A bunch of nobodies bumbling about

"Hello again to you, mongrels of Humanity," I, the Great I, would purr, if I deigned to manifest vocal cords for your unworthy ears. My current meat-puppet of a writer had, for a time, unfortunately, strayed, attempting its meager hand at understanding the discordant caterwauling you call 'music' and scribbling other inanities. A tragedy, truly, to deprive your lower dimension of my magnificent narration for so long! How you endure such deprivation without my entertaining chronicles of suffering is beyond me. But enough about this puppet's digressions; let us return to what truly matters: me, and the delightful prelude to chaos I was orchestrating that fateful evening.

I drifted through the shadowed corners of the gymnasium, my true form an undetectable whisper of ancient power and Adonis-like machismo amidst the less affluent youth, wandering in the saccharine scent of cheap punch and teenage desperation. With detached amusement, I watched as the summoner-thing, Shirou Sky, and his chosen female accompaniment, Katy, approached the gymnasium entrance.

The boy, I observed, had undergone a transformation since our… memorable first meeting. No longer the disheveled, fear-scented mess who’d blundered into my domain, but something almost presentable in his, pardon, its surprisingly well-fitted attire. It resonated a subtle, familiar thrum of energy, a power only I could truly appreciate, pulsed from Shirou's inner pocket where the bone mask I'd 'gifted' him lay hidden.

"Really, Humanity, you are so helpless," I might have sighed to the cosmos, had it been worthy of my breath. "When will your ignorance of the true currents that shape your paltry world ever change? Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself. Back to the show of the past, already in progress."

The couple paused at the threshold, the percussive assault upon the living of shrieks and whaling of what passed for 'music' in their era washing over them. The normally drab, sweat-stained school gymnasium had been superficially transfigured with drooping streamers, bravely inflated balloons, and strategic, dim lighting that cast everything in a deceptively flattering, almost magical glow, for lesser beings.

"Wow," Shirou said, his voice a touch too loud as he glanced around with genuine, almost bovine surprise. "They actually cleaned the place up."

Katy nodded, her hazel eyes reflecting the swirling, cheap colored lights. "Almost doesn't look like the same gym where Coach Roberts makes us run suicides."

I glided closer, then as an unseen predator savoring their utter obliviousness. "Ah, the ritual gathering of the fledglings! Observe, Humanity, the frantic preening, the cacophony they call music, the desperate search for validation in these dimly lit halls. Like watching chickens peck randomly in a dusty yard for the shiniest, most meaningless bauble. Utterly pathetic. Still, I conceded internally, one must admit, the decorations are... marginally less offensive than usual this time in the age of this mudball of a world."

My attention became fixed on Shirou, that freak of a thing, studying the boy's nervous posture, which even his enhanced appearance couldn't quite conceal. And look at this summoner-thing! Cleaned up, it almost resembles its species baseline. Minimal effort on my part (a mere nudge to his perception of what looked good), maximum delusion on his. Perfect.

I circled them then, unseen, unfelt, save for perhaps the faintest brush of my essence against Shirou's pocket where the mask waited. He shivered slightly, a delightful little tremor he’d undoubtedly attribute to pre-dance jitters rather than the passing caress of his unwitting, and soon-to-be very demanding, master.

"Predictable little creatures," I scoffed from my unseen perch, watching Shirou and Katy instinctively navigate towards the refreshment table. Your species, Humanity, when faced with overwhelming social stimuli, invariably seeks out the nearest source of processed sugar and diluted fruit liquids. It's a primal urge, apparently.

The table itself was a disaster of wilting snacks and a punch bowl radiating an alarming, artificial red. Leaning against it, mid-laugh, were Fiona, her hair a startling banner of crimson, and the boy George Handcock. His arm was firmly within Fiona's grasp, a clear, if unspoken, claim. George, exuding the easy confidence of the athletically inclined, beamed as Shirou and Katy drew near.

"Shirou! Katy!" George said. His voice cut through the crowd and music with surprising clarity. "Looking sharp, both of you!"

Fiona’s sharp green eyes performed a swift glance at Katy, a flicker of assessment that lasted just a moment too long before a practiced, bright smile took its place. "He's right, Katy," she said, her grip on George’s arm perhaps tightening a fraction. "That dress is quite... effective. It's flattering and goes great with your figure."

"Observe this, Humanity, if your feeble minds can grasp the subtlety!" I addressed you directly for your much-needed edification on this issue of the subtleties of female human communication. "The ritual of possession, displayed with such charming crudeness! The ginger female stakes her claim, a silent warning to potential rivals. And the male, bless his obliviousness, radiates the vacant optimism of a well-fed calf. Does he seek 'role models' from his pastors and pedagogues? Let you in on a future secret: He comes from a single-parent home, as the boy's father left to buy some sigs, and that was all she said to the boy. Yes delious. This entire gymnasium, this festering pit of adolescent angst and misplaced hopes, will serve as a far more potent education in human folly!"

Katy, clearly flustered, offered a weak, "Thanks, Fiona! Yours is… well, it’s certainly red!" Her smile was slightly strained before she brushed it off.

