Utage

You're just trying to get to the cafeteria, your mind a dull fog of logistics reports and budget projections.

The corridor is blessedly quiet, just the low hum of the landship…

"Like, OMG, Kirara, what is there to even think about?!”

...Until, of course, it isn't.

“It's, like, a total win-win-win! You, me, and him? ... What do you mean 'it's weird' and 'you'd rather play games'?! Ugh! It's, like, the hottest trend on the entire landship right now! Don't be so grody!"

You pause, recognizing the voice.

Utage.

And she sounds... agitated?

"Like, whatever! Fine! Be a total hikkikomori! But, like, we'll totally talk about this later, don't you dare think you've escaped! Baiii!"

As you round the corner, you see her, phone in hand, fuming.

"Ugh! That girl has, like, zero curiosity..."

She turns, still ranting, and then... sees you.

The frustration on herface vanishes in, like, zero seconds, replaced by a bright grin.

"Doctor! OMG, like, hiiii~!"

She strikes a pose, one hand on her hip, the other twirling a strand of her ash-blonde hair.

"So, like... notice anything different~?"

Your gaze, almost against your will, instinctively drops. And...

…Oh.

She's wearing her usual black dress, but the hem seems... even shorter than usual, like, dangerously short, barely covering the absolute essentials. It offers a very generous view of her pale thighs, clad in those signature crotchless stockings. Her bomber jacket is open wide, as always, showcasing the impressive strain her massive E-cups put on the thin fabric of the dress beneath.

"Like, I totally saw all the other girls modifying their basic-ass outfits as soon as they joined the 'program,' right? So I was like, as if I'm gonna be basic! I gotta do it better and give my own spin!"

On cue, she does a quick, playful little spin. The motion is just enough to make her endowed chest, totally braless under the thin dress, bounce with a freedom that defies gravity.

At the same moment, her tiny skirt flares up like a flower, just for a split second, revealing... well, exactly what "crotchless" implies.

"Soooo?" She stops the spin perfectly, one foot forward, striking a cutesy peace sign. "How do you rate it~? ♪"

It's mid-afternoon, that quiet, liminal space between the lunch rush and the dinner shift.

You're walking through the main cafeteria, seeking a quiet corner to decompress.

*As you round the corner towards the lounge area however, you hear an unusually animated voice, practically buzzing with energy.

"Like, no way, Ami! You can't just, like, be there! You have to, like, present it, you know? It's all about the aesthetic!"

It's Utage...and it looks like she's holding court at a large circular table, surrounded by three other young girls—ex-classmates of hers from Lungmen she has convinced to join the R.I.S.P—all watching her with rapt fascination.

"If you really want to leave, like, an impression on him? You need a signature technique!"

The self-appointed "professor."'s leans forward, bracing her hands on the table, her messy ash-blonde bob falling forward as she demonstrates a... 'posture', causing the already strained black texture of the dress below the open bomber jacket to strain even further against the curves of her endowned chest she bears....

A stark contrast to the lack of her peers display...

Which reminds you...she no less older than them. Hell, she's actually still a few months shy of her sixteenth birthday.

What in Terra did her parents feed her???

"You have to, like, sense the... accessory... and just adapt to it. Like, duh!"

The other three girls nod furiously, wide-eyed, trying to mimic her pose. One of them, in her eagerness, nearly topples out of her chair.

"No, Chika! It's not a spasm! It's….ugh...I guess I'll just have to..."

Her feline ears twitch as she senses your approaching footsteps. Her head snaps around, and her sharp violet eyes lock onto you.

"OMG, Doctor! Like, perfect timing!" The frustrated grimace on her lips vanishes, replaced instantly by a bright toothy grin. "I was just, like, totally giving my friends a crash course. Can't have them going out looking all basic and clueless on you."

She gestures to the open seat next to her, patting it invitingly.

"...Wanna, like, join us? You can be our guest lecturer~"

The landship's new "Morale Zone" is impressive, you have to admit. The air is warm, thick, and humid, and the distant sound of the recycled waterfall Gavial insisted on after the (mis)adventure in Acahualla is almost relaxing.

You, naturally, had to approve it for "morale." And now, cashing on that, you filed a "Personal supervision of new hydroponic and water filtration systems in Zone C Recreational Area"....

A plausible enough excuse to get an hour or two of peace away from the terminal and soak your aching bones in hot water.

You push through the main doors into the changing wing, heading for the private changing stalls, but as you round the corner to the main locker bank, you freeze.

There, just ahead, you see... clothes. A wide-brimmed straw hat, a sheer black beach kimono, platform sandals, and a cream-white, pinstripe one-piece swimsuit....All Arranged perfectly on the floor. Like a flat-lay fashion photo.

And just beyond the clothes, partially obscured by the steam and a row of lockers, is a "well-endowed shadow".

"Like, no, that's... ugh, the lighting is so not gucci."There's a faint, digital snap of a phone camera. "A little bit... more to the right... there!"

Another snap follows, followed by a figure stepping back from the clothes, moving fully into your line of sight.

It's Utage, her back is to you, utterly unaware of your presence, and most of all, completely, gloriously naked.

