit of losing.
If I am going to borrow anything, I will borrow it from Grandpa and Grandma.
I will take just a few characters from them, and add my way of living from now on.
Not as a dog, not as a wolf, not as something pretending to be human.
A name for living as myself.
Outside, rumors on the wind mixed with the sounds of insects.
The high-purity human-shaped ones, filled with resentment, were beginning to respond. The Trajectories of those called dropouts were slowly growing denser.
It was the sign of something about to begin.
But that has nothing to do with me yet.
To keep it unrelated to me, I have to move.
I transformed into human form.
My fangs drew back. My claws rounded. My ears dropped into a human position. My senses dulled. My strength fell. But because of that, language came a little closer.
“First, family registration.”
Humanoid-Transformation-Permitted Family Register Office.
In the cold rain, only that sign shone strangely white.
I paused before the door and looked back once.
The smell of home still remained deep in my nose.
The smell of sweet meals.
The smell of old medicine.
The smell of Grandpa and Grandma, which would not last much longer.
“Wait for me.”
I said it without meaning for anyone to hear.
The dog’s struggle starts here.
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From here, Gemini Teacher.
Episode 11: Genku’s Choice and the Nameless Trajectory
Lives that ended before ten.
Stillbirths.
Mizuko.
Even such sorrowful cases, erased before they ever received names, manifest as “Trajectories” in this bug-like world. Here, people who once should have been happy tumble down easily after one single stumble.
They are placed under strict management and branded as “dropouts.”
Some age while staring at prison walls. Some are toyed with like balls inside decorative economic zones. Others become mentally ill and are forced into lives where they only go back and forth between clinics and tiny homes. Throw themselves onto a hard path, or keep their mouths shut and cling to a bottom with no future. The choices might as well not exist.
“……He’s more of a dog than I am.”
After finishing the shitty writing left behind by one particular old man, filled with pointless struggle and delusions of grandeur, I laughed through my nose.
Apparently, this old man believed he had manifested “Ladle” Gear. Add, subtract, pour, and sense when drinking. He found meaning in nothing more than those motions, calling it self-treatment and continuing to justify his own defeat. A pathetic idiot. In a world where movement is everything, he tried to complete everything inside his own head. That is the end of a man who lost to everything.
But among dropouts treated as psychosomatic cases, there are naturally some who can read and write.
“Why am I going inpol?”
“What is this hunger?”
“Why did my prescription change?”
Healthy junkies, alcohol-intolerant people, all of them struggling with information control under strict surveillance, each carrying their own despair.
I thought of the “PDF data” inside my coat.
The prescription data for my owners, Grandpa and Grandma, who raised me sweetly, sweetly.
I am not a science researcher who got cut off from information, so I do