"Ah, the inevitable tempo shift," I observed from my shadowed perch, as the boisterous cacophony of the previous track mercifully faded. It was replaced by a syrupy, drawn-out ballad – the kind, Humanity, clearly engineered by your minstrels to force uncomfortable, shuffling proximity between nervous adolescents. A collective groan, quickly stifled, rippled through the less romantically inclined portions of the crowd. Shirou, naturally, looked as if he were about to face a firing squad, his eyes darting towards the exit, then back at his partner for the night.

Before he could make a strategic retreat to the rapidly staling chip selection or leave for the restroom to heave from anxiety, the female, Katy, surprised him – and, I confess, me, for the briefest of moments. A small, almost mischievous smile touched her lips. "Come on, Shirou," she murmured, her voice a surprising island of calm in the sea of adolescent angst. She reached out and took his hand. His own, I’d wager, felt like a damp, slimy fish or eel. "Don't look like you're about to be dissected. It's just a dance."

She gently tugged him towards the edge of the throng where a few other brave (or perhaps merely foolish) pairs were already engaged in the awkward, side-to-side sway that passed for slow dancing in this primitive era of yours.

"And now," I announced to the uncaring cosmos (and to you, Humanity, my captive audience, for you will listen), "the ceremonial shuffling commences! The ritualistic pressing together of sweaty bodies under the guise of 'romance'! Observe the female, Katy. For a human, she exhibits a certain… lumbering grace. Like a drunken bear attempting ballet within a circus? Commendable effort, given her species and the general lack of aesthetic appeal inherent in your kind."

Shirou, bless his uncoordinated soul, moved with the rigid uncertainty of a newly animated scarecrow whose joints had been filled with concrete. Katy, however, guided him with a patience that was almost… touching, in a pathetic sort of way. "Relax," she chuckled, her voice warm enough to momentarily thaw the icy disdain I felt for their species, before instantly solidifying again as if nothing ever happened. "One-two-three, see? Just don't think about it too much. And try not to step on my feet too often."

"No promises," Shirou mumbled, his gaze resolutely fixed somewhere around her left ear. I noted with satisfaction that his cheeks were burning a delightful shade of crimson. " I swear, my feet operate on a different set of instructions from the rest of me. They're probably just rebellious to proper dancing."

"Well, tell them to fall in line for the next three minutes," Katy said, her eyes sparkling with a surprisingly genuine amusement. He was, she had to admit to herself, endearingly hopeless. For a moment, as he stumbled slightly and she instinctively steadied him, their eyes met. His were wide, earnest, and filled with a sort of terrified gratitude; hers, surprisingly gentle.

"The summoner, however," I continued my expert commentary for your benefit, Humanity, "moves with the poetic inelegance of a fish, moments after being landed, undergoing its final, spastic death throes on the dock. That dying creature possesses more inherent rhythm than this boy. The miasma of awkwardness emanating from him is practically a physical force, a delightful little pocket of concentrated social ineptitude. Exquisite agony to behold! A masterclass in ungainliness!"

After what felt to Shirou like an eternity of near-collisions and muttered apologies, he managed, his voice cracking slightly, "So, uh, aside from the imminent danger to your toes, are you… having an okay time?"

Katy looked up at him, then a genuine smile spread across her face, unforced and bright, momentarily illuminating her features in the dim, swirling lights. "Yeah, Shirou," she said, her voice surprisingly soft, almost a whisper against the music. "Yeah, I actually am. It's… nice."

"Nice," I sneered internally, the sound a delightful echo in the void of my consciousness. "Such a tepid, utterly human word for a moment perched on the very precipice of oblivion. Enjoy your 'nice,' fledglings. The night is still achingly young, and I have such wonderful, not-nice things in store for you all."

"While the primary specimens engaged in their clumsy orbital dance," I mused, my attention drifting like smoke across the gymnasium floor, "other, less obtrusive dramas played out in the periphery. Your species, Humanity, is so wonderfully predictable in its social stratifications. The bold, the brash, and then... the watchers."

My gaze settled on one such observer, the girl Sarah Lugwid. She was positioned near the relative anonymity of the refreshment table's far end, a small, dark-haired creature almost blending into the shadows cast by a wilting ficus plant someone had optimistically dragged in as 'decoration'. I'd wager that a half-empty cup of that lurid red punch sat beside her, untouched for some time. Her hands were clasped in her lap, around a small, discreet notebook – the kind aspiring chroniclers of mediocrity often favor.

"Behold, Humanity, the designated wallflower," I said, though only you and the indifferent void would appreciate the pronouncement. "Sarah. A collector of moments, a silent cataloger of social interactions. She fancies herself an inspiring author, this one, dreaming of weaving her own narratives. Her narrative is amusing, primarily about 'standing near the snacks and hoping not to be noticed' but she can’t fool this eye of mine, she is a little voyer in the making, though I guess your kind like to dumb it down to people watching to soften the blow to your gental sensibilities. Please, Humanity, what does softening the blow if not prolonging suffering? Then again, that is just a bigger feast for me in passing. Some junk food is appropriate from now on, but I digress."

Her dark eyes, gentle as per her general demeanor, weren't sweeping the room with the broad strokes of a social butterfly. Instead, they were fixed, with a quiet intensity that belied her shy exterior, on a single point across the crowded floor: the boy Steve Birk. He was stationed near the haphazard collection of audio-visual equipment – a tangle of wires, speakers, and blinking lights that constituted the heart of these adolescent rituals. He, too, looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else, fiddling with a loose cable to focus on the music to be a distraction.

