Two years had passed since that first night. Room 3-217 on the third floor of the boys' dormitory had become slightly more human in that time. Mock battle scoresheets were pinned to the walls, and half-read tactical textbooks were stacked on the desk. Amami Kaito sat on his bed, gazing blankly out the window at Earth below. The dormitory hallway that had been empty back then had become a familiar place. The feel of the simulator's control stick. The spice level of Academy curry at the mess hall. (Today, the pair assignments are decided.) Spring of third year. At Central Academy, third-year students in both the Pilot and Operator divisions were assigned "partners." The HSS was a fifteen-meter humanoid space weapon that required two people—a pilot and an operator—connected via neural link to operate. One person couldn't fly it. No matter how good your solo scores were, without a partner, it meant nothing. Over these two years, Kaito had pushed his pilot division grades to the top of his year. Mock battle win rate, piloting precision, reaction speed—all top tier. His instructor had even told him, "Your scores are like you did three years' worth of work in one." But his partner still hadn't been decided. The aptitude diagnostic data had remained "processing" the whole time. (I wonder what kind of person's coming.) Kaito straightened his uniform and left his room. --- The grand auditorium was wrapped in an ominous heat from morning. Central Academy's grand auditorium—a large hall that could fit all third-year students—had a massive monitor stretching from floor to ceiling at the front. Today, the pair assignment results would be displayed there. Around six hundred names from both the Pilot and Operator divisions would appear alongside their partners' names. Kaito pushed through the crowd to get closer. Everyone was looking up at the monitor, murmuring. "[excited]Found it, found it! My name's there!" Kaito stretched on his toes, searching the monitor. The "A" section. Amami Kaito—Pilot Division—Partner: Kenjo Seira. He froze for three seconds. (What...Kenjo?) He knew that name. More than knew it—it was a name he couldn't forget even if he tried. For two years, every time they passed in the hallway, that girl never looked his way. The girl who dominated the operator division rankings. The girl who'd said in class, "Emotional judgment is a breeding ground for mistakes," and gotten praised by the instructor. He'd always thought of her as his complete opposite. In that moment, a voice came from another part of the monitor. "[surprised]...That's impossible." He turned around. On the opposite side of the monitor—beyond the crowd—stood a girl with semi-long hair, an asymmetrical hair clip on just the left side, and sharp gray eyes, frozen while staring at the screen. Kenjo Seira. Their eyes met. For a moment. Both their mouths opened at exactly the same time. "'That's impossible!' / 'I completely agree!'" They harmonized. Perfectly. The grand auditorium fell silent for just an instant—then laughter spread like wildfire. The surrounding students turned around, watching the two with grins. "Wow, they seem close," "More like they look desperate," he heard. Kaito and Seira looked at each other, then simultaneously looked away. (This is the worst.) --- Both of them knocked on Captain Carmilla Lette's door ten minutes after the announcement. Captain Carmilla—the pair assignment director, thirty-two years old, former operator—sat in her chair with coffee in hand as usual. Her eyes always looked sleepy, but when the two entered, she raised an eyebrow slightly. Her expression said, "I knew you'd both come at the same time." "[angry]Change it!" "[serious]I would like to request a reassignment." The timing was off. Kaito shouted; Seira spoke politely. Carmilla sipped her coffee. "[cold]Pair Assignment Regulation Section 7. No right of refusal." "[angry]Why us?! There have to be other candidates!" Carmilla silently turned a monitor toward them. The screen displayed both their aptitude diagnostic data side by side. Several numbers were listed, with "Potential Synchronization Rate" at the top. That number was by far the highest in the year. "[cold]Take your complaints to the numbers." Seira looked at the screen and froze for a moment. She was processing the numbers in her head, calculating something. She was probably looking for a line of logical counterargument, Kaito thought. But Seira just fell silent. (Did she...accept it?) Kaito turned back. "Hey, why don't you—" "[serious]...If the numbers are fact, then denying them emotionally would be irrational." Seira said it flatly. Not frustrated, not sad—just matter-of-fact. Kaito froze for a moment. "[angry]Don't just accept it like that!!" "[sarcastic]You also have no reason to object anymore, do you?" Both of them were shot down by Carmilla. Carmilla set down her coffee and added with sleepy eyes: "[serious]By the way. If your synchronization rate stays below 40 for six months, you get forcibly reassigned. A third incompatibility results in expulsion recommendation. That's how the system works." The room grew heavier. --- The simulator room in the Primus building was a facility lined with dual-seat pods that perfectly recreated HSS cockpits. When you climbed into a pod that recreated the cockpit of the Legnus Mk-IV—the academy's standard training machine, operating at 60% of actual combat output—you'd attach a neural link device to the back of your neck, and 360-degree imagery would unfold around you. The moment Kaito and Seira climbed in side by side, the cramped space became immediately apparent. The pilot and operator seats were side by side, with only thirty centimeters between their shoulders. "[whispers]...Why am I even here?" "[whispers]Same." They spoke at the same time. Both turned away. They placed the neural link devices against the back of their necks. Small devices with