Declaration (4)

Kizuka Kyota.

A veteran salaryman in his middle years, nearly twenty years into a post at one of Tokyo's modest firms, the kind that had already stood for half a century. Thanks to a build that could shame a professional athlete and a knack for the actual work, people said he looked more dependable than the president himself, and his colleagues laid both their respect and their trust on him at once.

"Take Senior Kizuka out on a sales call and it's a hundred percent success!"

His numbers were outstanding enough that an assistant would say a thing like that to his face. He was the company's ace. Set the excess of muscle aside, and from any angle he was the textbook reliable office worker—the very model everyone else was told to follow.

Even he, though, had lived through a season of storm and stress when he was young.

Japan had been in upheaval then too: the bubble economy, and the end of the century. Kyota had seen them. Idols of a kind that had never existed before—the so-called visual bands. Not idols in the other sense. Not the pure, pitiful girls who bewitched a person with a lovely smile. These were youths who looked destructive, who seemed to call down the end, who gave off a spirit fierce enough to overturn a world crammed full of contradiction. They shimmered right in front of his eyes.

So he imitated them.

From childhood, a rough face and a great height had already bought him every kind of misunderstanding. Scrawny as he was, he dyed his hair on top of it and stood out, and that made him an easy mark for bullying. No one helped him. Even his family, far from cheering him on, only scolded him for losing himself in music instead of thinking about taking over the family business.

It snapped.

The wings of a hawk that had dreamed of hope buckled in the gale called society, and broke.

But—

I won't give up.

Kizuka Kyota played. Because he had longed for it. Because playing was so much fun he could hardly stand it. Because the bewitching sound that bloomed from clumsy, unremarkable fingertips was a seduction all its own. He sank in. The harder other people shut him out, the deeper he went into a world that belonged only to him. He played guitar more than ten hours a day. When he hit the limit of his stamina, he took up every kind of cardio and built endurance and muscle anyway. All of it was for the music.

And so his university years went by, dry as dust, with nothing in them but music and exercise.

"I believe lewd things are not permitted!"

That was when he met fate.

"Boss, you watching that old series again?"

"Ah."

The greenroom. A muscular man opened, with great care, a manga whose cover was past worn and well into falling apart, and read it as if it were scripture.

"Mahoro-chan...."

Tadaima Okaeri. The man closed the cover and shuddered as if a thrill had run through him, and thick tears rolled down his face.

"Still hits just as hard...."

Judging by the biceps alone, he looked like a man who could bend a pull-up bar, and yet here he was reading a comic and dabbing at his eyes like a girl. The colleague beside him looked physically ill.

"You still get that worked up over some beat-up old series?"

"Gal!"

The man—no. Kizuka—barked at him.

"What, did I say something wrong?"

"Of course you did!"

Kizuka pulled out his phone and showed him the photo he used as his wallpaper. Kizuka himself, posed like a bodybuilder to show off his pectorals; a lovely young woman; and little girls who hadn't even lost their baby fat yet. It was Kizuka's family photo.

The peculiar part was that every single member of the family was dressed as a maid.

"Behold!"

"Showing off the family again? Yeah, yeah. Must be nice. My girlfriend would rather die than put on a maid outfit, damn it...."

"Exactly!"

Muscle bunched and crawled in hideous sympathy with Kizuka's rage.

"Mahoro-chan and I are of one heart and one body! From this moment on, any remark that attacks Mahoro-chan will be regarded as an attack on me!"

"That isn't even Mahoro-chan, though. That's Miss Ayako in cosplay...."

The colleague sighed and pulled out his own phone in turn.

The lock screen. A silver-haired maid, ringed with knives.

"A maid, by rights, ought to be perfect and refreshing, like this...."

"Gal!"

Kizuka barked again.

"How dare you, when you're nothing but a spin-off of Mahoro-chan—the origin of the all-purpose maid, the one who established the very concept of the combat maid!"

"Wh-what did you just say!? Are you looking down on Sakuya, who might as well be my wife!?"

"You're the one who started the looking-down!"