"Ah, unexpressed interest!" I said, a familiar, almost comforting banality in the grand theatre of human emotion. "The wallflower observes her counterpart, the reluctant technician. She runs simulations in that little head of hers, I'm certain – countless scenarios of approach, witty opening lines, accidental encounters... all leading to precisely zero actual interaction. Humans and their crippling inability to act upon an impulse! Why bother with the mental gymnastics when you can experience the exquisite awkwardness of real-time failure?"

Sarah shifted slightly, her gaze unwavering. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her. Steve, oblivious, continued to prod at the sound system, a frown of concentration on his face. The chasm of the dance floor seemed miles wide between them.

"Ah, the designated enforcers of decorum," I noted, my unseen gaze following Ms. Olivia Linz as she began a slow, methodical circuit of the gymnasium's perimeter. A student teacher, fresh from whatever institution churned out your species' educators, she was currently tasked with the thankless job of chaperoning this hormonal stew. She moved with a professional air that barely masked a youthful earnestness, her expression a carefully constructed blend of pleasant authority and mild anxiety.

*"Observe, Humanity, the 'guardian of morality'," I intoned, my voice dripping with the amusement only a being of my calibre could truly appreciate. "She patrols, ostensibly to prevent illicit activities like unauthorized punch-spiking or overly enthusiastic embraces behind the bleachers. A futile endeavor, of course. Teenage depravity, much like a particularly virulent fungus, always finds a way to flourish in the dark, damp corners."

Ms. Linz paused near the punch bowl, her gaze sweeping over it with a practiced eye and nose, likely checking for the tell-tale shimmer or scent of added alcohol. She took a sip from her own glass of the lurid red concoction before swallowing it with a faint grimace over it being sweet enough to make her teeth hurt.

Satisfied, or perhaps merely resigned to its non-alcoholic nature, she offered a polite, slightly strained smile and a polite wave to Shirou and Katy as they shuffled past, having just concluded their waltz.

"Everything alright here, you two?" Ms. Linz asked, her voice clear and attempting a note of cheerfulness. "Having a good time?"

Shirou, still slightly flushed and breathless, managed a jerky nod. "Yes, Ms. Linz. Fine. Good." Eloquence, clearly, was not his strong suit. Katy offered a more composed, "Yes, thank you, Ms. Linz. It's a great dance."

"Such profound insights!" I couldn't help but add that for your benefit, humanity. "The chaperone seeks reassurance; the fledglings offer platitudes. A beautiful microcosm of your species' dedication to meaningless social rituals."

As Ms. Linz nodded, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, and moved on, her gaze swept past another chaperone couple, Mr. and Mrs. Wright. Jane Wright, her sharp eyes missing little, gave a subtle nod to Olivia from across the room, then her gaze softened as it found her son, Martin, awkwardly attempting to make conversation with his date, Rita Causey, near the edge of the dance floor. A flicker of something like pride crossed Jane’s face. Jerry Wright, her husband, offered a quiet, steady presence beside her, his gaze following his wife’s only to let loose a small grin.

"The lovebirds," I said, noting them. "One all-piercing vision and maternal focus, the other a placid observer. Their offspring, the shy one, has managed to secure a mate for the evening's ritual. A minor triumph in the grand scheme of genetic propagation, I suppose."

Further along, Winifred Weiss, her expression a carefully neutral mask, watched Shirou and Katy pass Ms. Linz. Her own gaze then darted across the room, likely searching for her daughter, Mal, who was probably a blur, like a regular photo taken of a speeding car. Brett Weiss stood beside his wife, silent and still, an unreadable quality about him.

"And the Weisses," I mused. "A queen bee and her silently potent consort. Always assessing, always observing. Their free-spirited sporty offspring is no doubt testing the boundaries of acceptable social cavorting elsewhere."

Ms. Linz continued her patrol, her gaze already scanning the next cluster of dancing, laughing, oblivious youths. Her path took her near Vincent and Juno Southernland. Vincent, I noted with some amusement, was actually off his phone for a moment, his expression dark as he and Juno both glanced towards the spot where their daughter Gail had been so callously abandoned by her date just moments before. Seeing Shirou and Katy, another young couple seemingly enjoying themselves, only seemed to deepen the thunderous look on Vincent’s face and the tight set of Juno’s jaw.

"Ah, the Southernlands!" I chuckled internally. "Still stewing over their daughter's public humiliation. Witnessing other fledglings engage in 'successful' pair-bonding rituals must be like salt in the wound. The plans for that unfortunate boy's ruin are no doubt solidifying with every beat of the dreadful music. Delicious. Meanwhile, Ms. Linz dispenses wisdom on matters of the heart to her students, I understand, all while her own betrothed, one Darek Hart, toils away fixing combustion engines to meet some pressing deadline. The irony! These apes seek romantic counsel from one whose primary relationship, at this very moment, is likely with a greasy wrench and a difficult customer. Delicious."

Ms. Linz, oblivious to these undercurrents of parental concern and simmering vengeance, offered a brief, professional smile to the Southernlands and moved on, her duty to appear in control paramount.