a cold sensation. Once connected, the brainwaves of pilot and operator would link, allowing them to share wordless information in real time. If a pair had high synchronization, even a fleeting thought could be transmitted on the battlefield. Kaito attached his device. Click. Connection established. In that instant— An unfamiliar sensation flowed into his mind. (What the...?) Anxiety? No, something more subtle. "I have to do this right." "What if I fail?" "I need to check the next thing." —These sensations flowed in one after another, like water, unstoppable. (This girl's seriously neurotic.) Something was happening on Seira's end too. When Kaito glanced at her, she was frozen. "[surprised]...Did you feel that just now?" "[surprised]...I did." What was flowing into Seira was Kaito's sensation. On the surface, he thought "I've totally got this," but underneath was a faint undercurrent of "what if I fail"—and that was being transmitted directly to Seira. An awkward silence fell. Numbers appeared on the monitor. Synchronization Rate: **23**. Red warning text flashed. "[serious]23...40 is the forced reassignment threshold. We're quite far off." "[serious]I know." After leaving the cockpit, both of them stared at the floor for a while. Kaito's head was throbbing. Link sickness. Even though they'd only been connected for less than a minute, his head ached. Seira's face had gone pale too. (That girl...she's having a really rough time with this.) The sensation of touching the inside of someone he'd thought was unpleasant lingered with him. --- After school, Carmilla told them to "receive special training from Instructor Yuri Blake." Yuri Blake. The Helios Conflict—fifteen years ago, when the Mars Republic and Jupiter Autonomous Union had clashed in a five-year stellar war—he'd fought as an HSS pilot and was called a hero. Now he worked as an instructor, handling special guidance for problematic pairs. When Kaito entered the training room, a man stood by the window. Around fifty. Short white-streaked hair cut close to the scalp. Sharp eyes—the kind that had seen the battlefield many times over. Lean build, movements without waste. Several scars visible on the back of his hand where it peeked from his military uniform sleeve. Yuri Blake looked at the two of them and said nothing. Kaito spoke first. "Um—" "[cold]Don't talk. Listen." He was cut off. Yuri listened silently, arms crossed, as both of them mumbled about what was wrong with the other. Seira started with "inefficient behavioral patterns—" and Kaito interrupted with "she denies my intuition—" and eventually they were both talking at once. After about five minutes, Yuri spoke. "[serious]You two don't try to understand each other. Link your nerves with someone you don't know, and of course you'll get link sickness." Kaito and Seira fell silent. They couldn't argue. It was too right. "[serious]Synchronization rate isn't technique. It's trust and depth of understanding turned into numbers. Machines can't be fooled." Yuri turned to face them both. "[serious]I'm giving you an assignment. By tomorrow, find out your partner's favorite food and what they're most afraid of. That's all." "[surprised]...That's all?" "[serious]That's all." Seira frowned. "[serious]How would such personal information relate to synchronization rate?" "[cold]It does." With that, Yuri turned his back. The explanation was over. --- Night fell. The common lounge on the third floor of the boys' dormitory was a small space with only a vending machine, a large monitor, and an old sofa. Kaito came there and stood frozen in front of the vending machine. (Why do I have to be the one to ask?) "Favorite food and what you're most afraid of." It was simple enough—just ask, "Hey, what's your favorite food?" and be done with it. But his feet wouldn't move. (She's definitely gonna answer like it's a pain. Probably say something like "How does that relate to synchronization rate?" And why do I have to be the one to ask first anyway?) He bought a juice and popped the tab, leaning against the wall. That's when something faintly reached him. A sensation—or more like a presence. Even after removing the neural link, "residue" sometimes lingered. When the person you'd connected with was concentrating on something, you could faintly sense it from a distance. Seira was researching something. Seriously, carefully. In front of a terminal, taking notes. (What's she looking up?) Kaito drank his juice and thought about it. The next moment, from the faintly transmitted sensation, he picked up on something. Something about the mess hall menu—the cafeteria, the food, that kind of data. (Ah.) Seira was researching him. She was doing the assignment seriously. Swallowing her pride, searching through data. That meticulous, perfectionist Kenjo Seira was looking up "Amami Kaito's favorite food" in the database. (That girl's way too serious.) Something stirred in his chest. (Wait, she could just ask directly.) Kaito pulled out his terminal and started typing "Kenjo Seira favorite food" into the search bar. Three seconds later, he quietly closed it. (...What am I doing?) He sighed in front of the vending machine. --- The next morning. The connecting corridor between the boys' and girls' dormitories. As Kaito passed through, Kenjo Seira came from the other direction. Both of them were carrying the weight of last night. At least, Kaito could tell. Three awkward seconds. Both uncertain where to look, but stopping anyway. Kaito spoke first. "Your favorite food is—" Seira spoke. "Um...Amami's favorite food is—" They harmonized. Again. One second of silence. "'Did you do the assignment too?' / 'Did you do the assignment too?'" Harmonized again. This time there was no laughter. Just the air changing slightly. Different from when they'd harmonized in the auditorium yesterday. Back then, they'd harmonized with "this is the worst" in thei