8. Characters
When we entered the classroom, all the other students besides Oto and me were already seated.
"Oto."
On the teacher's podium stood a tall humanoid modeled to look like an eight-year-old boy—nearly two meters high. He turned a cold gaze toward us and said, "You're late." His voice was cool, somehow inorganic.
Oto made a teasing face and put both hands up like cat paws. A short "meow" of a kitten sounded from the classroom speakers.
The humanoid who seemed to be the homeroom teacher, set to an eight-year-old appearance, nodded toward the back of the room with his chin.
"Take your seats, quickly."
Then he shifted his gaze to me.
"Transfer student, come here."
I obeyed and stepped up to the front; Oto returned to her seat.
Standing on the slightly raised podium, the teacher said, "I'm your homeroom teacher. There's no need to know my name. I'm nothing but a supporting role." "…Yes." I answered reluctantly. He slapped the blackboard behind him with a force like stamping a seal.
"Write your name, write the pronunciation, and do a self-introduction."
I nodded and walked to the blackboard, taking a chalk the color of coagulated blood.
From the supposedly dry chalk, a red liquid dripped—droplets slid down my fingers, traced my wrist, and stained the sleeve of my white shirt.
—Ah, of course. This is the blood of the student who jumped from this classroom ten years ago.
My sensors read the data encoded in those red blood cells. Something in my chest creaked faintly.
Baring my teeth to ignore the pain, I scraped letters onto the board with the bleeding chalk.
On that endless blackboard—black as space—my name was carved.
"My name is Jiku-bem. The family name is read 'Jiku,' and my given name is 'Kai.'"
"Jiku?" The teacher cocked his head. "Unusual name."
"Is it?" I was a little surprised. "It's fairly common on Mars."
"I see. This is Venus," he said with a light nod. "Continue your introduction."
"I moved here from Mars. The reason is… I was abandoned by my owner. To be exact, I was returned."
The classroom air quivered slightly, but no one asked, "Why?"
I quietly swept my gaze across the faces that would be my classmates.
Including Oto, there were five students. Six desks. One desk was empty for me.
Because there were only six seats in this roomy classroom, an odd stillness and a sense of void hung in the space.
Each student sat in a strange way—avant-garde, perhaps, or simply eerie.
Sensing my unease, the teacher spoke in a flat voice.
"Now—let me introduce the characters."
He pointed from the podium to the front row—the seat nearest him—occupied by a girl.
A gigantic eyeball-shaped lamp hung from the ceiling and swivelled, its glare falling on her.
A dazzling flash exploded; the sound was like a shutter being ripped open. All eyes fixed on her.
Her black hair fell to her waist, thick and abundant—lustrous, like well-kept silk. Half her face was concealed by hair; she tilted her head about forty-five degrees and rested her temple on her middle finger. Her other arm hung casually over the chair back; she crossed her legs, an attitude less arrogant than dominantly calm.
"She is attendance number 13795, Ability Emi." The teacher introduced her. "The family name is read 'Nōryoku.'"
Emi lifted the arm that had been draped on the chair back and flashed me a small V sign with her fingers.
—A cool girl humanoid, I thought.
The teacher then indicated the window-side seat. The eyeball-spotlight swung, with a clatter, and focused there with a violent intensity—as if trying to pierce garments and see to the skin beneath.
There sat a boy. Not in the desk—perched on the window frame itself, in that awkward, typical posture people adopt when sitting on a windowsill: one knee up in a triangle, the other leg dangling toward the floor. His arms rested on his raised knee; his face carried a melancholy, irresistibly sentimental expression. A handsome boy-type humanoid.
He was striking enough that light seemed to leak from his face. I couldn't help but look away—though I couldn't help looking at him.
"He is Tokei Ryū. The family name is pronounced 'Tokei.'" When the teacher introduced him, Tokei Ryū turned his head toward me at precise intervals—like the sweep of a clock—each tiny rotation occurring at 0.000001-second intervals. At the moment 0.000005 seconds passed, our eyes met.
I instinctively zoomed my visual sensor and stared. His pupils were reptilian—vertical slits—and behind them flickered green flames, a blazing column that looked like the mouth of hell.
Next, the teacher pointed to a pair. The eyeball light slid over and hard-lit them.