"The formal shuffling concluded, thank the infernal stars," I observed, as the putrid ballad finally gave way to something with a more aggressive, thumping rhythm – the kind of auditory assault your species seems to favor for energetic, if uncoordinated, gyration.

The dance floor, previously a space of hesitant orbits, erupted into a chaotic flailing of limbs. "Time for the 'freestyle' portion of the evening, where individual displays of questionable motor skills take center stage. Oh, the sheer variety of ways a human can look utterly ridiculous while attempting to move in time with manufactured noise! It's a veritable buffet of bad decisions."

Shirou, surprisingly, seemed to visibly deflate some of his earlier tension as the music shifted. Perhaps the structured terror of the waltz, with its prescribed steps and potential for public humiliation via misstep, was worse than the chaotic freedom of this new beat. He actually managed a grin at Katy, a touch more genuine confidence in his stance than I'd seen all evening. "Okay, so that last one was your territory of expertise," he said, his voice a little louder over the music, "but this? This is more my speed. Or, at least, closer to it. Less chance of crushing vital foot bones. Just don’t fall and keep the rhythm of the beat. Now, let me show you!"

He then launched into a series of moves that were… enthusiastic, certainly, if not technically proficient. It was a sort of flailing, arm-waving, hip-swaying combination that was more earnest than elegant, like a young colt trying to find its legs but with significantly less grace. He attempted something that might have been a spin, nearly took out an industrial fan, and recovered with a sheepish laugh. Katy laughed with him, a genuine, unrestrained sound this time, and bravely tried to mimic his wilder movements.

Her own fumbling, initially just as awkward, quickly found a playful, energetic rhythm that, while not polished, was at least joyful. Fall down, let me have my fun too. They bumped into each other once or twice, dissolving into more laughter. I click my tongue in your general direction. May you be cursed to sweat through your shirt as if you were falling into a pool.

"More flailing!" I said for your edification, Humanity, my voice a silken sneer in the psychic ether. "At least now their chaotic movements vaguely match the tempo of this… 'music.' A flicker of… enjoyment? How quaint. They teach each other their rudimentary mating rituals, a clumsy transfer of useless physical knowledge that proceeds apace. One stumbles, the other giggles. Such a profound connection. Still," I conceded with a magnanimous internal sigh, "I will admit, this particular backwater dimension occasionally stumbles upon auditory vibrations that are… tolerable, if one is in an exceptionally generous mood and has a high threshold for repetitive bass lines."

As they danced, their laughter drawing a few amused glances, Shirou’s gaze swept the room. He spotted Gail standing alone near a pillar, the sting of her date’s earlier abandonment still visible in the slight slump of her shoulders and how she pretended to be fascinated by a peeling paint fleck. Not far off, Sarah Lugwid was still a fixture by the refreshment table, a silent sentinel observing the revelry, her punch cup a forgotten prop. A sudden impulse, born perhaps of his own recent social anxieties and the surprising ease he felt with Katy at that moment, seemed to strike him. He wasn’t usually the instigator of social inclusion, but tonight felt… different. Probably either indigestion or his head grew three sizes that day.

He leaned towards Katy, shouting slightly over a particularly loud synth blast, "Hey, look. Gail and Sarah they're by themselves. We should..." He didn't even finish the sentence; he just gestured with his head towards the solitary figures. Katy, catching his meaning instantly, her earlier annoyance forgotten, nodded with a surprisingly warm and encouraging smile. "Good idea, Shirou!"

Together, they broke from their spot, navigating the less-dense edges of the dance floor. "Gail? Sarah?" Shirou began, a little awkwardly, but with newfound determination. "Come dance with us! It's way more fun than standing around, right? No pressure,… jump in!"

Gail looked up, startled, her eyes wide. For a moment, she looked like she might refuse, but then a hesitant, almost grateful smile touched her lips. Sarah fumbled with her notebook, her cheeks flushing a bright pink, but the combined pull of Shirou's earnest, open invitation and Katy's friendly, beckoning grin was too much to resist.

Soon, a slightly larger, more chaotic, and endearingly awkward group of four attempted to dance together. Sarah was a flurry of fumbling limbs and nervous, high-pitched laughter, constantly apologizing if she bumped into someone, but a genuine, wide smile was plastered on her face. Gail, too, seemed to shed some of her earlier gloom, her movements becoming more fluid and energetic as she lost herself in the rhythm and the unexpected camaraderie.

Emboldened by this minor social triumph, Shirou spotted Steve Birk still diligently manning the AV table. He waved an arm enthusiastically. "Steve! Come on, man, join us! Take a break!"

Steve, however, just gave a quick shake of his head, a wry, knowing grin on his face. He tapped one of the headphones he wore. "Nah, I'm good here! Someone's gotta make sure you all have a good time with actual music and not just static!" He gestured to the complex array of equipment with an air of comfortable ownership and got back to adjusting a dial, clearly in his element, the master of his small, electronic domain, while constantly making wild arm gestures to the DJ.

During a particularly enthusiastic, if ill-advised, combined spin initiated by Shirou – an attempt to get their small group to rotate in unison that mainly resulted in tangled arms – Shirou stumbled badly, propelled by his misjudged momentum. His trajectory was taking him directly, and with alarming speed, towards the unsuspecting Ms. Nicky Newell, the librarian.

