Chapter 187: Don't Let Stelle Perform This
"March! March, look what I brought back for you!"
Rekka waved a glossy, metallic-edged placard in the air, his grin practically splitting his face.
March 7th paused her stretching routine, giving him a flat, utterly deadpan stare.
"Ta-da! The full team autograph of the Ataguchiu Anvil Team from the Tychon Mobile Ball Tournament!" he announced, shoving the board into her hands. "Aren't you a massive fan of these guys?"
March blinked, looking down at the pristine signatures, then back up at his smug face. "Ah? You... wait, you mean...?"
"Yeah, I swung by the Mobile Ball arena today—"
"No, I mean, you went all the way there... just to get this for me?" A faint, rosy blush dusted her cheeks as she clutched the placard. "I saw your game, you know."
She had, in fact, watched the entire live broadcast. Rekka's absolute rampage on the field had been less of a sports match and more like watching an out-of-control Astral Express engine plow through a flock of helpless birds. He had scattered the Anvil Team members like bowling pins. The final score was a brutal seventeen to three. It was a massacre.
"How did you even get this?" March asked, her brow furrowing in genuine bewilderment. Logically speaking, after being publicly humiliated and physically bulldozed, why would the defeated Anvil Team have even a shred of goodwill toward the man who ruined their season?
"I just walked into their locker room and asked them to sign it after the game." Rekka shrugged, entirely unbothered. "They're actually a really nice bunch of guys. No bad temper at all about the loss. They even complimented my crashing technique."
"Crashing technique..." March muttered, her eye twitching as she recalled the broadcast footage of armored players flying into the stadium walls.
Surprisingly, the Anvil Team had developed a fanatical admiration for Rekka's sheer physical dominance. The core rivalry between the Anvil Team and the Shield-Drill Team stemmed from their philosophies: Anvil strictly refused cybernetic modifications, relying entirely on raw flesh and blood, while Shield-Drill embraced full-body mechanical enhancements.
Rekka, stepping in as a wild-card outsider, possessed zero cybernetics. Yet, his pure, unadulterated physical strength had sent the Anvil heavyweights flying across the arena. The sheer display of organic power had literally brought tears to their eyes. In a bizarre twist of fate, witnessing Rekka's dominance had somehow caused the Anvil Team to let go of their stubborn pride, leading to a miraculous reconciliation with their bitter rivals, the Shield-Drill Team.
It was a scene straight out of a cheesy sports broadcast. Sweaty men crying out in mutual respect, exchanging relieved smiles and dramatic bows of gratitude. Riding the high of this newfound brotherhood, the Anvil Team had even shamefully confessed a dark secret: they had smuggled illegal EMP chips into the stadium, specifically designed to paralyze Shield-Drill's cybernetics. Instead of sparking a riot, this confession only deepened their bond. The great reconciliation between the two rival factions was instantly cemented into Tychon's sporting history. It wasn't poetry; it was just raw, chaotic history. And a famous scene from Dekay, or so the commentators claimed.
"So... your violent crashing actually led to a wholesome, happy ending?" March summarized, still struggling to process the absurdity of it all.
"Probably," Rekka replied, looking rather pleased with himself.
"Was the part where you got the head referee ejected from the stadium also part of this grand, wholesome plan?" a cool, even voice interjected.
Dan Heng stood nearby, leaning casually against the parlor wall with his arms crossed.
Rekka's smug expression instantly froze. He coughed into his fist, looking away. "...That was a complete accident."
"I knew it," Dan Heng sighed, shaking his head. "So the one thing you actually didn't intend to do during the entire broadcast has now become the number one trending topic across the planetary network."
"Can we please stop rubbing salt in my wounds?" Rekka grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Oh, right! By the way, Rekka, what Path were you actually attuned to today?" March suddenly asked, her curiosity piqued. "We kept asking you for ages before you left for the stadium, and you refused to tell anyone."
"I was running a Hunt main, with a Propagation secondary," Rekka answered casually.
March tilted her head. "That's... not a very common combination, is it?"
"What do you mean not common? Stop talking nonsense," Rekka rolled his eyes, waving off her critique of his chaotic build. He turned back to the stoic guard. "Dan Heng, catch. I also brought back the full team autograph of the Shield-Drill Team that you like."
"Thank you," Dan Heng replied softly, catching the heavy object tossed his way.
It was a genuine unspoken brotherhood. Dan Heng stared down at the official Mobile Ball, carefully sealed within a transparent resin display box. The metallic surface of the ball was heavily scuffed, bearing deep scratches and streaks of black grime wedged into its mechanical seams. This wasn't some cheap replica from a stadium souvenir shop; this was a match-used ball from the actual bloodbath of a game. Rekka might have been a walking disaster, but when it came to his friends, he was practically a saint of benevolence and righteousness.
Suddenly, a messy gray head peeked around the edge of the doorframe. Golden eyes shone in the dim lighting like two high-beam headlights. The Express's resident cute gray raccoon had arrived.
