First Person: The Janitor's Sanctuary
The darkness of the janitor's closet was my personal paradise. The smell of bleach and damp rags was the incense of my new religion: paranoid survivalism. I sat there, on the cold, dusty floor, for what felt like an eternity. My heart, which had previously tried to escape my ribcage, had slowed its rhythm to a merely alarming thud. The sirens had died down, replaced by a tense silence, the kind of silence that screams everyone is looking for something. Or someone. Me.
In front of me, the System screen still glowed softly, its bluish radiance casting dancing shadows over the buckets and mops.
[Situation Analysis: Host successfully hidden. Immediate threat level: Low.][Reminder: You possess one (1) slightly bent fork. Its uses are manifold. Be creative.]
I ignored the fork advice. My brain, which had finally decided to revert to "field agent" mode instead of "panic victim," was plotting a map. I'm in a service corridor on some upper floor of a Japanese super-mecha academy. The rooftop is compromised. The stairwells are probably guarded. My face, though unfamiliar, is that of an adult man in a place where there shouldn't be any. I'm the world's biggest sore thumb.
The plan remained the same: escape. But now the difficulty had gone from "Hard" to "Nightmare." I needed a disguise. I needed to blend in. I needed a miracle.
My "Rank A Luck" had already provided me with a chaotic distraction. Asking it for another favor so soon felt like tempting fate. The System's description was clear: "often chaotic." I didn't need another plane crashing into the cafeteria for me to slip away.
I waited. Patience is the most underrated weapon in an agent's arsenal. I listened to the sounds of the hallway. Hurried footsteps, hushed conversations. The academy was in a state of nervousness. Good. Chaos is good cover.
When the sounds faded, I decided it was time to move. I opened the door a crack, the slightest creak sounding like a gunshot to me. The hallway was empty.
[System Suggestion: Proceed with stealth. Avoid eye contact. Try not to trip over your own feet.]
Thanks, Captain Obvious, I thought as I slid out of the closet. I don't know what I'd do without your profound tactical wisdom.
My goal was to find a service exit, a loading dock, a ground-floor window. Something that would lead me outside and away from here. I moved pressed against the wall, using the shadows the overhead fluorescents failed to eliminate. Every corner was a new risk. I turned left at an intersection, following an instinct I hoped was my training and not my stupid luck leading me into another trap.
And then I heard it. Music.
Bad music. It was one of those generic pop songs, with a bland beat and lyrics about summer love that sounded algorithmically produced. It was coming from behind a large set of double doors at the end of the hallway. I approached cautiously and peered through the small window on one of the doors.
What I saw made me blink. It was a ballroom. Or a gym decorated to look like one. Balloons, streamers, and a clumsily painted banner that read: "Congratulations, Ichika!" In the center of the room was the aforementioned Ichika Orimura, surrounded by his harem of IS pilots, all vying to give him a slice of cake or a compliment. He looked like a lamb surrounded by wolves... very enthusiastic, well-armed wolves.
It was a welcome party. In the middle of an orange security alert caused by me, these people were partying. The cognitive dissonance was enough to drive one mad.
But then I saw him. On a stage in the back, behind a table piled with sound equipment, there he was. The DJ. And he was a man. A scrawny guy, with a baseball cap on backward and an expression of utter boredom.
He was my miracle. My walking disguise.
Third Person: The Hunt and the Trade
Leo observed his target. The DJ seemed completely disconnected from his surroundings. He pressed buttons with the reluctance of an office worker sealing envelopes. Occasionally, he'd glance at his watch, a clear sign of someone who wished he were anywhere else. Leo understood him perfectly.
The plan formed in his mind with chilling speed and clarity. It was risky, audacious, and slightly psychopathic, but it was the best plan he had. He waited, observing the room's dynamic. Everyone's attention was focused on Ichika. No one paid the slightest attention to the man providing the soundtrack to their boredom.
After about fifteen minutes, the DJ put on a particularly long, monotonous song, stretched, and stepped down from the stage. He looked left and right, then headed for a side door, likely in search of a restroom or a break from the estrogen- and sugar-charged atmosphere.