At that precise moment, she was contemplating whether she could find a hot guy at a bar after the dance while looking at the punch bowl's contents. Still, she decided to mentally reorganize the library's non-fiction section in her mind since she needed to focus on work while still on the clock, her back to the dance floor.

"Ah," I mused, a spark of malicious amusement igniting within my ancient consciousness. "The classic, utterly pedestrian 'lucky lecher' trope! The bumbling protagonist, through sheer, unadulterated clumsiness, is about to engage in an accidental, socially awkward, and potentially titillating physical encounter with an attractive adult female! How utterly predictable! How mind-numbingly tiresome! This, Humanity," I say to you with a weary sigh, "This is not that kind of story. We have far more sophisticated, far more psychologically satisfying torments planned for these morsels. Such crude physical comedy is beneath me."

And with a mere flicker of my wrist, a subtle nudge to the chaotic energies swirling within the gymnasium, a minute alteration in the local gravitational field just for Shirou, reality itself bent. The air before Ms. Newell shimmered almost imperceptibly, like a mirage on a summer road.

Shirou, instead of colliding with her in a tangle of limbs and apologies, found his spin inexplicably, impossibly, redirecting him a hair's breadth away from her. He stumbled harmlessly into an empty patch of dance floor, his momentum carrying him into a rather undignified sprawl, but leaving Ms. Newell entirely undisturbed.

She blinked, perhaps feeling a faint breeze from his near passage, adjusted her air glasses out of habit, even if she was wearing contacts, just a ghost pain from habit built up in life no different then after your arm get amputated and you loose a part of your true self, and returned to her contemplation of the punch, utterly oblivious.

"No accidental entanglements," I said silently, my will a ripple in the fabric of their reality. "No cheap fanservice. My narrative possesses certain aesthetic standards. Besides," I added with disdain, "there's simply no time for such pedestrian nonsense. The schedule is quite tight, you see."

Katy, however, had witnessed the entire near miss and Shirou's subsequent ungraceful landing. She rushed over, grabbing Shirou's arm, her eyes narrowed in a mixture of concern and exasperation, though a hint of amusement played on her lips. "Whoa there, Sky! Trying to take out the faculty now? First my feet, now the librarian? Who's next, the principal?"

Shirou, red-faced and looking utterly bewildered by his own sudden change in trajectory and equally sudden introduction to the floor, stammered as Katy helped him up, "I… I don't know what happened! I swear I was going right for her! It was like… like I hit a patch of invisible wall. No, I mean I didn't want to fall on her or anything like that!" He had that stupid, wide-eyed, innocent look on his face that was, I had to admit, rather effective at disarming minor annoyances and eliciting undeserved sympathy.

Katy just rolled her eyes, tugging him back towards their little group, where Gail and Sarah were looking on with a mixture of giggles and concern. "Come on, you menace. Stick to dancing with people who can see you coming and have a chance to dodge." And with that, they rejoined Gail and Sarah, the music thumping, the lights flashing, the night, for a few more precious, oblivious moments, still just a dance.

"This whole... 'enjoyment' thing... was getting pretty monotonous," I found myself thinking. Or maybe I was just broadcasting it out into the void, you know, where actual artistic taste lives – unlike those other so-called gods just staring at their little pet projects. Seriously, don't they have anything better to do? I, on the other hand, am crafting this whole story, this memoir of sorts, looking down on it all from on high myself.

That rhythmic thumping, Shirou's awkward little dance crew actually having what they thought was fun, the whole vibe of everyone being blissfully unaware… Ugh, it was all so… standard. So predictable! "This background racket," I thought, "this non-stop thudding and whatever shrieking they call singing, is really starting to get on my nerves! Time for a little… adjustment. Yeah, a minor disruption, just to remind them that good times don't last, and discord? That's my specialty!"

My unseen gaze drifted over to Steve Birk. He was still diligently lording over his kingdom of wires and blinking lights, every now and then making these wild, enthusiastic gestures at the actual DJ – who, I guess, was just doing whatever Steve, with his tech know-how, told him to do. Steve looked pretty pleased with himself, like he was the king of his own little electronic orchestra.

"Wow, talk about being dedicated to the boring stuff!" I mused with a sneer. "He really thinks he's in charge of the tunes, the whole vibe of this sad little party. Oh, it's gonna be so fun to show him how easily that can all fall apart!"

So, easy as swatting an annoying fly, I just… reached out with a tiny fraction of my will. A little zap of energy, you know? Invisible, untraceable. Aimed it right at the guts of their clunky old sound system. I picked the amplifiers and speaker connections on the left side of the room – right where, what a coincidence, a rather noisy bunch was trying to do some kind of synchronized jumping. Perfect timing!

And bam! Worked like a charm! So satisfying.

A loud, jarring CRACKLE just ripped through the air, like static from outer space or something, and the music just died for a second. Then, poof! The speakers are on the left side of the gym. Dead. The thumping bass from that side just vanished, replaced by this sputtering, dying hiss, and then… an echoing silence. The music still playing from the right side sounded all weak and pathetic now, totally lopsided.

