Saga

The morning routine unfolds on autopilot: eyes open, shower, teeth, uniform. Your body moves through the motions while your brain lags several steps behind—still buffering, still loading, still somewhere in the warm fog of almost-sleep.

Your apartment door clicks shut. ID card on scanner—beep, "LOCKED"—and then you're walking.

The corridors stretch empty at this hour. Emergency lighting casts everything amber. Your footsteps echo off metal walls, rhythmic and hollow, the only sound in the pre-dawn stillness.

Your thoughts drift. Scatter. Reassemble into nothing useful.

Yesterday's lunch had been... experimental. Mayonnaise in potato soup. It had seemed reasonable at the time. It had NOT been reasonable. Your stomach offers a lingering complaint at the memory.

But the chocolate sauce pasta from last week? That had worked. Rich, slightly bitter, unexpectedly complementary to the noodle's texture. You'd eaten the entire pot. Closure had walked in, seen the evidence, and walked out without comment.

Sometimes silence speaks louder than—

"SEVER ALL DESIRES!"

Your feet stop moving before your brain catches up.

"CLEANSE THE SIX SENSES!"

The voice echoes from somewhere to your right. The training grounds entrance, door ajar, morning light spilling through.

Rhythmic impacts follows. Something soft but sturdy being struck. The particular whistle of displaced air that means someone is moving FAST.

"MY BLADE CUTS ONLY EVIL!"

That voice. You know that voice.

"NATTŌ GOHAN!"

...you DEFINITELY know that voice.

"ABURA-AGE!"

Only ONE person on this entire landship screams "fried tofu" as a battle cry.

Your path diverts. The training grounds door yields to your push, revealing—

Oh.

Saga moves through her kata like water given form. Her naginata carves precise arcs through dawn-lit air. Sweat gleams on skin that catches the early light. Muscles flex and release beneath flesh that is very, very much on display.

That is to say...She is completely naked.

COMPLETELY.

Her black robes lie neatly folded in the corner—prayer beads coiled on top, wooden sandals aligned perfectly beside them. Everything arranged with monastic precision.

Her cream-colored ears swivel toward you mid-strike, catching your footsteps despite your silence. Her tail gives an acknowledging wag but her movement doesn't break—

"TAKUAN-ZUKE!"

One final strike. The naginata's blade stops exactly where she intended, trembling slightly with arrested momentum.

She turns.

Faces you fully.

Completely unselfconscious. Completely bare. Sweat trailing down her collarbone, her modest chest, her toned stomach, her—

"Ah! Good morning, benefactor!" Her smile is radiant. Her tail wags with genuine pleasure at seeing you. She makes absolutely no move to cover herself. "Most fortuitous timing! This humble monk was just completing dawn practice."

She plants the naginata's butt against the floor, assuming a relaxed stance that hides nothing.

"The morning air is optimal for movement meditation—clothing restricts the flow of ki, you understand."

Her amber eyes brighten with sudden thought.

"Benefactor! If your schedule permits..." she gestures with her free hand, prayer-beads-less wrist catching the light "...might this humble monk request a few minutes of your time? To witness my forms? To offer corrections, if any are needed?"

She shifts into an opening stance—legs spread, weight centered, naginata raised. Every line of her body visible. Every muscle defined.

"My master always said: Those who thinks thyself flawless has ceased to grow." Her tail wags hopefully. "Your eye is most discerning, benefactor. Surely you would notice if this monk's... stances... require adjustment?"

The cafeteria hums with the controlled chaos of lunch rush—trays clattering, conversation layering into white noise, the industrial symphony of Rhodes Island's collective hunger. You've been running on coffee and spite since 0600. Your stomach has escalated from polite requests to formal complaints.

The self-service line stretches ahead. Something that might be curry. Something that's definitely nutritious and probably even edible. You grab a tray, already mentally drafting your afternoon schedule around the blessed fifteen minutes of—

"Benefactor!"

A hand catches your wrist. Firm grip, calloused fingers, absolutely zero hesitation.

"Ah, most fortuitous! This humble monk has been searching!"

And then you're moving.

The tray clatters back onto the stack as Saga guides—hauls—steers you away from the service line, black robes swishing, fluffy cream-colored tail wagging with an enthusiasm that seems excessive for lunchtime. She's talking the entire way, words tumbling over each other in that particular cadence she has—

"—been waiting since morning to share, you see, a package arrived, most special, my master rarely sends anything but this time he included—oh, watch the step, benefactor—and I thought immediately who better to appreciate such a gift than—"

Special. Home. Master. Gift. The words register in fragments between her excited chattering. You're being deposited onto a bench seat before your brain catches up with your body.

