Afternoon Lasagna (2)

Right, that's how the administrative department always operates.

Perfectly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠safe, they said. A simple gig, they said. The vague, roundabout phrasing with no actual details about the work should have tipped me off from the start that something was fishy.

Because honestly, where in this is a "perfectly ordinary, unremarkable shop"?

"Hey, rookie! Quit spacing out! Go take the order at table three, nyow!"

"...Yes, ma'am."

Roughly speaking, some lunatic must have proposed the "establish an outpost in the Magic City" agenda. Something along the lines of, let's build it in an environment where no one could easily guess it's a Security Bureau safehouse — or, let's not staff it exclusively with Bureau personnel, but hire ordinary locals to lend it an air of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠authenticity.

And of course, seizing the moment, another lunatic would have piped up to reveal his own creepy personal tastes. The rest would have watched him earnestly argue his case and thought something like, hm, that kid's showing real enthusiasm — let's dump it on him and go relax.

"You have to end your sentences with nya or nyang! How many times do I have to tell you, nyang! Are you mocking cats right now, nyang?!"

"...Going now, nyang."

After all, none of them were going to be the ones working here. They'd scribble out a few lines for a report, declare another hard day's work done, and head off as a group to hunt for trendy restaurants in the capital.

And the resulting headache would land squarely on the poor souls stuck in field positions.

A cat-ear maid cafe.

What a horrifying, monstrous outcome that turned out to be.

"I'll take your order."

"Rooooookie!"

"...At ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your service, Master. Nyang."

Having fled to escape the gaze of the part-time manager who'd been fully devoured by the concept, I found Charlotte sitting there with a beaming, bubbly smile.

"You agreed to help out at a place you didn't even know anything about?"

"I'll take your order. Nyang."

Just take the order, please. Instead of answering, I helpfully pointed to the rules board posted at the edge of the table.

"I'll have this one."

"Very good. Nyang."

"You're supposed to read the menu out loud, you know."

"...We've received your order for the Full-of-Love Special Lasagna Set. Nyang."

The kitchen operated on a system where whichever maid took the order cooked and served the dish herself. Though "cooking" was a generous word — it was closer to assembly. You warmed up the prepped ingredients, plated them with a flourish, and out it went.

Not that I could manage the warming part on my own. After breaking two microwaves, the matter concluded peacefully with me obediently accepting help from the other maids. I think the manager muttered something about "all looks, trash-tier skills, nyah," but it wasn't important, so I let it slide.

In any case, the taste was identical across the board. What differed was the presentation — one maid might paint her own signature design in sauce, another might use a distinctive plate. Unlike an ordinary cafe, every maid's plating style was completely her own.

Unless the result was bad enough to warrant a formal complaint, each maid's tastes and personality were respected. Thanks to that, the regulars could apparently tell who'd made their food at a glance.

"Here's your order, Master. Nyang. You don't need the deliciousness spell, do you? Nyang."

"Yes, I do!"

"...Be-delicious, be-delicious, nyang nyang, kkh."

"Um... your maid here is kind of a mood-killer. Can I file a complaint?"

"No."

"ROOOOKIE!"

I could have sworn I saw her go into the kitchen, so when exactly was she watching me? Clicking my tongue briefly at the manager bearing down on me with twin flames blazing in her eyes, I turned away.

For a while afterward, an uneventful routine settled in.

Mornings, I came in early and handed out promotional flyers on the street until opening time. Around noon I returned to the cafe and started the shift proper.

I worked as lazily as humanly possible to minimize the hassle, yet somehow the number of customers specifically requesting me kept growing.

When I asked one of them what that was about, he launched into some rambling explanation about how that deadpan quality was exactly the appeal, some element or other and whatnot. It was dragging on, so I cut him off — that much explanation was plenty. He then thanked me sincerely. I have no idea why.

Whether the manager took this positively or simply gave up on me, I couldn't say. Either way, the nagging decreased. Well, a good thing is a good thing, I figured.

"Welcome, Master. Nyang."

The new arrival was an elderly gentleman in a pressed fedora, his face packed to the brim with sternness, dignity, and gravity — all three at once.

There was a certain tension and stiffness about him, but it felt subtly different from the awkward discomfort typical of someone visiting a maid cafe for the first time.

Did he wander into the wrong shop?

It happened three or four times a day. The building's exterior, at least, was pointlessly old-fashioned, so at a glance it could pass for just an ordinary restaurant.

Of course, most of those wanderers were sunk on the spot by the maids' massed barrage of "Welcome home, Master, nyang nyang!" the moment they stepped inside.

"I'd like that young lady, please."

"...Ah, thank you for requesting me. Nyang."

Contrary to my expectation that he'd flee in embarrassment, the elderly gentleman calmly and deliberately pointed at me.

Which meant he was a customer who knew exactly what this place was — whether through an acquaintance or through the flyers I'd distributed myself.

The Security Bureau. They knew I worked here, so making contact through the shop would be the fastest, easiest route for them.

But no — he wasn't an agent. If contact had actually been necessary, it would have come through one of the maids I worked with or an unremarkable young male customer. Or else somewhere entirely removed from the cafe.