As the two of them fought, one of the members watching shook his head.

"Tsk, tsk. By rights, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠truth of maids is Mariel...."

And the youngest laughed at him for it.

"Mariel's a fake, though, isn't she?"

"What!?"

"By rights, a real maid is Rem from RMT!"

"What even is that, you filthy otaku!"

"Excuse me!? How do you not know Rem! You fake!"

Strapping men in maid outfits fought in deadly earnest over their taste in maids. At Libido Girls, it was an ordinary scene.

Libido Girls. A working-adult band in which strapping men climbed onstage in maid costumes and sang powerful ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠songs. The harmony of a ruinous concept and a fantastic level of skill had won them a fairly hardcore following on the indie circuit. Their leader, Kizuka, was the band's only married man, and a winner at life besides, with two daughters as cute as rabbits.

"You! Have a taste of Mahoro-chan's shining darkness!"

"Don't you underestimate my throwing arts either, sir!"

It was terrifying. They were only holding water guns and toy swords, and still, with muscular giants for opponents, the fear was hard to beat.

But the world did contain a brave soul who barged between the two of them without a scrap of fear, grave atmosphere or no.

"Libido Girls, please get ready for the next set!"

A stagehand.

"Hee-ha!"

"Uts!"

"Shall I kill them!?"

"Hoh!"

The moment it was time to take the stage, every face in Libido Girls stopped fighting at once and began to give off the aura of veterans. Looking at them, the guitars and basses slung over their shoulders seemed like children's toys. The bands waiting their turn, who had watched the entire sequence without missing a beat, trembled in the corner.

"I don't think I can watch maid anime anymore."

"Same."

"If you think about Maid Guy, though, maybe...?"

"Heresy!"

Ignoring the cry from the peanut gallery, Libido Girls climbed the stage today as well, with proud steps. A cramped stage—but one on which they were the stars.

"Hnnn."

As always. In order to show their Masters the greatest stage there was.

"Hyah! I am everyone's sweetheart, Coco-tan! Are you ready to hear our songs, Masteeeers!?"

"Gyaaaaaah!"

Today, too, Libido Girls bestowed upon the audience a legendary assault on the eyeballs.

"Today's set was good too."

"Ah."

At the youngest's murmur, Kizuka nodded. It had been the best. People who had taken one look at Libido Girls' appearance and recoiled at the start were chanting their name without pause by the end. There was no thrill in the world sharper than that. Arms folded, nodding at the certainty that a headliner was the finest thing a live show had to offer, Kizuka was approached by a member of the stage staff.

"Ah, Mr. Kizuka!"

"Gal! This body, at present, is the Maid Warrior, Coco-tan!"

"C-Coco-san...."

"Not Coco-san. Coco-tan!"

"Coco-tan...."

"Yes. What is it?"

"Um, while you were onstage earlier, the phone in the greenroom kept ringing and ringing...."

"Ah. Much obliged."

Kizuka thanked him with due courtesy and checked the phone.

"An impatient friend."

He had only been out for about three songs, and already there were more than ten missed contacts.

"The caller is... hm?"

Sana-tan—the underground idol he had grown close enough with, at the last live show, to exchange numbers.

"Oh my god!"

At a meeting she had never imagined, Iris's eyes flew wide and she blinked in a rush. Her gaze traveled up and down, fast. Sarina. And, cradled in her arms, that iconic pumpkin mask. Iris looked at Sarina with her eyes sparkling.

"Goddess of Autumn!"

"Koff!"

"Incarnation of the pumpkin, Empress of Autumn!"

"Koff! Koff!"

"The final boss of indie mystique! The Japanese Wild Hunt that announces Halloween's coming to the world!"

"U-ummmm...?"

"I never dreamed Pumpkin Mask, vocalist and leader of BIG O PUMPKIN, would be someone this pretty!"

"Th-thank youuu...."

Praise poured out on top of praise, and Sarina—her face gone a sickly blue-green—humbly gave her thanks and covered her mouth with a towel. Had it been a manga, blood would have been streaming from her lips. Tae-il stared, fascinated, at Sarina, his drum teacher, who couldn't so much as move in front of Iris.

