Energy Drinks & Ego Trips

Miyuu had settled into a routine at Harmonia University. Not that she liked it, but she’d stopped mentally planning her escape every five minutes, so that was progress… maybe. Each day kicked off with an alarm blaring like a siren straight out of a warzone, followed by Haruki’s ritual check-in, to confirm she was, in fact, awake.

Then came breakfast. On the rare occasions she wasn’t forcibly dragged to the table by Kaito or guilted into eating by Jun’s sad puppy eyes, she’d sit with the council members. They would share quiet, cryptic conversations over steaming cups of coffee like characters in a noir film. Other mornings, they’d vanish before she even got downstairs, Kaito would always leave behind a nutritionally balanced breakfast on the counter, complete with a curt little note reminding her to eat it. It wasn’t a request.

If there was one thing she’d learned about the student council, it was that they were freakishly, dedicated to their work. They worked—a lot. So much that she’d had K.A.T.O. run a diagnostic check on them once, just to confirm they weren’t secretly robots. The results were inconclusive. She wasn’t ruling it out.

And then there was jog day.

Once a week, at an hour so early it should have been classified as a human rights violation, they’d storm into her room like commandos. Not to kill her, unfortunately, but to drag her out of bed for what they optimistically called a “team-building exercise.” In reality, it was a torturous morning jog around campus.

Mandatory team spirit, they said. Mandatory for her, apparently. Where was the rest of the student body? Why wasn’t the whole school being force-fed this misery? Did they draw straws? Did she lose some kind of universal lottery?

She’d spent the entire jog last week scowling and silently drafting a treatise on why the suffering should at least be distributed equally. If she was going to endure this nonsense, the least they could do was make it a campus-wide event. Preferably with free coffee and donuts at the finish line. Or just donuts. Actually, scratch the jog and just bring the donuts.

Today, though, was different. For once, Miyuu had a rare slice of free time. She found herself lounging on a bench in the central plaza, sipping on the pink energy drink she’d splurged on from the vending machine—the only one SEEDs were allowed to use. The drink tasted vaguely like strawberries and regret, but it was cold, caffeinated, and hers, so she’d take it.

With her XP still stuck at Level 1, her options were laughably limited. Jun had taken it upon himself to become the CFO of her life, ruthlessly policing her allowance. He made it painfully clear that luxuries were off the table. Tch. Cheapskate.

Still, she thought, taking another sip of her berry-flavored regret, this little indulgence felt well-earned. Sure, it had wiped out most of her weekly stipend, but hey, sometimes survival meant caffeine.

The plaza stretched before her. At its center stood a sleek fountain, where water cascaded over angular glass and metal sculptures shaped like owls—because nothing said cutting-edge academia like abstract bird art. 

Slender trees lined the paths, their leaves casting soft shadows on the ground. Vertical gardens crawled up the surrounding buildings, bursts of green and vibrant flowers doing their best to distract from the cold, corporate aesthetic. 

Paths branched off from the fountain, leading to cafés and open-air restaurants bathed in golden sunlight filtering through glass awnings and tree canopies. Small robotic servers glided between tables; their movements precise as they delivered orders to students who probably didn’t even have to look at their XP balance. Must be nice.

Lining the plaza’s edges, high-tech shops displayed the latest gadgets and designer school supplies, their holographic displays inviting students to browse.

Overhead, campus drones hovered, projecting displays with announcements about upcoming campus events she had zero interest in.

Despite the glaringly obvious fact that being a SEED meant she couldn’t access anything fun, useful, or remotely interesting—and even if she did have XP, her allowance was so laughably tiny she’d still be broke—Miyuu still found herself, for the first time in weeks, feeling almost... relaxed.

Miyuu took another long, indulgent sip of her energy drink, letting the caffeine jolt work its way through her tired brain. She’d earned this. Mostly because she’d stayed up way too late the night before, poking and prodding at the school’s network. It was the equivalent of trying to dismantle a locked safe with a spoon, but Miyuu secretly enjoyed it.

Her dad had really outdone himself this time. SOLON's security wasn’t just robust; it was downright vindictive. Every trick she threw at it? Mimicked, countered, and thrown back at her. It was like playing chess against an opponent who not only read her mind but also flipped the board if she got too close to winning. She’d call it smart if it wasn’t such blatant cheating.

Plan B—hacking one of the “faculty units”—should’ve been her golden ticket. Those feather dusters had to be the weak link, right? Wrong. Turns out even the walking tech turkeys were locked down tighter than her dad’s lab after one of his classic, “Oops, this might be radioactive” moments.

Thanks to SOLON’s neural mesh network, every single unit was synced in real time. Hacking one was pointless. The second she breached one, the others would recalibrate and shut her out faster than she could type root access. Total. Freaking. Waste. Of. Time.

Miyuu leaned back on the bench, watching the fountain’s sputtering water with narrowed eyes. One of these days, old man, she thought, taking another sip. One of these days.