One way or another, they could have staged a far more natural scenario than "an elderly gentleman requesting a maid at a maid-concept cafe."

"I'll take your order. Nyang."

"This one."

"One Fluffy Sweet Homemade Omurice, confirmed. Nyang. This menu comes with a service where the maid draws her very own signature design — would you like that? Nyang."

"Please do."

Setting the roughly assembled omurice down in front of the gentleman, I took hold of the ketchup bottle.

"Be delicious. Be delicious. Nyang. Nyang. Kkh."

As I drew on the egg with the ketchup, I stole a sidelong glance at the gentleman's expression.

Can't read him. The brim's in the way.

The pressed fedora was a nuisance. Still—

"...Hoh."

I had a rough idea now of why the gentleman had come to this shop.

"Might you spare me a moment of your time?"

"We don't offer that kind of service here."

I pointed to the rules board at the edge of the table. The gentleman read the shop's rules over and over with a grave expression.

"I'll take your payment at the counter. Nyang."

"...Understood."

I wrote out the receipt and set it on the table.

"Have a wonderful day, Master."

Watching the gentleman's back as he snatched up the receipt and practically bolted from the shop, I began clearing away the abandoned plate of omurice.

When dinner wound down and night crept in, the cafe began closing up as usual.

"Great work today, nyang! The head maid will handle the cleanup, so everyone's free to head home, nyang!"

"...Um."

"Hm? Do you want to stay behind and help the head maid with cleanup, Alpinyang?"

"No."

"Then why did you call me over, nya?"

I stood there a moment, smoothing out the wrinkles that had set into my maid uniform.

At first, I'd suspected it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was some scheme by the Security Bureau's administrative department to make me suffer. On the first day, when the shift ended and the Bureau agent playing the shop's owner made contact, I'd demanded to know why on earth they'd bolted such a lunatic into the manager's seat.

The agent had twisted her face up in exaggerated grievance, insisting she was a victim too. The manager wasn't a Bureau agent at all — she was a "civilian."

The manager's seat was decided by customer vote. Apparently some randomly selected civilian had genuinely, earnestly out-campaigned the Bureau's pre-arranged plant and walked straight into the manager position.

On top of that, it came out that the owner had tried to rig the vote, costing her most of her authority — which meant the real power at Afternoon Lasagna currently rested with the manager.

And so.

"I'd like to head home in this outfit today."

Using the maid uniform outside the shop required the manager's approval.

The manager tilted her head for a moment, then promptly spread one hand open toward the ceiling and smacked its palm with her other fist.

She really is mad for the concept, down to the bone.

I silently bumped the manager's danger rating up another level in my head.

"So Alpinyang has finally succumbed to her surging cat-maid instincts and can no longer contain them, nyah?"

"I have no idea what those words mean."

"Nya? Is there another reason, nyang? The other maid-nyans make similar requests all the time, nyang."

So the other Bureau agents occasionally worked in this uniform too, huh.

Afternoon Lasagna's uniform — the maid dress — was relatively plain, all things considered. Aside from a slightly excessive amount of frills and lace, so long as you ditched that ridiculous cat-ear headband, it could easily pass as a noble academy student's attendant outfit.

"If that's not the reason, then I can't approve it, nyang."

"Uh, yes. ...Right. That. Instincts."

Whether it was instincts or suppression or whatever she was going on about, I didn't care. I'd just roll with it.

"Well then, nothing to be done, nyang! Go on, go raise your cat-power to your heart's content!"

"I will."

"Rest well then — see you tomorrow, nyang!"

Leaving the manager's send-off behind me, I headed for the "designated meeting spot."

About a week, was it?

Fast, if you called it fast; slow, if you called it slow.

"So you came."

The back alley we'd agreed on in advance. The elderly gentleman in the fedora stood leaning against the wall. Scattered at his feet were five or six cigarette butts.

"Were you waiting long?"

"Hmph. Waiting the time it takes to change clothes is a courtesy I can extend."

"That would be Rule 2 — meaning I'm not off the clock yet."

I hadn't left the cafe on shift's end, so technically the gentleman hadn't waited until I got off work. At the same time, it was my way of saying I wouldn't be answering a single personal question.

"Were those rules of the cafe your own invention?"

"I merely took advantage of them, seeing as I happened to be there when they were written."

"Hahahahaha!"

The gentleman laughed heartily, looking well satisfied, then ground out his cigarette against the wall.

"Going by those regulations, I certainly can't approach you carelessly. It would be rather inconvenient to end up 'permanently banned,' after all."

"And for my part, I'm relieved not to have squandered my very first customer."

Here was how it worked: I'd marked the omurice illustration on a batch of my own flyers with a drug sign. A "customer" who obtained a flyer and came to the shop would receive an omurice bearing the mark, signaling that the goods I held were Upper. Afterward, I'd narrow down a place and time on the back of a receipt and make cautious contact.

By concealing myself, I kept broadcasting the same message: that I genuinely had the drugs, and that was precisely why I had no choice but to be this careful.

Yep — drug dealing really ought to be secretive business.

"No reason to drag this out any longer."

The gentleman's mouth curled up at the corner.

"So then — just how much of the 'goods' do you have on hand?"