Mocca... Let's Get You Cleaned Up

Mocca... let's get you cleaned up.

After that raucous Wall-Noise War, the room next door had gone dead silent—quiet as a grave.

I'd half wondered if she'd collapsed from sheer rage, but mercifully, no such disaster seemed to have occurred.

Time slipped by in that silence until midnight arrived, and with it, the appointed counseling hour.

I straightened my rumpled clothes in the mirror, and I didn't forget the gift bag in one hand—the surefire bait to reel her in.

A carrot this good should get even a cowardly rabbit to poke its head out of the burrow.

I stepped out into the hallway. Barely five paces. I stopped before the firmly shut iron door of B-101.

Knock. Knock.

The dry sound of my knuckles tore through the corridor's stillness.

"Is anyone home? It's your neighbor. I've come at the appointed time."

— ……

No answer from within. Playing dead, or pretending to sleep, was she?

Sorry, but my eyes don't fall for that.

— Zzzzzzt.

A sharp ringing filled my ears.

Psychological Insight.

Through the single iron door, her unstable emotional waves pricked at my skin like needles.

She's there. Right behind the door.

Hesitation. Conflict. Open it or not. Hide or face him.

I could feel the turbulent current of her thoughts, but I put on an air of leisure. The foundation of counseling is the patience to wait until the client opens the door themselves.

A moment later—

Click.

— Whirrrrr.

With a mechanical hum, blue mana circuits flickered in geometric patterns through the crack of the door.

Clunk. Creeeak— Clang!

The heavy drive-sound of a triple magic lock disengaging. It was like the scream of a thick shell being forcibly peeled away.

At last, the iron door opened by the barest of cracks.

"…C-come in."

The moment it opened, a wave of air hit me—the damp, stagnant humidity unique to a room that had never once been ventilated.

But rather than unpleasant… it was strange.

The sweet smell of cookie crumbs. And, concentrated in that narrow space, the distinctive body scent of Mocca Mellow herself—a languid, faintly indecent fragrance, like the smell of old bedding that makes whoever breathes it go soft and drowsy.

The source of that scent—the woman standing half-hidden behind the door—was a far more intense stimulus than I'd anticipated.

"……"

I momentarily lost my words.

Messy black bobbed hair, greasy and clumped into strands as if she hadn't washed it in days. Damp-looking locks clung to her pale cheeks and slender nape.

The instant my gaze landed on her, she flinched, shoulders trembling.

"D-don't look…"

An oversized, stretched-out gray box T-shirt. It was so large that one shoulder had slipped down, baring her white collarbone and shoulder blade with almost indecent frankness. Below that, training shorts with her knobby knees poking out. A completely defenseless outfit that made me wonder if she ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was even wearing underwear.

Ashamed of her own disheveled state, she hung her head low.

"…Pardon the intrusion."

At my words, Mocca snuck a glance at me, then shuffled awkwardly back inside.

I slipped off my shoes and stepped in. The room was exactly as expected—no, worse than expected. A mountain of trash with barely room to set a foot down.

"……"

In the middle of it all, seated in her gaming chair, Mocca radiated a desperate energy.

Obsession and anxiety, huh.

Looking at the situation, it was obvious. She was clinging to her gaming chair—her sole territory—afraid it would be taken from her, and anxious because of me, the unfamiliar invader.

It was so absurd I let out a dry laugh.

I dragged over a sturdy box rolling at her feet, out of her line of sight, and sat down on it.

"Don't worry. This time, I have no intention of stealing that precious throne of yours."

She flinched. Mocca's shoulders jumped.

"…Hnnngh."

Only then did the tension coiled tight in her body ease, just a fraction. But the hands gripping the armrests of her chair were still white-knuckled—like a squirrel guarding its winter acorns.

I set the bag I'd brought on the table—or rather, on the plank buried under clutter.

Rustle.

The sound of plastic friction rang unusually loud in the quiet room.

"…I ought to pay you for opening the door, at least."

"…C-compensation, you say?"

"Please accept it."

I opened the box.

Cutting through the damp, musty air of the room, a sweet and refreshing fragrance exploded outward. The fortune I'd spent before coming here had been worth it. To me it was a mere fifty-point snack, but for this woman with her distinctly voluptuous air, I had a feeling it would be a direct hit.

A strawberry fresh-cream cake from the finest patisserie in Arche—the kind only nobles ever tasted. Red strawberries set like jewels atop a snowfield of white cream. A combination grotesquely at odds with this garbage dump of a room.

"Th-this is… strawberry fresh-cream cake…?"