She's completely different from when she's Sana-tan, too.

If she had been Sana-tan, she would have smiled the same way and taken Iris's reaction in happy-happy stride. Sarina and Sana-tan. Reactions so opposite they might have traded personalities. An idol... no. Were all pros like that?

Back in his school days, Tae-il had openly hated being told to dance girl-group choreography under the excuse of broadcast dance. Of course, once they actually made him do it, he worked hard. Even so, he let the dislike show all over his face. In that sense, he respected Sarina far past the level of a teacher.

Right. An entertainer is an entertainer. Just as a duel has its duel fit for a king, an entertainer needs fan service to match.

Maybe I ought to think of one, too.

Even idols each have their own particular way of greeting people. Coming up with something signature for the band—the sort of thing fans would love—might matter in its own way.

While Tae-il was turning it over, Iris shot up from her seat and shouted.

"Th-this isn't the time! An autograph! Kiriko! Pen and paper! Right now! Hurry!"

"...Yes."

Kiriko sent her a stinging look and still slipped away without protest, off to grant Iris's demand. Iris grabbed Tae-il—who had borrowed Kiriko's sunglasses to hide bloodshot eyes—and shook him.

"Hey!"

"Ghk!?"

"Why didn't you tell me! Huh! Why didn't you say anything!?"

"T-tell you what...?"

"That you're master and disciple with Pumpkin Mask! How are you like an onion—peel and peel and there's never an end to you!?"

"I-Iris, I'm getting dizzy. Hang on...!"

Iris seized his shoulders and shook, and his head whipped violently back and forth. The sunglasses slid down.

"C-calm down! I'll explain, so please!"

Tae-il hastily pushed the sunglasses back into place and soothed Iris, who was still huffing.

"Okay!"

Iris barely managed to settle her excitement. Her flushed face made it obvious to anyone that she was still worked up, but at least she stopped putting it into further action. Sarina opened her mouth with care.

"Um, Arisugawa? May I talk now...?"

"Yes! And please just call me Iris! In exchange, could I... call you Sis Sarina, casually, too...?"

"Ah, ahaha.... Go ahead."

"Nice!"

Granted the right to call her sis, Iris clenched both fists. Tae-il let out a sigh. Somehow it was a far more violent reaction than when she met Izumi.

"Iris, I thought you only liked BARD...?"

"How could a person be like that!"

The world of music was endless, and bands were just as varied. Fans who touched a band even once sank in. Slowly, as if they had fallen into a swamp, and then deeper and deeper, buried in the world of bands. Iris declared it flat.

"In this scene, you'll find people who hate bands without a second thought, but you'll never find someone who likes only one!"

It wasn't exactly wrong, so Tae-il conceded.

"Fair."

Music, once you touched it, made you want to hear more of the same family, and your repertoire widened on its own. Then you found a new band, and a new song, and sank in deeper still. You could have only one favorite. You could not have none at all. Iris, too, was a rocker.

"Ahem!"

Sarina cleared her throat, as if to change the air.

"First—you said you needed an engineer, right?"

"Yes."

"I told Taichi before, but we're signed to a company. There isn't really a way for us to back you."

"And you're a mystique band, too!"

"...Y-yeah."

BIG O PUMPKIN belonged to a company, yes, but strictly speaking, the way they operated was closer to a working-adult band. Sarina also worked separately as a vocal trainer at the company, and her underground-idol activities were nothing more than something she did on her own, with the company's permission. In any case, the company she belonged to didn't have all that many artists. The ones it did have were mostly rookies, and hard to get help from. Thanks to that, Sarina—despite being a fairly experienced indie-band leader and vocal trainer—had an extremely narrow network. Even that narrow network ran closer to ordinary ties, family and friends, than to the music industry.

But exactly one. They had only grown close recently, and still, she did have a single connection that was different from the rest.

"Let me introduce you."

Sarina raised a hand as if presenting someone, and something burst out from behind the sofa.