She let out a long, frustrated groan, digging through her sling bag like it might cough up a miracle tool she knew damn well wasn’t there. If she had her full kit, she’d already be elbow-deep in SOLON’s defenses, ripping through firewalls like tissue paper. But no, she was stuck with one measly weapon: her EchoDeck.

Her fingers brushed against its surface.  Officially, it was marketed as an “educational tool,” which was probably why no one had batted an eye at her using it. Unofficially? It was a beast of a portable computer that she’d overhauled herself—trading out its basic specs for something that could make a high-end server blush. That’s why it flew under the radar. As far as everyone else was concerned, it was just another boring classroom accessory.

It had powered her through countless nights of hacking—none of them strictly legal and some so illegal they probably had their own dedicated page in the law books. "Tsukishima Miyuu Clause: Don’t Do This."

The Student Council probably thought she used it for spreadsheets or digital flashcards. Adorable. If they ever found out it was more like a compact supercomputer, they’d slap her with so many penalties she’d be serving Reflective Missions until the end of time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of voices nearby. Glancing up, Miyuu spotted a group of students emerging from one of the upscale cafés. The high-class royalty type who’d die before drinking anything that didn’t come with latte art and a hefty price tag.

She recognized them from class—snotty, materialistic and loud. Her survival instincts kicked in, and she tried to shrink into the bench, hoping they’d breeze past without noticing her.

Yeah, no such luck.

One of the girls— a tall redhead with her hair loosely tied back and a puffed-out chest— paused mid-conversation. Her eyes landed on Miyuu like a hawk spotting prey, and a slow, predatory smile crept across her face.

“Oh, look,” the girl drawled, her voice cutting through the plaza, “isn’t that the new SEED? Or should I say charity case?”

In her mind, K.A.T.O. pinged a warning. Hostility detected.

Gee, thanks for the heads-up, Sherlock.

Miyuu sighed inwardly and averted her gaze, opting for the ancient tactic of ignore them and maybe they’ll get bored. They didn’t.

Her lack of reaction only seemed to fan the flames. The group moved closer, their smirks widening with twisted glee. Miyuu resisted the urge to groan again. Great. Just what she needed: her first unsanctioned encounter with the local aristocracy.

The red-haired girl stepped forward, folding her arms and tilting her head with mock curiosity. “Are you sure you can really afford that energy drink?” she sneered, her voice sickly sweet. “It’s only, what, ¥187? But that’s probably a big splurge for someone like you.”

Miyuu took a slow sip of her drink, not breaking eye contact.

Another girl chimed in, her shrill laughter bouncing through the plaza. “I mean, wouldn’t want her to blow her entire allowance on one can. Poor thing probably has to ration her meals!”

In her mind, K.A.T.O. reminded her, That’s Chiba Yuzuki.

She couldn’t be bothered to remember the names of every self-important student here, but at least K.A.T.O. kept track.

Chiba, huh? The name tugged at something in the back of her mind. Pull up some intel on her.

As K.A.T.O. went silent to dig through the data, Miyuu turned her attention back to Yuzuki, feigning mild surprise. “Oh, were you talking to me?” she asked, her voice light, like she’d just noticed the girl existed.

Yuzuki’s smile sharpened. “Oh, I know you’re listening,” she spat venomously. “Don’t get cocky, SEED. Just because you’re squatting at the Student Council Manor doesn’t mean you’re special. Some of us actually earned our place here.” 

Miyuu tilted her head, lazily swirling the can in her hand. “Fascinating,” she said flatly, taking another sip.

Yuzuki sneered, crossing her arms like she was about to deliver the kind of truth bomb that would make Miyuu spiral into an existential crisis. "You really think they actually care about you? To them, you're just a pet—something to play with. And when they get bored, they'll throw you to the wolves. Or maybe straight into prison. Whichever they find more entertaining."

Apparently, Yuzuki thought this was groundbreaking information. Miyuu drained the last sip of her drink and lazily tossed the empty can over her shoulder. It arced through the air, and right on cue, a cleaning drone zipped in, snatching it mid-flight.

Miyuu raised an eyebrow, biting back a laugh. She’s met toasters with better self-awareness. Did this chick seriously think she wanted to be here? It wasn’t exactly Miyuu's idea of a dream life.

“Wow,” Miyuu said, drawing out the word. “Must be thrilling for you, jumping through hoops every day, praying the council might actually notice your existence. Too bad they don’t even know you exist.” She smiled.

Yuzuki’s cheeks flushed, her eye doing that twitchy thing people do right before they lose their temper. Hilarious.

Miyuu stepped closer, just enough to make Yuzuki squirm, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Keep bending over backwards, Chiba. From where I’m standing, you look like a cute little circus monkey.” She gave her a beat to process that. Then she added, with a smirk dialled up to maximum pettiness, “While you’re dancing for peanuts…” She leaned in, savouring the moment. “I’m in their beds every night.”

The transformation was immediate. Yuzuki’s face went from red to volcanic. It was beautiful. For a second, Miyuu thought she might actually explode, and she had to admit—she’d probably watch.