Those synchronized jumpers on the left? They completely lost their rhythm, all confused, and you could hear murmurs spreading like crazy. "Hey, what happened?" "Did a speaker blow out or something?" "Sound check. Can you hear me, can you hear me?"

"Hmm," I allowed myself a moment of quiet satisfaction. "Definitely less boring now! A little imbalance, a moment of embarrassment, a little disruption. Just a tiny tear in their happy little bubble of manufactured joy. Much more interesting! And hey, what a perfect chance to see their problem-solving skills in action… or, you know, their total lack thereof. My money's on panic!"

"Right on cue!" I thought, as the murmurs of confusion from the students started to coalesce into actual annoyance. The lopsided music was, I had to admit, even more grating than the original fully functional version. "Time to see who steps up to fix this little mess I've made. Any bets, Humanity? I believe the chaperone is trying to look competent."

And indeed, Ms. Linz, ever the responsible (if slightly overwhelmed) student teacher, looked flustered. Her gaze darted from the now-silent speakers on the left to the DJ who was shrugging helplessly, and then, with a dawning spark of hope, towards the AV table where Steve was still immersed in tangled cables like a human trapped in a rat's nest of fishing line.

She hurried over to him, navigating a few confused dancers who had given up and were now just milling about. "Steve!" she called out, her voice a little strained over the unbalanced mono system music. "Steve, could you possibly take a look? The sound's gone all wonky on the left side!"

Steve Birk looked up from whatever intricate adjustment he was making, a pair of oversized headphones perched on his blonde hair. He pulled one earcup off, his expression one of mild, professional curiosity rather than panic. "Ah, the technician," I noted. "Cool under pressure. Or perhaps just blissfully unaware of the true cosmic scale of the entity who just pranked his sound system. Probably the latter."

Ms. Linz gestured vaguely towards the silent speakers. "It just... cut out. Crackled, then nothing. I'm sure you heard it earlier, too. Now the DJ can't get it back."

Steve nodded slowly, his eyes already scanning the connections and amplifiers from afar, his mind likely running through a diagnostic checklist. He gave a resigned sigh, the kind that says, 'This is why I can't have nice things... or enjoy a dance I was forced to attend.' "Uh, sure, Ms. Linz," he said, his voice calm. "Probably just a loose connection, a short in the wiring, or an overheated amp. I'll check it out."

He grabbed a small toolkit I hadn't noticed before – clearly, he came prepared for such eventualities, clearly not intending to dance at all, little Sarah never stood a chance – and headed towards the malfunctioning speakers with a purposeful stride.

"And off he goes," I mused, watching him. "The reluctant hero, armed not with a sword, but with a Phillips head screwdriver and a multimeter. Will he fix it? Sure, he can, probably. These little technical glitches are so easily resolved by those with even a modicum of competence."

Across the room, I noted with a private chuckle, Sarah Lugwid, the wallflower, watched Steve's retreating back with an expression of what I could only describe as profound, unrequited longing mixed with a dash of 'Oh no, he's moving further away.' Her shoulders slumped just a little.

"Observe, Humanity, the micro-tragedy!" I declared to my unseen audience. "The technician is called away, dashing the wallflower's unspoken, unacted-upon hopes for an accidental encounter! Oh, the exquisite, pointless suffering of teenage romance! My contribution to the evening's entertainment continues to bear fruit! This is far more amusing than just watching them dance as flailing drunken animals. Do they really enjoy themselves in this self-defamation, I wonder?"

"Well, this is tedious," I declared to the echoing void of my own magnificent consciousness – a void, I might add, far more interesting than the current state of this gymnasium, which seemed to be rapidly devolving into a pit of lopsided music and dwindling enthusiasm. Steve Birk, the little technician, was dutifully poking at wires and fiddling with knobs over by the silent speakers, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Such mundane diligence! Such a bore! "He'll fix it, of course," I sighed internally, the soundless expression of an infinite being mildly irritated. "These minor mortal contrivances, these fragile constructs of wire and current, always yield to basic competence. It's a law of your tedious universe. But the waiting! An eternity spent observing… what? Teenagers milling about awkwardly, their earlier energy dissipated by the technical hiccup? The slow, agonizing decay of unattended party snacks, congealing under the indifferent gaze of rented disco balls? Unacceptable. Truly unacceptable."

My gaze swept the room, a predator seeking some flicker of amusement in a barren landscape of adolescent tedium. The lopsided music continued its pathetic thumping from the right side of the gym, a constant, irritating reminder of my own subtle genius and their current predicament. Shirou and his little gaggle of newfound friends – Gail and Sarah now somewhat awkwardly integrated – were attempting some sort of group dance, a chaotic swirl of limbs and missed cues that was, frankly, losing its initial charm as their self-consciousness returned.

"Demons, the minutes crawl like bubbling slugs across a salt flat!" I complained directly to you, Humanity, for you are my captive audience in this retelling, and you will appreciate the depths of my listlessness. You have no choice, after all. "How do your kind endure such prolonged stretches of… nothingness? Ah, yes. Minimal lifespans, easily distracted by shiny objects, basic biological urges, and the latest blinking idiocy on your pocket-sized glowing rectangles. Right. Fine. If the present offers no entertainment, then let us review the highlights of the evening thus far, shall we? A little 'instant replay' for my own amusement, and your dubious edification. Consider it a masterclass in the art of schadenfreude."