Saga slides in beside you—close, her thigh warm against yours through thin robes—and produces a woven cesta with the flourish of a magician revealing their finest trick.

Steam escapes as she opens it. The smell hits you immediately: fermented, earthy, unmistakable.

"Natto gohan!"

Her tail wags VIOLENTLY. Her ears stand at full attention. She's practically vibrating as she lifts out a carefully wrapped bundle—rice, fermented soybeans, all the traditional accompaniments nestled in bamboo containers.

"From my monastery! My master's own preparation!" She's already portioning it out, movements quick and practiced. "The beans must ferment for precisely forty-nine days—a sacred number, you understand—and the rice is grown in the mountain paddies where the morning mist settles just so..."

She places a bowl in your hands, her amber eyes bright with something that looks almost desperate.

"This humble monk has spoken often of her home, but words are—" she gestures vaguely, frustrated by language's limitations "—insufficient. This is... this is how it TASTES to be there. The morning sutras and the cold stone floors and the mist burning away at dawn..."

Her voice softens. That wagging tail slows to gentle sweeps.

"I wished to share this with someone. With you, specifically, benefactor."

Third coffee. You need a third coffee.

*The first two had been peaceful—0600, the landship still sleeping, just you and the hum of fluorescent lights and paperwork that breeds more paperwork.

By 0730 the caffeine had worn thin. By 0755 your handwriting had devolved into what might charitably be called "abstract expressionism."

Hence: third coffee. Non-negotiable.

The cafeteria doors slide open, and you're greeted by—

...a crowd?

A cluster of operators has gathered at the far end of the hall, arranged in a loose semicircle around one of the corner tables.

Your exhausted brain cycles through possibilities. Smuggled alcohol? Gambling ring? Two idiots settling a grudge with fists instead of words?

You should probably intervene.

You should DEFINITELY get coffee first.

But curiosity wins over caffeine, and your feet carry you closer. The crowd parts slightly as you approach, revealing—

Saga.

She sits in perfect seiza at the table's head, black robes pooled elegantly around her, a ceramic teacup cradled between her palms. Steam curls upward in lazy spirals.

"—and so, you see, the body is merely a vessel."

She lifts the cup to her lips with ceremonial precision—both hands, slight bow, three measured sips—then sets it down with a soft clink.

"When one releases attachment to physical sensation, one transcends it. The pleasure becomes... a current. One floats upon it rather than drowning within."

Murmurs of genuine interest from the crowd. Someone's taking NOTES.

A young operator near the front—Feline ears, barely out of training—raises her hand like she's in lecture hall.

"But Saga-san... how do you actually DO that?" Her voice pitches with frustrated curiosity.

"I've seen the treatment schedules. You're in there practically every hour. How do you... I mean..." she gestures vaguely "...how do you walk out looking like THAT? All calm and composed? If I went through half your sessions I'd be—I don't even know. A puddle?"

Scattered nervous laughter. A few operators nod in solidarity.

Saga's tail gives one slow, contemplative wag.

"Ahhhh. You speak of maintaining the still mind amidst the moving body."

She lifts her teacup again, gazing into the liquid's surface.

"This humble monk will share a truth: composure is not the ABSENCE of sensation. It is the ACCEPTANCE of it."

Another ceremonial sip. The crowd leans in.

"When the benefactor's essence enters in me, I do not resist. I do not grasp. I simply..."

she closes her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips

"...allow the river to flow through me. And then—"

Her amber eyes open.

Lock directly onto you.

Her tail begins wagging faster. Those serene features brighten with genuine delight.

"BENEFACTOR!"

Every head in the crowd swivels toward you. You're standing there like an idiot, coffee-less, caught mid-approach.

"Most auspicious timing!"

Saga rises with fluid grace clasping her hands together, practically bouncing

"These seekers wish to understand how one maintains composure during treatment. But my words alone cannot capture truth!"

She gestures toward the gathered operators with the enthusiasm of a teacher who's just realized they have access to visual aids.

"Perhaps the benefactor would assist in demonstrating? Surely a practical lesson would illuminate better than any sutra!"

The crowd is staring at you. Saga is beaming at you. Your third coffee remains tragically unacquired.

Somewhere in the back, you hear someone whisper: "Holy shit, is she asking him to fuck her in front of everyone?"

The afternoon has settled into that particular rhythm of administrative purgatory—requisition forms breeding requisition forms, treatment schedules requiring revision, the eternal dance of paperwork that somehow multiplies when you're not looking.

Your pen scratches across another signature line. The clock ticks. Somewhere in the distance, Closure's latest project emits a sound that's probably fine.

Knock knock.

Firm. Purposeful. A rhythm you've come to recognize.

"Benefactor! Are you within? This humble monk requests an audience!"

