The Armband Draft

When someone sitting inside the top ten of the rankings laid the situation out like that himself, most of the users either voiced their agreement or, even if they hadn't fully understood before, nodded along with a quiet ah, so that's how it is.

And just like that, after Indefatigable—ranked seventh—posted his verification, the gallery was on the verge of sliding into a free-for-all of people suddenly dumping their own stories about how hellishly hard it had been to scrape together points.

That mood had barely lasted three minutes.

Someone had tossed up a post in passing, as if the thought had only just occurred to them—and with that single thread, the gallery users remembered what this event's actual purpose was.

What followed was a reaction of truly staggering scale, like plasma tearing free inside a nuclear fusion reactor.

The Armband Draft. (1)

Ah, damn it.

At some throwaway line from an anonymous poster, another of those memories that shouldn't exist started replaying in my head—but only for a moment. I shook it off, got a grip on myself, and kept reading.

When that death-rattle of a post went up from Inde-whatever-his-name-was—the ranker who had just grasped the truth—all I could do was leave a hollow little laugh of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my own.

But while the gallery was busy heaping that not-quite-mockery on him and he sat there looking hollowed out, a new message window bloomed right in front of my eyes.

And it didn't even wait for me to confirm it. It just unfurled on its own, blotting out the entire gallery screen I'd been reading, which for a second made irritation spike hard—

Until I actually read what was in the message that had invited itself open, and understood exactly why it had arrived like that.

…Hmm.

Looking at that, I found myself wondering why they couldn't just tell us whatever it was by message instead of hauling us all in—and at the same time, started thinking through who to bring along.

Jessica's coming for sure. For an escort, either Marianne or Ignis should do…

I was mid-deliberation on the personnel list when—

The instant I finished reading the last line of the message, the world in front of me went pure white—and the next thing I knew, I was no longer sitting in my command chair.

I had been dumped into some unidentifiable space where up, down, front, back, left, and right were all nothing but white.

And the moment that fact sank in, I was freshly reminded that the admin team's way of handling things was, in a word, absolute garbage.

Surrounded by a landscape that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was white and nothing but white in every direction, I was in the middle of delivering a scathing internal review—

Looks like a psych ward designed specifically to give you a mental breakdown.

—when a voice carried over from somewhere nearby. Rough, a little crude, thoroughly male:

"Why the hell is everything painted white?! Is this a psych ward or what?"

Someone over there was saying out loud exactly what I'd only been thinking. Curious who had the nerve to just blurt it, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠turned my head to look.

And standing in that direction was a man whose appearance I had never seen before in my life—a textbook Golden Sun.

Blond hair. Skin tanned a deep brown. Piercings. Tattoos. The complete, by-the-book Golden Sun package.

What the hell.

I stared at the sudden Golden Sun in bewilderment. He had been looking around himself, then seemed to feel my gaze, turned toward me—and the moment our eyes met, he flinched.

Judging by that reaction, he was just as thrown as I was, with no idea who he was looking at.