Mocca Mellow's pupils underwent a violent earthquake.

— Zzzzzzt.

I could almost hear her dry throat working as she swallowed. A stomach that had been chewing on nothing but instant food for days was in open revolt.

The Anxiety keyword floating above her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head blurred, and a more primal word began to flash red.

Simple. And therefore, adorable.

"Go ahead and eat."

When I held out a fork, she hesitantly reached for it. The tips of her slender fingers trembled faintly with desire.

"M-may I… r-really eat this…?"

"Of course."

The moment permission was granted, she scooped up a bite of cake and shoved it into her mouth.

Chew, chew…

Her cheeks worked as she munched, white cream smeared thickly around her lips. Greasy hair stuck to her face in a way that should have been annoying, but she was focused solely on her sense of taste.

As the supreme sweetness struck her tongue, the furrow between her brows melted away. Her sharp eyes went soft and drowsy—the spitting image of a cat intoxicated by a treat its owner had given it.

I propped my chin on my hand and watched the show.

"Is it good?"

"…Mmm, i-it is delicious… The cream's viscosity is appropriate… and the strawberries' Brix level is…"

She tried to put on an expert's air and deliver a proper evaluation, but with cream all over her mouth, there was zero dignity to be found.

"I'm glad. Worth the expensive purchase, then."

I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. Then, without ceremony, I reached out and wiped the cream from the corner of her lips with a smooth stroke.

"…?!"

Mocca Mellow jerked backward as if she'd been electrocuted. The chair creaked roughly.

"W-what do you think you're doing!"

"Because you're eating like a slob and getting it everywhere. Are you a child?"

"Th-that's something I can wipe myself…!"

"You had no intention of wiping it. You were going to lick it off with your tongue."

I'd hit the bullseye. Her pale face flushed red as a beet in an instant. Beyond that flush, her eyes wavered with flustered confusion.

— Zzzzzzt.

Judging by this, even a shut-in recluse didn't have social skills at absolute zero. Not if she could feel pure shame like this.

I checked the cream on the handkerchief and spoke in a low voice.

"Well then. Now that you've had some sugar, your brain should be working a bit better, yes?"

I dropped the smile and looked her straight in the eyes.

"Shall we begin the counseling session, Miss Mocca Mellow?"

"…W-what."

"What game did you play today?"

"…Th-that is…"

The howling that had come through the wall that afternoon. That voice screaming about a Tarzan Gap.

I twisted the corner of my mouth up and asked.

"…You mean League of Arche?"

She flinched. I gave a short laugh and tilted my head, feigning ignorance.

"What kind of game is that?"

"Hnn… y-you mean to say you don't know that masterpiece, sir?"

"Yes. And while you're at it, please explain what this 'Tarzan' is."

She began to explain, mumbling, eyes averted.

"…T-the 'Tarzan' you heard of is… a commander-type position that hunts monsters in our team's neutral zones to grow, then intervenes across all lanes…"

"Ah, I see…"

I nodded.

"You have quite the set of lungs. When you screamed, 'Are your eyes just for decoration?!' I thought the bulletproof glass in this room was going to shatter."

"Th-that was…!"

Mocca Mellow waved her fork through the air as if deeply wronged. The shame from a moment ago had vanished without a trace, replaced by a blazing gamer's fury.

"That bastard never came to gank! I had the entire lane pushed out, and he was just sitting there farming RPG—! It was a clear-cut… Tarzan Gap!"

She launched into a passionate rant, veins standing out in her eyes. Cream on her cheek, hair swinging—none of it mattered. That total immersion.

I laughed quietly.

"You look like you're having fun."

"…Fun? This is a legitimate duel. A battle of win rates and data, I say."

"Exactly."

I leaned forward, closing the distance between us.

"In reality, you're so scared of opening a single door that you shake like a leaf—but the you inside the monitor is braver than anyone, excellent at blaming others, and has a very loud voice."

"……"

Her mouth snapped shut. The fork mid-swing through the air froze.

— Zzzzzzt.

"That's… because it's a game."

She muttered in a voice that crawled into the floor.

"Games are… fair."

"Fair?"

"Yes. Data does not lie. Exactly as much as I input, that much is output. Even variables can be quantified."

She snuck a glance at my expression, then curled in on herself again.

"But… real humans are not. They smile and stab you in the back. You explain something logically and they answer with emotion. They're rude, loud, and inefficient. Unpredictable piles of errors, I say."

The slaughterer of ten thousand… the Calculator of Slaughter.