That was the moment.
Leo retreated from the main door and sprinted down the service corridor, anticipating the DJ's trajectory. He found the door the man had just exited. It led to another smaller, poorly lit hallway connecting the back of the stage to the staff restrooms. It was deserted. Perfect.
He hid in a doorway alcove. He heard the DJ's footsteps approaching, humming off-key the same song he'd just played. As the man passed him, Leo acted.
There was no scream, no prolonged struggle. Leo's movement was a poem of brutal efficiency. One arm around the DJ's neck, cutting off any cry before it could form, while his other hand applied pressure to a nerve point just below the jaw. The DJ froze, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
"Don't make a sound, and I won't hurt you," Leo whispered in Japanese he hoped was clear enough. "I just want your clothes. Cooperate, and you can get back to your mediocre music career."
He dragged the man, trembling like a leaf, into the nearest men's restroom. It was a small, single-stall bathroom. With a speed that would scare a special operations instructor, Leo pushed the DJ against the wall.
"Take off your clothes. Now."
The terrified guy obeyed without question, stripping off a hideous Hawaiian shirt over a T-shirt, baggy jeans, and his cap. Leo forced him into the stall. Using the DJ's own belt and a generous amount of industrial tape he found on an abandoned cleaning cart—thanks, Rank A Luck—he bound his feet and hands to the toilet. He stuffed a roll of toilet paper in his mouth as an improvised gag and secured it with more tape.
"Sorry, buddy," Leo said as he pulled on the DJ's clothes. They smelled faintly of sweat and despair. "Consider this constructive criticism on your music selection."
As he adjusted the cap, he noticed something in the jeans pocket. He reached in and pulled out a small USB drive. He slipped it into his own pocket without thinking. A bonus.
He looked at himself in the mirror. With the cap pulled low and the baggy clothes, he could pass for the DJ if no one looked too closely. The plan was simple: go back to the party, feign normalcy for a few minutes, then slip out the stage's back exit as if going to fetch something from his car. Hopefully, no one would stop him. He was about to leave the bathroom when the door burst open.
Second Persona: Facing the Supreme Authority
You freeze. Your heart, which had barely calmed, rockets again. Your plan, so perfect, so clean, is about to fall apart before it even begins. And the person who walks through the door isn't just any security guard.
It's Chifuyu Orimura.
She's in her instructor's uniform, arms crossed, with an expression that could freeze magma. Her gaze cuts through you, dissects you, and judges you, all in less than a second. Your disguise, which seemed so ingenious moments ago, now feels like a neon sign screaming "I AM AN IMPOSTOR."
The System flickers in your vision with frantic urgency.
[WARNING!! WARNING!!][Threat Level Detected: ORIMURA-CHIFUYU (BRUNHILDE)][Deception Success Probability: 1.2%][Combat Success Probability: 0.0001% (If she's asleep and you have a tank)][System Suggestion: Pray.]
She takes a step towards you. She says nothing. Just stares. You feel cold sweat run down your back. In the stall, the real DJ makes a muffled noise against his gag. Shut up, damn it, shut up, you mentally scream at him.
"May I ask what you're doing in here?" Chifuyu asks. Her voice isn't loud, but it carries the weight of a glacier. "You've had the same song on loop for ten minutes. The students are starting to develop auditory diabetes."
Your agent brain, trained to lie to terrorists and drug lords, desperately searches for a plausible excuse.
"Uh... ah... a break," you stammer. Pathetic. "Stomach issues. The welcome cake didn't agree with me."
She raises an eyebrow. A single eyebrow. It's the most intimidating gesture you've ever seen. She knows you're lying. She doesn't know the truth, but she knows what you're saying is garbage.
"The party isn't going to liven up itself," she says, stepping aside and nodding towards the hallway. "Get back to your post. Now."
It's not a request. It's an unbreakable order, backed by the authority of someone who has fought real battles and won. Your escape plan evaporates. Your chance to slip out the back door slams shut with a deafening bang.