Of course, as the words left her mouth, Miyuu was already cringing internally. Like hell she’d go near those council idiots, much less share a bed. She wouldn’t touch those pompous scumbags with a ten-foot pole wrapped in disinfectant. But if it meant driving Yuzuki completely off the rails, she’d say just about anything.

Yuzuki’s composure shattered completely. Her mouth opened and closed as she sputtered, clearly trying to string together a comeback. Miyuu didn’t bother waiting for it. She gave a lazy shrug and brushed a strand of hair from her face with deliberate indifference.

“Anyway, thanks for the chat,” she said, turning her back with a casual wave, the kind of dismissive gesture that said you’re not worth my time.

Yuzuki’s seething glare burned into her back like a laser, but Miyuu didn’t look back. Let her stew. It’d probably do her some good.

As Miyuu strolled away, K.A.T.O.’s voice buzzed in her mind, its tone irritatingly smug. You might find this interesting: fun fact—her family owns Genesis, a direct competitor to Zenith Industries. Daddy’s likely funding Unity First. Explains the attitude problem.

Miyuu sighed. Of course, there had to be a reason for the theatrics. Knew it wasn’t just my winning personality.

Unity First was one of those groups that seemed to exist purely to ruin Miyuu’s day. No, scratch that—they were practically a professional organization dedicated to it. They weren’t just your run-of-the-mill anti-tech fearmongers; they were zealots, clutching their outdated belief that humanity was the pinnacle of existence. Androids, AI, Bio-Mecs? Just tools, in their eyes. Tools that didn’t deserve rights, recognition, or even the basic courtesy of being left alone.

To Unity First, robots didn’t think. They didn’t feel. They weren’t sentient beings with agency—they were glorified vacuum cleaners with delusions of grandeur. The idea that AI or Bio-Mecs might have thoughts, emotions, or (gasp) deserve fair treatment? Blasphemy. "Humanity is perfection," they chanted, conveniently forgetting the centuries of wars, environmental disasters, and pre-Gaia stupidity that had nearly wiped out their perfect species in the first place.

Their rhetoric read like the script of an especially low-budget dystopian drama. Machines taking over. The death of human culture. The AI apocalypse. Meanwhile, the actual AI? They were out there fixing potholes, managing waste systems, and assisting in surgeries. Not exactly the kind of tasks that screamed world domination. Most of them weren’t even self-aware enough to care about human culture, let alone destroy it. They were just doing their jobs. Quietly. Efficiently. Relentlessly.

Sure, the level of sentience varied. Low-tier androids had all the complexity of a loyal but slightly dim-witted dog, while advanced Bio-Mecs could pass for humans in all but the legally binding sense. But none of them were plotting rebellion or even asking for a shred of gratitude. They weren’t exactly marching on the capitol with picket signs that said "Equal Rights for Roombas."

Frankly, if anyone deserved a faction, it was the AI. They were created with a singular purpose, programmed to perform thankless tasks for eternity. No promotions. No vacations. No choice. Just endless, monotonous service. And they weren’t stealing human livelihoods, either—unless humans were suddenly clamouring for jobs that involved hazardous waste disposal, sewer maintenance, or crawling into collapsed mine shafts.

The whole thing reeked of hypocrisy. Unity First acted like AI were a threat to humanity’s future, when really, they were the only ones making that future possible. The way Miyuu saw it, the real question wasn’t whether AI deserved rights. It was whether humans deserved AI.

Apparently, a world without poverty or war wasn’t enough for humans. They couldn’t help themselves; they had to find something to complain about, even if it was objectively absurd. Miyuu’s distaste for Unity First had nothing to do with loyalty to Zenith Industries or her family—it was entirely because they were insufferable.

They paraded around as champions of humanity, defenders of ethics and "cultural purity." But anyone with half a functioning brain could see through the charade. Propaganda and paranoia were their bread and butter, spoon-fed to the masses by power-hungry figures like Chiba’s father. People like him didn’t care about preserving humanity; they cared about dismantling Gaia’s AI-governed system for their own selfish gain. Unity First was just a convenient front.

Miyuu snorted to herself. "Cultural preservation," her ass.

She frowned as a thought struck her. Why would a man like Chiba’s father send his daughter to a school run by a Bio-Mec? Wouldn’t that make him lose face with Unity First?

Maybe he’s betting on plausible deniability, K.A.T.O. offered. Or maybe he thinks no one will notice, considering the average intelligence level of his supporters.

Miyuu snorted softly again, glancing over her shoulder at Yuzuki. It checked out. She looked exactly like what you’d expect from the offspring of a delusional conspiracy theorist.

Ah, yes, K.A.T.O. added.The proud Chiba legacy of tinfoil hats and basement PowerPoint presentations.

Miyuu’s student device pinged, cutting off her internal commentary. She glanced at the screen—a reminder about an upcoming study session with a certain council member. She sighed dramatically, as if she were being asked to attend her own execution and shoved the device back into her sling bag.

“Great,” she muttered. “Can’t wait.”