Twenty Servings of Curry
"Mother."
"Call me Mom, you brat."
"Right now that's a bit—"
"I said call me Mom."
"...Mom."
"That's better."
She had come down to the third basement level, where the production facility used to be, drawn an enormous target, and taped it to the wall. Now she drew Bethel and leveled it at the bullseye.
From a distance, she used it as a rifle—stock tucked into her armpit, cheek pressed to the receiver, eyes on the sights as she squeezed off a shot. Then she picked it up one-handed and fired with the muzzle pointed downrange. It wasn't quite a bullseye, but the rounds punched holes well within the paper.
Up close, she switched to a one-handed gun—a pistol. She stepped in near the target, raised it in one hand, and fired. Then she fired from the hip. Again, not a bullseye, but the target took the hits all the same.
A pistol could be pressed right up against something and still fire, of course. Even so, she needed to find other ways to deal physical damage.
"I can do that too, you know."
"Do what?"
The instant she asked, Bethel slithered out of sight as if it had been waiting for the cue, then reappeared.
Long and black, with a matte finish. The grip was relatively thin and easy to wrap a hand around, thickening steadily toward the far end. It was the most basic piece of equipment in the world—easy to find, easy to get—and it possessed a thoroughly impressive capacity for killing and destruction.
"This is a baseball bat."
"That's right. Primitive and basic in construction, but when you swing it you get that gorgeously clean impact—and the other guy gets pain so bad they'll wish they were dead."
"Weren't you supposed to be a gun?"
"A bullet kills you. Getting clubbed with a gun kills you too. If the result's the same, does the method really matter?"
She wasn't wrong.
Even so. Its true nature was an ego rifle. Transforming into an ego bat... she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that.
Fighting Aquamarine last time had made one thing painfully clear: her combat technique was nowhere near good enough. It hadn't been Bethel's performance that was lacking. When they hadn't been fighting by the water, every shot she'd landed on Aquamarine had done real damage. The first had turned her shoulder into a bloody mess. The second had blown off her wrist. The third had punched through her chest. The fourth, her forehead.
The damage landed. That much was certain. But by the water, Bethel—a weapon that fed on magic—hadn't been able to hurt her at all. A baseball bat, though, could.
Rocket Punch alone hadn't been enough. Rocket Punch ran on magic too; if Aquamarine had been in any kind of decent shape, it wouldn't have done a thing. That was exactly when you needed a weapon that could bring raw physical force to the table.
She gave it a few practice swings. The bat whooshed through the air with a bright, cheerful whistle that she found genuinely pleasing.
Hah. Yeah. This is the stuff. The thought of cracking someone's skull with this is almost too satisfying.
Just you wait, Aquamarine.
She ran Bethel through every test she could think of, even took a few swings at some old tires, and before she knew it the clock had slipped past nine in the morning. She had come down around six, which meant she had been at it for a full three hours.
Kabe still seemed to be asleep.
What to do with the rest of the day.
Come to think of it, she wondered whether the Mains were eating properly. Ever since they had moved in, everyone had their own room, so she hadn't been particularly attentive about meals. Keru had told her that since they could no longer eat together the way they used to, everyone just handled their own food, and a meal allowance was built into their pay. Even so, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had been neglecting them.
Hmm.
Well then. Time to show off her skills for the first time in a while.
There were about twenty of them. Something that would go down well no matter anyone's likes or dislikes... curry, right?
Smartphones really were a wonderful thing. She searched "curry for twenty servings" and the internet handed her everything—ingredients, quantities, the whole cooking process. The problem was the weight. Hauling all of that back herself was going to be a serious burden. It was a load that would make even a grown man think twice, and she was not at all confident she could manage it alone.
She considered calling Dusick, then decided against it. There was last night to think about, and dragging Dusick to the supermarket felt like asking a bit much.
She couldn't carry all those ingredients herself. So what now?
Maybe put Number Twenty-Seven to work. Yes. That would do nicely.
She checked the Main room-assignment chart posted in the living room. Number Twenty-Seven... Twenty-Seven... Room 207.
...207? Wasn't this room assignment a little too on-the-nose, Dusick?
She pulled on sweatpants, threw a parka over them—the cold had well and truly settled in—and took the elevator. It was the weekend and still early, and she didn't run into a soul on the way down to the second floor.
"Where's 207...?"
Out of the elevator, to the left. Room 201 started on the right, so 207 would be the inner door on the left-hand side. Her sneakers padded down the corridor. The morning air was chilly, though it was already past nine-thirty, which made calling it morning a bit of a stretch—but it was the weekend, so morning it was.