You, the former FBI agent, the master of stealth and infiltration, are reduced to a scolded teenager. You lower your head and walk past her, back towards the stage. Back into the heart of the wolf's den.
Your luck hasn't helped you. It's screwed you over. It's put you in a disguise only to push you onto center stage under the brightest, most dangerous spotlight in the entire academy.
As you walk onto the stage, with Chifuyu Orimura's gaze burning into your back, you realize a terrible truth. Escape is no longer an option. Now you have to perform.
First Person: Let the Party Begin
I sit in the DJ chair, feeling like a condemned man granted a ridiculous last wish. The pop music continues to play, repetitive and tedious. The teenage crowd still looks like a collection of mannequins at a social gathering. Chifuyu has stationed herself near the stage, arms crossed, watching me. Great. I have a killer babysitter.
My plan is in ruins. I'm trapped. My only way out is to play the part I've stolen. But I can't keep playing this garbage. My soul has its limits.
Then I remember the USB drive.
I pull it from my pocket and look at it. It's my only hope. If this guy had anything remotely decent... anything...
I plug it into the console. It's top-notch equipment, far better than the junk I used to work with. A window opens on the laptop screen, showing the drive's contents. It's organized into folders.
Japanese Pop Top 40Ballads for CryingAnime Hits (Karaoke Version)
My heart sinks. It's worse than I thought. This guy didn't just have bad taste, he had a complete absence of taste. I'm condemned to play elevator music for an eternity.
But then I see one last folder. It's at the bottom of the list. It has a strange name: PROJECT_X_V2.
My finger hovers over the trackpad. It can't be. Is it a coincidence? Or is my Rank A Luck at work in the strangest way possible?
With a sense of doom and morbid curiosity, I click on the folder.
No pop songs. No ballads. What I see is a list of files that makes my heart pound. Artist names like The Chemical Brothers, Aphex Twin, Angerfist, Daft Punk. Titles like 'Born Slippy', 'Smack My Bitch Up', 'Galvanize'. It's an arsenal. An arsenal of pure, hard EDM, techno, hardstyle, and breakbeat.
And suddenly, I'm no longer in the IS Academy. I'm back in my college dorm room, over a decade ago. I remember the nights I spent textbook money on second-hand vinyl. I remember DJing fraternity parties, feeling the floor vibrate with the bass, watching people lose themselves in the music. I remember the feeling of holding a hundred, two hundred people in the palm of my hand, taking them on a sonic journey. A part of me I thought had died when I joined the FBI, the part that loved the controlled chaos of a good party, awakens from its slumber.
I look at the crowd. I see Ichika being fed a piece of cake by Cecilia while Houki glares at him with daggers. I see Charlotte and Laura talking in a corner, probably about incredibly serious topics. They're bored. They're stiff. They're not at a party; they're at a social obligation.
This is a crime. A crime against youth. A crime against music.
And I... I am justice.
A slow, maniacal grin spreads across my face. The escape plan can wait. Survival can wait. Chifuyu Orimura can stare all she wants.
I lean over the mixer. With a dramatic flourish, I cut the cheesy pop song mid-note.
A confused silence falls over the room. Everyone looks at me. Ichika, mouth full of cake. The girls, with surprised expressions. Chifuyu, with a dangerously raised eyebrow.
In that silence, I select the first track. A classic. An anthem. 'Insomnia' by Faithless.
I let the iconic synth intro float in the air for a few seconds, building tension. Then, with a flick of my finger, I drop the bass.
BOOM.
The hit is physical. The subwoofers, which were barely whispering moments ago, now roar to life. The 4x4 beat, hypnotic and relentless, fills the room. I see people flinch. Some cover their ears. Others look around, bewildered.
But I see something else. I see the feet of some students beginning to tap to the rhythm almost unconsciously. I see heads starting to nod.
I forget everything. The FBI, the transmigration, the danger. There is only the music and the crowd. This is me. I am the DJ. And tonight, I'm going to teach the most elite, dangerous academy in the world how to throw a real party.
My escape has been indefinitely postponed. I have a job to do.