"Ta-da!"

"Kyaah! A pervert!"

At the entrance of a viciously huge frame—like Diaochan from a certain Three Kingdoms game, the one who calls herself a dancer—Iris shrieked and clung to Tae-il.

"Wrong! Not a pervert—a maid!"

"You're just a cross-dressing pervert!"

"Koff!"

"Are you all right...?"

"No. It stings a little. It's been a while since I got a reaction like that...."

When Sarina showed her concern, Kyota—no, Coco-tan—swallowed a groan and took his stance.

"Hup."

A short breath, and his eyes flew open.

"I have appeared, to deliver love unto my Masters! Maid Warrior No. 1 of Libido Girls! I am Coco-tan!"

"......"

"......"

Silence. Sarina and Iris both, their faces dyed a sickly blue, stared at Coco-tan, who had struck a bizarre pose like the Ginyu Force.

"Whoa...."

Clap. Clap.

Only Tae-il welcomed him with a soulless round of applause. A welcome, supposedly.

How had it come to this?

Tae-il let the clock slip back a few hours.

The confession. He had realized that what he blurted out while holding Iris was no different from a confession. Embarrassment arrived late. He couldn't even lift his head, and kept up an awkward silence with her, on and on. Iris, unlike her usual self, fidgeted with her fingers and only watched his mood.

Awkward. But the awkwardness felt a little good, so for some time now Tae-il had been letting the minutes pass without end, gently scratching, with his thumb, the back of the hand he still hadn't managed to let go of.

That was when a call came out of nowhere from Sarina.

Her business was simple. She had found the person he was looking for—someone who could mix and master.

"Really!?"

At Sarina's call, the head that hadn't known how to come up snapped upright.

"No! I completely love you, Master!"

"Hey. Shin Tae-il."

At the sight of him shouting that he loved another woman when it had been no time at all since his confession, Iris glared, puffed up and sulking. Oblivious, Tae-il turned to her and smiled bright.

"My master found one!"

"Found what?"

"An engineer to work on our songs...!"

"For real!?"

Iris's eyes went huge.

"Who? Who!? And before that—who is this master of yours!?"

"Can we come see you now?"

"We'll come to you! Where are you right now!?"

"If it's your company...."

Winner's Music Farm. A peculiar ring to the name, as if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he had heard it somewhere. Tae-il blinked.

Ah.

All at once, he remembered the conversation from the day of the recording.

Winner. The short name for Winner's Music Farm.

The music label the studio owner's niece belongs to...!

Right after that, the two of them called Kiriko, who had been waiting outside, and headed for Winner's Music Farm.

In the car, Tae-il phoned the rehearsal-studio manager and heard what he had to say about Winner, then searched the internet on his own and looked into it. Winner's Music Farm. Nothing extraordinary about it, but a mid-tier label that steadily produced singer-songwriters, with a fair number of artists on the roster. Iris rested her head on Tae-il's shoulder and looked with him at the list glowing on the tablet.

"All new faces?"

"Yeah."

Quietly scanning the artists signed to Winner, Tae-il nodded.

"The way they debuted is interesting, too."

"Is it?"

"First, this guy. Otonashi Yamato."

"Wow, isn't he an idol? He's really handsome."

"He's a star who came up on TokTik. He was active on TokTik alone for over two years."

"Oho?"

For more than two years on TokTik he had put out demo tracks and worked as a dancer, and in plenty of other lanes besides, and recently he had debuted on the strength of that popularity. His songs were sentimental, with a knack for simmering the hearts of teenage girls, so the support from the young crowd was considerable. A solo singer, plain and simple, and a man who was basically an idol.

"Next, this girl. Asanagi Shizuku."

"She looks ordinary."

"She's the rehearsal-studio manager's niece...."

"Ah."

Iris covered her mouth. Tae-il smiled wryly and skimmed her profile.

"She spent over three years in a unit from Sony's singer-songwriter discovery project."

"She's only a year older than me...?"

"Looks like she was a first-generation graduate. When you see how many kids still haven't graduated the project unit and just keep drifting...."