She pressed her thumb to the fingerprint scanner. The lock turned over with a heavy click. Every door lock in the building had her fingerprint registered. It was essentially a master key, courtesy of Dusick's somewhat bizarre philosophy that there should be no place the boss was forbidden to enter. As long as it was inside this officetel, there was nowhere her fingerprint couldn't get her.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Being a studio, the entire room was visible from the entryway...
...or rather.
Blackout blinds to keep the sun out. Fine. Reasonable, even. But did those blinds need to be printed with an image of her standing on a podium, shouting "Count Open"?
And why was there a poster behind the television of her holding Kabe?
And why was there a button badge of her face stuck to the refrigerator?
And why were photographs of her packed densely under the glass top of the island table?
And the blanket that this guy—Number Twenty-Seven—was rolled up in, snoring away: why did that have her face printed on it too?
"Hey."
She nudged him with her foot. No response.
"Hey."
She nudged him again.
"Hkkgh...!"
Oh?
She thought the choking sound meant he was waking up. It did not. It was just him snoring so hard he was gasping for air.
"Number Twenty-Seven."
"Nnngh..."
"Noona's here. Get up."
"I don't have a noona... hehe..."
Oh, is that so?
"Mom's here, you little shit. Get your ass up!"
"So you're telling me that's the trend."
"Yes, ma'am!"
Nothing particularly dramatic happened after that. Number Twenty-Seven shot upright at her shout, then got even more startled when he saw her standing in the middle of the room looking down at him, then followed her gaze to the blanket he had been rolled up in and tried to flip it over—only to realize it was already far too late. And so now he was walking to the supermarket with her, a hat mashed firmly down over his head.
"Ah, no. MPE only sells photos. That kind of merch is what Juttak sells. He even takes custom orders—blankets, dakimakura, that sort of thing. But we all agreed not to buy the dakimakura."
"Dakimakura? What's that?"
"Y'know, those hug pillows. The life-size ones."
"Ah. Yeah, that's a bit much. Don't do that. And you know the blanket's crossing a line too, right?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
She wasn't going to give him a hard time about it. Of course it was embarrassing. Obviously. Getting treated like some idol she had never signed up to be—how could that not be mortifying?
But looking at it another way, if this kind of devotion could pull these kids together and deepen their loyalty to the organization... embarrassment? Shame? Who cared. Was a photo on the blackout blinds a problem? Was a poster a problem? Was a button badge a problem? None of it was a problem. Not a single problem. If it meant these kids would fight hard and come back alive, she would gladly pose as a model for them outright.
That said, she did need to meet this Juttak person. If he was doing business with someone else's likeness, they were going to have a conversation about revenue sharing.
"Anyway. You're on porter duty today. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"No complaints? If you've got complaints, I can have a word with Dusick."
"N-n-no complaints at all!"
One way or another, Dusick seemed to keep a tight leash on the Mains. The way Number Twenty-Seven snapped to attention the moment she mentioned telling Dusick about the state of his room—and about the merch they were all living with—said everything.
She bought the ingredients generously. She was a decent cook, but that was mostly when she was making one or two servings. Twenty servings was a different animal entirely, so she bought extra just in case. The online recipe claimed that adding a little coffee made curry taste better. She was skeptical, but the comments were full of people swearing it really did, so she picked up a six-pack of canned coffee. It was twenty servings, after all.
Next, the meat. Pork was the way to go for curry.
"Twenty-Seven."
"Yes, Noona."
"Do you guys prefer big chunks in your curry, or smaller pieces?"
"Hmm..."
He thought hard about it, then answered carefully.
"I think smaller's better."
"Why?"
Didn't people usually prefer curry with big, hearty chunks?
"Well, 'cause your mouth is small, Noona."
Would you look at this kid. Listen to him talk. Eve could stand to learn a thing or two from the way this one spoke. Smaller pieces so she would have an easier time eating, because her mouth was small.
Heh. The more she turned it over, the more endearing it was. She couldn't keep the smile off her face.
"Heavy?"
"Nah, this is nothing. I could carry it one-handed."
Ah. These guys had been Mains from the start, so their physical strength wasn't even in the same conversation as a regular person's. She was a Main now too, so why was she different? Curious.
It hadn't been a lie. Twenty-Seven was holding every grocery bag in one hand and grinning like he had energy to spare.
"I got something new to brag about today, Noona."
"Brag about? What?"
"If I tell the others I went shopping just the two of us, they're gonna die of jealousy."
"Don't say weird stuff like that. What if they think I'm playing favorites? That puts me in a tough spot."
"Ah, is that so? Then I won't tell anyone."
"Good. Keep it secret. Tell Dusick I said to gather everyone and come up around one."
"Yes, ma'am! Got it, Noona!"
He snapped off a salute and scurried away toward the elevator. She watched him go, then carried her own bags into her kitchen.
Huh. Now that she was holding them, they weren't that heavy at all.