Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 31

"No way! We have to get assigned to the same kōban!"

Tamako slapped her chopsticks onto her tray so hard the plastic clattered. She was not about to let the Reasoning Squad—rebuilt with so much effort—get torn apart again.

Besides, she'd heard that some kōban officers loved hazing rookies. With Fushimi-kun's temperament he'd end up crying in a corner the first week. If she wasn't there, who'd look after him?

The mental image of Fushimi Shika crouched in a restroom stall, hugging his knees and sniffling, landed on her shoulders like another stack of textbooks. As squad captain—and future famous inspector—it was her duty to carry the load.

"You're picking at your food again. You haven't touched the broccoli or the carrots," Fushimi observed.

"I'm discussing something important! Broccoli and carrots are irrelevant right now."

Why did everyone feel entitled to comment on her plate? At home her mom nagged, at school Kawai called her fussy, and now even Fushimi accused her of being picky. Broccoli and carrots were the sworn enemies of her life.

"So what's your plan?" Fushimi asked, flicking a cube of gristly pork to the edge of his dish.

"Ha! Got you—you're picky too!"

Tamako decided that made them even. Selective eating was obviously the Reasoning Squad's proud tradition. Anyone who ate everything was basically a pig.

Fushimi speared the pork cube, flipped it over, and aimed it at her like a dart. "Would you eat this?"

Tamako squinted. Was that... a little tumor? With hair sprouting from it? Some kind of mutant breed?

"If the cafeteria served it, it must be edible... right?"

The conversation was veering off a cliff. She yanked it back: the top priority was making sure the squad graduated together and landed in the same kōban to keep solving cases.

Fushimi grunted noncommittally, wiped his mouth, and was halfway out of his seat when the class-leader appeared, tray in hand. "Fushimi-kun, are you finished? Mind if I sit?"

Fushimi glanced at Tamako, then picked up his chopsticks again. "Not yet."

The leader's expression curdled at the sight of the "pork brisket," but he swallowed whatever comment he had.

From the moment the leader approached Tamako had gone statue-still. She stared at her carrots, lips pressed tight, looking for all the world like a pink rabbit in a trance.

Fushimi raised an eyebrow. Strange—Tamako was shy around strangers, but not actually socially anxious. Was she afraid of the class-leader?

"I'll just sit here, then."

The leader slid onto the bench. "I overheard you talking about postings. Haven't you two greased any palms yet?"

Tamako didn't answer; her ears twitched. Under the table she kicked Fushimi's ankle.

He sighed and set down his chopsticks. "Explain."

"If you know someone at a kōban, the chief can file a request to pull you into their precinct. It's one of the academy's open secrets."

He paused, then added, "Of course, whether the request sails through is another matter."

Fushimi caught the implication. "So, Yu-kun has connections?"

"Yu" was the leader's given name—Yoshimura Yu. Square-jawed, thick-browed, the textbook image of an upright public servant.

"Not at all. I'm fine wherever they send me."

Yoshimura cracked apart his chopsticks. "That said, my uncle runs the kōban in Bunkyo Ward. Keeps saying he needs help, and family is family... Honestly, it's a pain."

Japan's economy wasn't equal; neither were kōban perks. Bunkyo, stuffed with elite schools, was famous for cushy shifts and fat paychecks. Even the dogs on the sidewalk had trust funds.

Yoshimura sighed theatrically. "I told Dad to stop using his dean-of-academics pull, but no—he insists on Minato Ward. Big deal, it's got Tokyo Tower."

Fushimi's expression synced with Tamako's: both stared at their trays, lips sealed.

Finally Yoshimura unsheathed his real agenda. "Tamako-san, which kōban are you aiming for? I can't promise anything, but I could put in a word with Dad. We might end up working together..."

A lightbulb flashed in Tamako's head—Mom could pull strings! Then her conscience kicked in: using influence would be corruption. The ally of justice did not stoop so low.

Her brows knotted with worry.

Yoshimura warmed to his theme, already picturing shared patrols and long shifts alone—

"Sorry, not interested," Fushimi cut in.

"Eh?" Yoshimura forced a laugh. "I was speaking to Tamako-san..."

He'd never understood what a cute girl like Tamako saw in Fushimi—no pedigree, middling grades, average fitness. Looks-wise, a rugged guy like himself offered far more security.

"Tamako and I already agreed to apply as a pair," Fushimi said, eyes flat. "Kōban slots max out at two. Thanks anyway."

"Y-yeah," Tamako added gloomily, missing every nuance. "You're already stressed; we couldn't impose."

"It's not that stressful—just a formality," Yoshimura blustered.

"Really? Then could you put us in the same kōban? Wait, is that still nepotism?"

Tamako's sincerity was absolute. She thought Yoshimura was simply kind, if a bit boastful.

Yoshimura's face grayed. He stood, tray in hand, and stalked off without a word.

Tamako blinked. "What's wrong? Is he mad?"

Fushimi opened his mouth to say "natural airheads beat schemers every time," but the loudspeaker crackled.

All Class A cadets were to assemble on the parade ground for graduation-test announcements.