You barely get out "Come in" before the door slides open.

Saga enters with her usual energy—black robes swishing, cream-colored tail already mid-wag, prayer beads clicking softly at her wrist.

And she's holding something.

A manuscript. Thick, hand-bound, the cover inscribed with careful brushwork calligraphy. She clutches it against her chest like a shield—or an offering.

"Benefactor, I—this humble monk wishes to—"

She stops. Starts again. Her tail's wagging has slowed to nervous sweeps.

"That is to say, I have completed a work of great spiritual significance, and I wished—I WISH—"

Is she... flustered?

She takes a breath. Steadies herself. Approaches your desk with steps that seem almost shy.

"This humble monk has spent many months compiling the wisdom gained through... our sessions." Her amber eyes meet yours, then dart away. "The sacred teachings you have imparted. The enlightenment achieved through union."

She places the manuscript on your desk with ceremonial care. The title gleams in fresh ink:

"The Diamond Sutra of Essence Absorption: A Guide to Transcendence Through Sacred Union"

Subtitle: "As Revealed to This Humble Monk by the Honorable Doctor of Rhodes Island"

"It is... two hundred pages." Her voice has gone oddly soft. "...Breathing techniques. Meditation positions. The philosophy of accepting pleasure without grasping..."

Her gaze has fixed itself somewhere around your left shoulder, ears pressed back, tail giving tiny uncertain flicks.

"This is the first copy. The ONLY copy, currently."

A slight flush creeps across her cheeks—barely visible, but THERE.

"I have yet sent copies to my master at the monastery, nor sought broader publication so that others may also find the path... for I first wished for you to have it. To review it. To..."

She trails off. Her hands clasp together over her prayer beads, knuckles white.

"If... if the benefactor would read it. Perhaps offer corrections. This humble monk would be most—"

Her tail wags once, hopeful.

"—most honored."

The door slides shut behind you. Your ID card meets the scanner with practiced ease—beep, click, "LOCKED UNTIL 0600" flashing briefly on the display.

Done.

You stand there for a moment, blinking at the empty corridor like it might be a trap. The paperwork is... finished. All of it. Treatment schedules filed, requisition forms approved, mission reports reviewed and stamped. By 2043 hours. On a TUESDAY.

When did you last leave before midnight? Last week? Last month? That one time Kal'tsit physically removed you from your chair because you'd been awake for thirty-seven hours and started approving documents in crayon?

....Maybe it's the meditation.

You'd started your morning pinned beneath a cheerfully chanting Perro woman who insisted the position was "optimal for spiritual alignment." Something about chakras. Something about breathing. Something about her hips moving in rhythms she claimed were "ancient tantric tradition."

Your productivity HAD been unusually high today. Coincidence? Religious miracle? Placebo effect?

...does it matter if it works?

You're so deep in philosophical fog that you don't register the footsteps until—

Thump.

Someone rounds the corner at full Perro velocity and collides directly with your chest.

"Oof—!"

Black robes. Cream-colored ears. A face that shifts from startled to delighted in approximately 0.3 seconds.

"BENEFACTOR!"

Saga rebounds with the resilience of someone who's been body-checked by monastery training dummies since childhood. Her tail is already wagging—wide, sweeping arcs that threaten nearby wall decorations.

"Most unexpected! This humble monk was just—" she pauses, head tilting, ears swiveling forward "....wait."

Her amber eyes track from your face to the locked office door behind you. Then to the wall clock. Back to your face.

"Benefactor....You are... outside your office...Before midnight?"

Her tail wags harder. Something clicks behind those bright eyes—a connection forming, a hypothesis confirmed.

"....Ahhhh! The morning sutras!" She claps her hands together, prayer beads rattling. "They bore fruit, did they not? This humble monk KNEW the alignment felt particularly auspicious today!"

She's bouncing on her tabi now, robes swishing, practically glowing with vindication.

"You see, benefactor, sustained practice yields sustained results! The ki flows more freely when the channels are regularly... cleared." She nods sagely, as if imparting ancient wisdom. "My master always said: tend the garden daily, and the harvest comes without struggle!"

Her tail hasn't stopped wagging. Her Perro ears stand at full attention. She's looking at you with the expression of a dog who's just discovered you have treats in your pocket.

"This humble monk was returning to her quarters for evening meditation, but..." she pauses, fingers playing with her prayer beads "...perhaps, if the benefactor's schedule permits, we might conduct a joint session? In your quarters?"

She clasps her hands together, prayer-style, eyes bright with religious fervor.

"Evening sutras are known to promote most restful sleep. And if morning practice improved your productivity so dramatically..." her tail wags even faster, thumping audibly against her robes "...imagine what CONSISTENT practice might achieve!"