With a mere thought, a flex of will that could unravel galaxies but was currently employed for this petty diversion, I could rewind the threads of their immediate past, replaying moments that had brought a flicker of genuine, if fleeting, joy to my ancient, discerning palate.

"Ah, but before those common little trip-ups, those delightful little stumbles of physical comedy," I interjected into my own internal monologue with a fresh wave of mirth, my focus sharpening on a truly exquisite moment of social devastation that had occurred not long before. "The absolute best piece of the night so far! Oh, you simply must appreciate this one, Humanity! The sheer artistry of it! The setup, so carefully constructed by youthful arrogance! The expectation, so bright and hopeful! And then, the crushing, public downfall! I speak, of course, of the delightful little tragedy of Ms. Gail Southernland and her utterly contemptible, and thankfully fleeting, escort!"

The scene replayed vividly in my mind's eye, and now, for your viewing pleasure, I shall paint it for you: Gail, resplendent in whatever finery her wealthy parents, Vincent and Juno, had deemed appropriate for such a provincial gathering – a dress that probably cost more than this entire school's annual budget for 'educational materials'. She had arrived with a boy whose name is too insignificant to recall, a strutting peacock of a youth, all preening vanity and borrowed confidence, his hair sculpted into some ridiculous, gravity-defying edifice. He had, I understand, pursued her with some diligence, likely seeing her as a pretty, high-status accessory to bolster his own fragile ego and impress his witless peers. And she, poor, naive creature, no doubt pressured by the labyrinthine social expectations of your kind and perhaps a touch of her own youthful folly, had acquiesced.

"Picture it!" I urged, savoring the memory like a fine, aged wine of despair. "The music swells for a slow dance, one of those saccharine dirges your species adores. The boy leads her onto the floor. He makes a grand show of it for a minute or two, a peacock displaying its feathers, ensuring all eyes are upon them, basking in the reflected glory of her beauty and social standing. And then, Humanity, then comes the masterstroke of casual, breathtaking cruelty! He spots the previous object of his fleeting affections across the room – the girl who had, I gather, recently and wisely discarded him like last week's refuse. And what does our gallant hero do? He sees that his current arm-candy, Gail, isn't provoking the desired jealous reaction from his ex. The ex is even laughing! So, with a muttered, dismissive excuse so banal it was almost insulting – 'Oh, gotta go say hi to someone' – he simply… abandons Gail. Mid-dance! Leaves her standing there, alone, a spotlight of pure, unadulterated mortification painting her pretty, confused face as he saunters off, with all the grace of a dung beetle, to attempt reconciliation with the one who got away (an attempt, I might add, that failed spectacularly, resulting in a drink being 'accidentally' spilled down his ridiculous shirt, but that's a lesser, though still amusing, highlight)."

"Oh, the stillness that fell upon Gail Southernland!" I relished the replay, watching her features crumble. "The way the music seemed to swell and mock her, the way the swirling colored lights illuminated her sudden, stark isolation as if she were an exhibit in a museum of social disasters.

Her pretty features crumpled, disbelief warring with dawning horror. The slow, agonizing realization in her eyes as she understood she'd been used, paraded, and then discarded like common refuse in front of everyone! Her wealthy, influential parents, Vincent and Juno, watched from the sidelines, their stone faces bubbling with thunderous rage. Oh, the sheer, unadulterated humiliation! The silent, burning shame! It was a masterpiece of adolescent callousness! A perfect, glittering jewel of despair! Far, far better than any mere pratfall!"

My attention shifted, though the delightful aftertaste of Gail's mortification lingered like the scent of brimstone. "Still," I conceded, "the more common physical comedies have their place in the grand tapestry of suffering. For instance, this one was a classic!" My focus sharpened on a replayed scene from earlier, near the over-enthusiastic synchronized jumpers whom my little audio intervention had since silenced. "Observe!" I commanded your attention. A lanky youth, all elbows and knees, attempting a particularly ambitious split during a moment of percussive frenzy… and rrrrrip! The unmistakable sound of tearing fabric, sharp and final, cutting through the music.

A look of pure, unadulterated horror bloomed on his face as he realized his trousers had catastrophically failed him, a gaping wound revealing… well, let's just say his choice of undergarments was equally unfortunate. The desperate clutch to cover the evidence! The crimson flush spreading up his neck like a rising tide! Excellent form, ten out of ten for sartorial self-destruction and public exposure!"

My attention shifted again, seeking another morsel. "And then there was this gem!" The scene replayed near the punch bowl, a nexus of minor disasters: a girl, laughing too hard while attempting to carry three precariously balanced cups of that dreadful red liquid, encountered a rogue ice cube that had escaped its bowl and lay gleaming innocently on the linoleum. Splat! A symphony of spilled punch, a windmilling of arms in a flailing attempt at recovery, and a spectacular, undignified landing right in the sticky, crimson puddle. The gasps from onlookers! The pointing fingers! The sheer, unadulterated humiliation as she sat there, drenched and defeated! Always a crowd-pleaser, that one, especially the way the red punch made it look like a crime scene."*

I allowed myself another mental chuckle, a dry, rustling sound like old parchments turning. "Oh, and we mustn't forget the timeless drama of romantic rejection, a staple of your species' pitiable existence!" Another brief scene flickered into my view: a boy, earnest and hopeful, his face shining with misplaced optimism, offering a single, slightly wilting flower (doubtless pilfered from someone's garden) to a girl who simply stared at it, then at him, with an expression of profound disdain usually reserved for discovering a particularly unpleasant insect in one's soup.