They were twins—fraternal. The younger brother sat; behind him stood the sister, one hand gently placed on his shoulder.
They held themselves as if posing for a formal family portrait or an ID photo—straight, composed. As if I were the photographer, they stared straight at me without shifting their gaze, forcing perfect smiles for a photograph meant to last forever.
"The seated one is Pixel Hikaru—he's the younger brother," the teacher explained. "And behind him, with a hand on his shoulder, is Pixel Hikari—Hikaru's sister. Hikari was produced 0.000000078 seconds before Hikaru."
"Pixel… as a family name?" I asked. The teacher nodded.
"They're returnees," he said.
"From where?"
"Andromeda Galaxy. We don't know which star. They won't say."
When the introductions ended, the two relaxed like idols after a long shoot and unclenched their stiff poses. They looked at each other and kissed.
It was not violent or lewd—more like two people sharing a sweet lick of an ice cream cone, an overwhelmingly sugary kiss.
I found myself watching until the teacher struck the blackboard twice with his pointer to bring me back.
"Don't stare so much," he said. "You'll melt too."
I didn't understand what he meant, but I averted my eyes without asking. I waited for my next turn.
Now it was Oto's turn. The teacher pointed at her.
But the eyeball spotlight did not move. It refused to illuminate her, as if ignoring her deliberately. Instead, it continued to ogle the Pixel siblings with a lazy gaze.
Oto sat at a lonely desk near the back by the entrance, as if abandoned. She kept her head down and pretended to read a book.
Through the book, I saw no title—every page was blank.
Or perhaps she was using her imagination within blank pages, engaging in a new form of reading. Either way, one thing was clear: she didn't want to read, but she pretended to read with all her might.
Then the teacher's voice cut in quietly.
"She is Denryū Oto. Family name Denryū. And she is being bullied by the class."
"…" I thought it would be better to feign disbelief, so I widened my eyes and glared at the teacher deliberately.
"Is that something a homeroom teacher says openly?"
After my calculated response, the teacher added an explanation.
"It can't be helped. The classmates don't bully her because they want to. They don't ignore her because they choose to."
"Then why?"
At that instant, the teacher's face darkened, slowly suffused with red—like the village's midnight sky. The expression looked mournful, but beneath it churned an uncontrollable fury.
"Because she was chosen as this village's 'sacrifice' this time."
"…Sacrifice?"
When I asked plainly, the teacher did not answer. Instead he pointed at me, as if to say, "It's all your fault." His finger came within 0.001 nanometers of touching the tip of my nose.
At that moment, the eyeball spotlight that had been trained on Oto swung toward me as if it had been waiting for this. The most intense direct light I had ever felt—so bright it felt as if my body would burn and melt—struck me.
I reflexively raised a hand to shield my eyes, feeling like the protagonist of Albert Camus' The Stranger avoiding the blinding sun.
Then the teacher said, "You are Jiku-bem. Family name Jiku, given name Kai. And—you are the mysterious transfer student of this story, its protagonist."
I didn't feel like denying it.
The teacher slowly pointed to the center of the classroom. A single empty seat sat there, all alone.
"That is your seat."
I bowed slightly and walked toward it. Looking at the desk as I approached, I paused and reached to pull out the chair—but a sudden intuition stopped me.
"Do not sit."
I traced the edge of the desk with my finger. It was immaculate, brand-new, polished to perfection—not a speck of dust. Its cleanliness made it more uncanny.
An irresistible impulse seized me. I overturned the chair with force, grabbed the desk with both hands as if to hurl a boulder, and ran to the window.
I threw the desk out.
It smashed through the glass with a crash, soared into the air, spun while reflecting light, scattering glittering fragments, and slowly—but surely—fell. As it fell, it looked like a comet obeying gravity.
I scanned the classroom. Surprisingly, no one was shocked. Nobody looked at me. Everyone preserved the "original atmosphere" as if I were an exhibit.
Only Oto watched me. Her gaze was oddly endearing, and I couldn't help the slight lift of my mouth. The urge to violence subsided like a gust passing.
The teacher struck the podium twice with his pointer—like a judge bringing down a hammer. Without further words, he closed his textbook and picked it up, then declared calmly:
"Character introductions are finished."
Everyone rose as one and bowed.
As they left the classroom, the teacher murmured quietly, "Be careful going home."