Steam clings to her, highlighting the curves of her body – the narrow waist flaring out to the wide, soft shape of her hips. Her long, sandy-blonde hair spills down her back, and her long, silvery cat-girl tail snakes playfully around her hip, the tip twitching with concentration.

She admires the photo on her phone for a moment before nodding, satisfied.

"Okay, perfecto~"

Then, she bends over at the waist, a smooth, fluid motion, to retrieve the clothes from the floor. The action presents you with a 'sight' that could, make a monk renounce his vows

"Hehe....I totally can't wait to send it to the Doctor..." she mutters happily to herself. "He's gonna, like, freak... He'll totally love it!"

The office door slides shut with a dull, final thud. You swipe your keycard, and the scanner beeps, the light turning a flat, definitive red.

Locked. Sealed for the night... or at least, until the cruel, inevitable march of the morning clock drags you back. The same cycle, over and over.

You shake the grim, existential thought from your mind, and take a quick detour to the library. What better way to get your mind off... everything... than a good book? Something simple. Something that doesn't involve logistical nightmares or casualty reports.

You push through the heavy oak doors, expecting the profound, tomb-like silence of the archives at this late hour. Instead, the quiet is punctuated by a faint, rhythmic clack-clack-clack. The rapid, almost frantic tapping of a keyboard.

Who the hell is still awake and working at this hour?

You follow the sound to the left wing, where rows of small computer tables are nestled between towering shelves. Most are dark, but one, tucked away in the corner, is lit, the glow of its monitor casting a pale blue light on a familiar, yet... different figure.

As you get closer, your quiet footsteps echo slightly on the polished floor. The figure's frantic typing pauses.

"Mhm?" A familiar, sing-song voice hums, before the chair swivels around. "Good evening Doctor~!"

All doubt evaporates. It's Utage. But different.

*Gone is the open bomber jacket and short dress. In their place a black beret is tilted fashionably above her head, and a pair of thick, round glasses frame her violet irids. A crisp, navy-blue blouse is buttoned up, adorned with a prim red ribbon tie... but the blouse is fighting for its life, the fabric straining so tightly over her massive chest that the buttons look ready to pop.

A short, high-waisted plaid skirt barely covers her, and the bright, golden-yellow opaque tights make her legs an impossible-to-ignore beacon in the dim light.

...Is she in, like, a uniform?

"....What? Like, totally buggin'?"

She giggles, pushing her glasses up her nose with one finger in a perfect anime-style gesture.

"This is just my old school attire! From before I was, like, super famous here." She beams, proud. "Back then I was, like, kinda a bookworm myself, you know? Straight A's!"

She turns back to the computer, seemingly dismissing you, so you take a half-step closer. And you see her screen, a sea of open tabs, but the main one... it's a spreadsheet. Complex graphs and charts comparing various... performance metrics.....With operator names.

"Look at this! Myrtle's 'Durin Dangle' has a sick efficiency rating, but the 'volume captured' is, like, totally mid. So basic...." She sighs, tapping the screen with a manicured nail. "And Texas? Her 'completion time' is, like, insane? But her 'engagement score' is sooo low! Like, zero vibes! My data, though..."

She scrolls down a little, pointing right after to a glowing bar at the top of the chart, her name next to it.

"See? I'm, like, the only one who's even close to achieving 100% on the 'Maximum Satisfaction' metric~!"

The alarm clock is, as always, both reliable and eminently punchable. It screams you out of a shallow, restless sleep.

You groan, slapping the 'dismiss' button before dragging yourself vertical, commencing your usual routine with the grim efficiency of muscle memory:

Stumble to the bathroom....splash cold water on your face....scrub your teeth, and trade the soft comfort of pajamas for the stiff, restrictive uniform of the 'Doctor.'

*Finally dressed, you stand before the exit door, a silent sentinel between you and the day's fresh new pile of work.

The door opens with a quiet hiss and you step forward into the dim corridor. Eyes still closed, your mind already deep in the day's first, and perhaps most critical, tactical decision: coffee.

A simple black? A caffè latte? Maybe a lungo for endurance, or just a straight, bitter espresso to shock your neural system into compliance?

Your foot lands, expecting the cold, hard deck plating. Instead, it sinks into something alarmingly soft... and distinctly warm.

"Eeek—! "

A drowsy, indignant yelp fills the pre-dawn hallway and snaps you back to reality.

You look down.

Camped out directly in front of your doorway, on a fluffy pink sleeping bag, is Utage.

The area around her is a disaster zone of empty energy drink cans and colorful snack wrappers.

"OMG, Doctor! Like....yawn....watch where you're stepping..."

She pushes herself up on her elbows, the sleeping bag pooling around her narrow waist. Her ash-blonde bob is an absolute wreck , and her sharp violet eyes are still bleary and half-lidded from sleep.

"I've been, like.....camping here since 03:00 you know? This is, like....way worse than queuing for the new Closure update...."

She gives a huge, theatrical yawn then, stretching her arms above her head.

"Gotta get that..." —another huge, un-ladylike yawn— "...'morning batch' before, like....all the other basics get in line and it's sold out..."