Was she merely a villainess who killed anything that didn't fit her calculations?

"That's why I hate them. Things that fall outside my calculations."

She shuddered and wrapped her arms around her own shoulders. The white shoulder blades protruding through the stretched T-shirt looked pitiful.

Well… it was a plausible argument, at least. The classic cause of social phobia among geniuses. The world doesn't run as fast or as precisely as their minds, so they flee into a monitor they can control.

But that was only half the truth.

I rose from my seat and slowly approached her side.

"D-don't come closer. Wh-why are you standing up?"

"You said you hate things that fall outside your calculations."

Thud.

I planted my hands on both armrests of the gaming chair she sat in, boxing her in. The classic chair-slam. With the distance closed, the scent of her damp hair and that sweet, musty body odor washed over me.

"Hiiiiiie! Wh-what are you trying to do!"

She screamed and tried to shove me away. But the muscle strength of a hiki ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠who'd been rotting in a corner was nothing more than a child's tantrum to me. I didn't budge an inch. Instead, I pushed my face even closer.

"…The smell."

"…!"

"Up close, it's definitely pretty bad."

I smiled mischievously and drove the nail in.

"Aged cheese mixed with sweat… a thoroughly fermented aroma, I'd say."

"Uuugh…!"

Mocca Mellow's face burned red enough to burst. Her eyes welled with shame, but she held out with surprising stubbornness.

"…I-it's my scent! My pheromones, I say!"

"Pardon? Pheromones?"

I was so floored I let out a hollow laugh.

"You really like that idea, don't you. It's just the smell of not washing."

"I-I refuse! I will not wash!"

She whipped her head away and dug in her heels.

"If the environment changes suddenly…! My biorhythm will break, I say! And the shower room is… too cold, too wide, and too scary…"

This wasn't simple stubbornness. Above her head, the keywords Terror and Aversion flashed red.

Aris Mardia's brain helpfully supplied the hint.

Most likely, the stench and filth wrapping around her served as a protective barrier—a shield against the world. The primal fear of stripping that away and being left bare.

"Haa… If you truly refuse, I suppose there's nothing to be done."

I sighed and took a step back. At my declaration of surrender, color returned to her face.

"Y-you're giving up? As expected. Humans should know when to quit…"

"Instead—"

"…?"

"I will issue a counseling-impossible ruling."

"…What did you say?"

"I'll have to report to Lady Beatrice. That the subject poses a risk of infectious disease due to poor hygiene, making approach and counseling impossible."

I put on a deliberately grave expression and read out her death sentence.

"You know what happens if counseling becomes impossible, don't you? Contract violation."

"……"

"If the contract is voided, your lifeline—the Magic Network—will be cut off immediately."

Snap.

The moment that word left my mouth, Mocca Mellow froze like a statue. Her pupils shook as if struck by a massive earthquake.

But the answer was already decided. A life without internet was, to her, the same as a universe without oxygen.

"N-n-no…!"

She desperately grabbed my arm. Greasy fingers clawed at my sleeve with frantic force.

"A-anything but that…! Without the internet I will die! I cannot breathe, I say!"

"Then wash."

I firmly peeled her hand off.

"Right now."

"Uuugh…"

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, eyes welling up.

"T-tomorrow… can't I do it tomorrow? Today I need to prepare myself mentally…"

"I believe I said counseling would proceed starting today. Ah, then I really should report to Lady Beatrice…"

The moment I turned to leave, Mocca sprang up like a coil.

"W-wait!!"

"Then good day to you."

"Argh, fine! I'll go! I'll go, okay?!"

In the end, she raised the white flag with a scream of pure spite. Dragging her feet toward the bathroom in a miserable shuffle, she whipped around and hurled a curse at me.

"Just you wait! I shall curse you! A water ghost will come out and drag you under, I say!"

"Yes, yes. If a ghost shows up, ask it to scrub your back for you."

SLAM!

The bathroom door shut hard enough to break. Click, click. The sound of locks engaging came one after another from inside. Clearly terrified I might walk in.

"Hoo…"

Only then did I loosen my tie and let out a short laugh.

That took everything out of me. But I succeeded in dragging the creature out of its burrow.

Shaaaaa—

A moment later, the sound of running water began to come from inside the bathroom. At least thirty minutes until she emerged.

I rolled up my sleeves and surveyed the disaster zone of a room.

"Well then. Since the owner has gone off to wash—"

A garbage dump with no place to set a foot. I picked up a cleaning tool.

"I suppose the nest could use a wash too, don't you think?"

(Another cut)