"It means her ability, at least, is the real thing?"

"Want to hear a song?"

"Yeah."

Tae-il held out one earbud. Ordinarily he ought to have given her the right one, but he gave her the left, so Iris had to press in a little tight against him. Kiriko, at the wheel, saw the two of them in the mirror and quietly let out a sigh.

"Playing it now?"

"Okey."

A melody spilled out, and Iris tilted her head. The intro was short. Then the song began, and the tone was extremely peculiar.

"Whoa...."

The tone was the exact opposite of Iris's. Thick, and husky. From the first moment she raked it with a scratch, singing as powerfully as a rocker in a fierce voice. Because of the throat she was born with, a piercing high note was out of reach, so the approach seemed to have aimed at the opposite idea. The strange part was that the voice was addictive, and very, very good to listen to. Iris marveled.

"She really is the manager's niece."

"Right?"

By that same road, they arrived at the present.

Tae-il, who had never dreamed he would meet the leader of Libido Girls at Winner, scratched his cheek and offered an awkward smile.

"I never thought I'd be seeing Coco-tan here...."

"Ooh. Were you one of my Masters?"

"Do you want me angry?"

"Koff...!"

He had touched a place that must not be touched. A fellow otaku, and therefore a man who knew very well what an otaku's reverse scale was, Coco-tan restrained himself.

"We met before, at Central Dogma, didn't we? I'm Shin Tae-il. Please just call me Taichi."

"Mm! Yes—the boy from that day!"

Coco-tan sneaked a look at Iris, there beside Tae-il. She might have been startled, but she still hadn't let go of Tae-il's arm, and clung tight; they looked especially close. Tae-il wasn't trying to peel her off, and he didn't look awkward about it, either.

But the hair color's different.

True to a man out of sales, his memory was on the good side. Different. Hair color aside, the girl in front of him was nothing like the bold girl who had kissed the boy back then. And then there was Sarina, fidgeting in a way that didn't fit.

Instinct arrived.

Well, well...?

So the little Master was a sly one. A player, despite how he looked. Inwardly impressed as he studied Tae-il, he sat down on the sofa for the time being.

Creak. A muscular giant of a hundred and ninety centimeters sat, and the floor sank under him.

"Um...."

"What is it, Master!"

"D-do you go around like that normally, too...?"

"Of course!"

At Iris's question, Coco-tan immediately put the glory of a solid biceps on display.

"This outfit is no different from a suit, to me! For a soldier, the uniform! In other words, sacred battle dress that must be worn upon the field!"

"W-woooow...."

"Of course, on my days off, I dress comfortably too. Sana-ta— here—"

"Shh! Shhhhh!"

Sarina stopped him in a rush.

"Hm?"

Coco-tan asked with his hands, as if he were signing. Roughly interpreted, the question was: Don't tell me they don't know you're Sana-tan?

"Mm-hm!"

However clumsily he had signed it, Sarina caught it at once and nodded hard. The disciple knew. The disciple's companion did not.

Okay.

A seasoned maid warrior, Coco-tan took in exactly what Sarina wanted, on the spot.

"Good. Neither of us has time to waste, so let's get straight to the point. No objection, Master?"

"...Ah, yes!"

"First. How many songs are you commissioning?"

"One— no, five!"

"Shin Tae-il...?"

Iris looked at Tae-il, puzzled. As of this moment, Tales Tale had exactly one song ready: Autumn Love Song.

"Good. Five songs. References?"

"I have two."

"Hm, hm. Judging by the reaction beside you, it seems only one of them has actually been recorded...."

Fast on the uptake, as a veteran ought to be. Meeting the fiercely shining eyes of Coco-tan, Tae-il went tense and swallowed dry.

"Is the time all right whenever, so long as it's the weekend?"

"Weekdays work too!"

"And the young lady?"

"Huh? I—I can do it too...!"

Asked, Iris answered before she knew it, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back ramrod straight in perfect posture.

"How are you thinking of recording?"

"Unless we're forced otherwise, we plan to do everything with real sound."