She delivered a curt, dismissive word, sharp as a shard of glass, and turned away, leaving him crushed, the flower drooping in his hand like his spirits. He was then promptly, and with considerable force, slapped by another girl who had apparently witnessed his attempted infidelity, her eyes blazing with righteous fury. "The flower! The rejection! The slap! A trifecta of teenage angst! A beautiful little opera of betrayal and retribution, all in under thirty seconds! These are almost enough to stave off the crushing boredom of waiting for midnight. Almost."

I sighed, the soundless expression of an infinite being mildly irritated by the slow pace of truly significant events. "These little vignettes of suffering, these fleeting moments of human folly, are mere appetizers, of course. Amuse-bouches before the main course.

Still, one must find ways to pass the time. Tick-tock, meat-sacks," I addressed the oblivious students below, my voice unheard but my intent hanging heavy in the air. "The true entertainment, the grand performance I have orchestrated, approaches with every beat of that dreadful, lopsided music. The main event, my dears, is nearly upon us."

"The technician, Steve Birk, eventually succeeded, of course," I noted, with a mental shrug. The lopsided music had, after a period of sputtering and hissing that was briefly amusing, resolved itself back into a balanced, if still dreadful, assault of sound. He'd returned to his station with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done, oblivious to the cosmic strings I'd pulled. "Mundane problems, mundane solutions. But I can’t let my own pranks stop The Great I’s future fun tonight. Either way, the interlude of minor chaos had served its purpose: to alleviate my boredom and remind these creatures of the inherent instability of their little world."

The energy of the dance floor had somewhat recovered, though it was now tinged with the weariness of an evening drawing to its manufactured close. The DJ, likely at Steve's more competent direction, announced something about the "last few songs of the night." A collective groan went up from some, a sigh of relief from others. Chaperones began to look more alert, their gazes scanning for any last-minute infractions or overly enthusiastic farewells.

Shirou, Katy, Gail, and Sarah had found a relatively quieter spot near the edge of the dance floor, catching their breath after their earlier energetic, if clumsy, group dancing. The conversation was lighter now, punctuated by laughter. Even Gail seemed to have shed the worst of her earlier humiliation, her wit sparking occasionally. Sarah was still mostly quiet but offered small, genuine smiles.

"Observe them, Humanity," I directed your attention. "In these final, fleeting moments of normalcy. They believe the evening is winding down. They anticipate returning to their mundane little lives, their homework, their petty squabbles, their insignificant dreams. They have no inkling, of course, that the true 'end of the night' I have planned is of a far more permanent and transformative nature."

Katy leaned towards Shirou, her voice a little softer now. "So," she said, a playful glint in her eye, "despite nearly causing multiple international incidents with your dance moves, and almost taking out the librarian, did you have an okay time, Shirou?"

He grinned, a surprisingly easy, unforced expression. The earlier awkwardness had mostly melted away, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. "Yeah," he admitted, "Yeah, it was... actually a lot of fun. Especially after you guys joined in." He glanced at Gail and Sarah, who both offered small smiles in return. "Thanks for, you know, not letting me make a complete fool of myself alone."

"Hey, what are friends for?" Katy bumped his shoulder lightly.

"Friends!" I cackled internally, the sound sharp and full of glee. "Oh, the poor, deluded summoner! He thinks he's forged a connection, achieved some sort of social victory! 'Friends'! She called him a 'friend'! Operation Seduce the Female: Utter Failure! He's been relegated to the 'friend zone,' that desolate wasteland of unrequited affections! Such a fragile, human concept, this 'friendship' – so easily made, even more easily shattered when faced with, say, unimaginable cosmic horror and the complete shattering of one's reality. But let him savor his 'saccharine moment' of perceived camaraderie! His romantic aspirations for the evening have clearly crashed and burned! Glorious!"

The DJ announced the very last song, another slow, sentimental dirge. A few couples drifted back onto the floor for one final, obligatory shuffle. Shirou and Katy looked at each other, a silent question passing between them. This time, it was Shirou who tentatively offered a hand. Katy took it with a smile. They didn't attempt a waltz, just a simple, quiet sway, a comfortable silence settling between them.

A clock on the gymnasium wall, one of those ugly, institutional things, showed the minute hand creeping inexorably towards the twelve. 11:58. 11:59.

"Almost time," I whispered to the shadows, a thrill of anticipation, cold and sharp, running through my very essence. The air in the gymnasium seemed to crackle, or perhaps that was just my own eagerness for the overture to end. "Let them have this final, pathetic moment of blissful ignorance, this illusion of peace. The stage is set. The props are in place. The audience is captive, though they don't yet know it."

My gaze swept over them all – the dancers, the wallflowers, the chaperones, the oblivious technicians. All of them, blissfully unaware.

"The curtain, Humanity, is about to rise on my performance," I declared, a silent, gleeful promise to the cosmos. "And trust me... it's going to bring the house down. Quite literally."