"And the character of the band?"

"Rhythm guitar is filled in with synth, and the members' experience is a little short."

"Short?"

"Well...."

Tae-il carefully indicated himself and Iris.

"The two of us are decent enough, but the rest...."

"Under two months?"

Coco-tan went silent, and Sarina, dodging whatever storm might be coming, inched away from him.

"The instruments they handle... no. You said you use synth, so that's obvious. Guitar, drums, and bass are the rookies...."

A raw beginner band, in this day and age, where everyone but the synth and the vocal was new. His expression grew grave along with the thought.

"Master... no. The unavoidable situation you assumed, boy, would be...?"

"If we can't bring our level up to match, I'm thinking of recording the parts individually."

"And?"

"I'll do all of the individual recording by myself."

"......"

At a declaration too bold to sound like a band, Kyota unconsciously put real force behind his eyes and glared. Tae-il met it without dodging.

It showed. In his face and in the set of his body, the tension was obvious. But he was a man, too. He knew this was a chance heaven had handed down. He would not do the stupid thing and back off here. Let them call him arrogant. That was fine. Tae-il had only admitted, honestly, that the band's situation was not as comfortable as one might think.

What matters here is...

A heart that would not bend. Stubborn as an alpaca.

"Good."

Having read Tae-il's resolve, Kyota unfolded his arms and leaned back into the sofa.

"Haa...."

Tae-il was relieved. The heavy air that had cinched his chest came undone along with it. Kyota drew the line in advance.

"I'll say this first. Even my mixing and mastering sits a fair distance below a specialist's."

In learning, there is no such word as the end. He had already lived the band life for nearly twenty years, and still the thirst, and the sense of lacking something, never stopped. That was the charm of this industry, and its nature.

"Above all, no matter how good an engineer is, if the ingredients are garbage, it's no use at all."

"Meaning...."

"Well. Call it a whim. I'll graciously look after the recording myself."

He would oversee the recording. Iris grabbed Tae-il's hand tight before she knew it. Sarina, who had been slowly putting distance between herself and Kyota, quietly slipped in.

"I'll lend you the studio here."

"R-really?"

"Yeah. My word carries a bit of weight in autumn, so...."

"As expected of the Empress of Autumn!"

"Th-that phrasing is still a little...."

"I respect you, Sis!"

"Nngh...!"

While Sarina suffered under Iris's approach, Tae-il offered his thanks on his own.

"Um, th-thank you."

"It's nothing much. I'm only doing it to make things easier on myself."

"Easier...?"

"Ah. A company, maybe not. But those things called indie bands—every last one of them has no such thing as a system. It's easier to get my hands on a song if I'm involved down to the recording itself."

The skill varied wildly, he said, and yet the stubbornness was identical every time. Kyota shook his head.

"You must have a lot of recording experience."

"Well, I've been in this world twenty years myself. And there were plenty of juniors, like you, who came asking me for help. Getting better was inevitable."

For an indie band, making an album cost more money than one would think. Profile shoots, studio rental and outside work, music-video shoots, and then album production and distribution—there was no corner where the money didn't go. And a musician was a hippo for cash. Call it the cost of keeping up appearances: the more you made music, the more money kept slipping away, as naturally as breathing.

"In exchange, I have a condition too."

"A condition?"

Nothing in the world was free. Tae-il swallowed his tension again and waited for the terms. A worry that was not quite a worry settled on him: whatever condition Kyota set down would not be a light one.

And then—

"You."

Kyota pointed at Iris out of nowhere.

"Huh? Me?"

Iris, who had been chattering with Sarina and never expected to be singled out, startled. Kyota nodded.

"My condition is one."

From between a pectoral so huge it was hard to breathe just looking at it, and a maid uniform loaded with frills, he drew out something white. Something that fluttered—fluffy, fur-trimmed—large enough to cover a fist and a biceps. Tae-il and Iris were aghast.

What Kyota had produced was nothing other than—

"When you record, you wear this. No exceptions."

A cat-ear maid uniform.