"What about me!" Stelle demanded, practically vibrating with anticipation. "Did you bring me a gift? A gift! I want a gift..."
"Yes, yes, calm down," Rekka laughed, pulling a folded bundle of fabric from his bag. "A freshly cleaned, game-worn jersey signed by the captains of both teams."
Stelle snatched the fabric with lightning speed, holding the oversized jersey up against her chest. It was massive. The hem draped all the way down past her thighs like a dress, and the broad sleeves completely swallowed her hands. She beamed, her eyes sparkling with pure joy.
"The four of us are going to be best friends for life!"
"Alright, alright," Rekka chuckled, patting her head. "Just do me a favor, Stelle. Next time, please don't try to recommend maid outfits to Little Blue Light."
Fast forward to the afternoon. Little Blue Light had absolutely refused to wear the frilly garment, but Stelle, never one to let a perfectly good outfit go to waste, had put the maid dress on herself.
Rekka leaned back on the sofa, pulling out his phone. He snapped a few candid photos of the absurdly tall, deadpan Trailblazer in the frilly black-and-white uniform, then opened his contacts and tapped Silver Wolf's icon.
[Rekka: Transfer this to Firefly, please.]
Silver Wolf replied almost instantly. Though the genius hacker didn't quite understand his angle, she offered a blunt reminder.
[Silver Wolf: Sam doesn't usually answer calls or messages from outsiders. She strictly monitors channels from us and Stelle.]
[Rekka: It's fine. I have a foolproof trick to make her reply to me.]
He hit send on the photo of Maid Stelle. The chat remained completely silent for several long seconds.
[Silver Wolf: Kafka just looked over my shoulder. She said to send her a high-res copy. She wants to see it too.]
[Rekka: Aren't you supposed to be transferring this to Firefly? Since when did you become a black-market photo broker?]
[Silver Wolf: Just a side task. Don't worry about it.]
Light-years away, Firefly received the forwarded file. She opened the image to find Stelle stuffed into a cute, frilly black-and-white maid outfit. The sizing was clearly a bit too snug across her shoulders. The gray-haired girl was tilting her head at the camera, one hand gripping a mop like a spear, the other clutching a dusting rag, staring forward with a deeply empty, foolishly earnest expression.
The caption read: [Housekeeping staff. Highly positive work attitude.]
One second. Two seconds. Three...
[Sam: Don't let Stelle perform this.]
[Rekka: Oh, I'm definitely letting her perform this. I'm letting her perform the hell out of this.]
[Sam: You...]
[Rekka: Hey, she's doing it completely voluntarily!]
To prove his point, Rekka attached a short five-second video of Stelle enthusiastically mopping the Express floor while humming a chaotic tune.
[Sam: You wait right there.]
[Rekka: Wait for what?]
[Sam: Wait for me to come over there and find you.]
[Rekka: Bring it on. My door is open.]
[Sam:...Is Stelle sitting next to you right now?]
[Rekka: Yep.]
[Sam: Give her the communicator.]
[Rekka: Nope.]
[Sam: Rekka.]
Chuckling to himself, Rekka finally relented. He turned the phone screen toward the gray-haired maid, who paused her aggressive mopping.
"Firefly is looking for me?" Stelle asked, blinking her golden eyes.
"Yeah, she wants to talk to you," Rekka said, handing over the device. As she took it, he smoothly leaned his shoulder against the wall right beside her, shamelessly perking his ears up to eavesdrop.
Stelle tapped the screen to accept the incoming voice call. Firefly's voice filtered through the speaker, sounding noticeably lower than usual, as if she were deliberately suppressing her tone.
"Stelle."
"Yeah?"
"Are you... are you actually wearing that outfit because you wanted to?"
Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. When Firefly spoke again, her voice was slightly muffled, betraying a hint of flustered hesitation.
"Well... it does look good on you."
"Really?!" Stelle's eyes instantly lit up like supernovas, her voice pitching up in pure delight. "You think it looks good too?"
Another heavy, two-second pause from the Stellaron Hunter.
"I do... but... isn't that skirt a little bit too short?"
"Oh, it's totally fine!" Stelle answered brightly, completely oblivious. "Rekka said this is the standard uniform length."
...Rekka said.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees through the phone speaker alone.
"Stelle. Give him back the phone."
"Oh, okay!"
Stelle obediently handed the device back to Rekka, blissfully unaware of the murderous, subtle tension suddenly radiating from the digital connection. Rekka took the phone, sauntering two steps away to lean lazily against the parlor doorframe.
"Are you doing this on purpose?" Firefly's voice was dangerously quiet.
"Doing what on purpose?" Rekka grinned, feigning absolute innocence. "I told you, she picked it out herself."
The sheer, rampant jealousy practically bled through the receiver. Was she really getting this territorial over a female colleague wearing a frilly apron?
Click. The line went dead. She had abruptly hung up.
Rekka stared at the bold Call Ended notification on his screen and let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Rekka, what did Firefly say?" Stelle asked, tilting her head curiously, the mop still clutched in her hand.
He pocketed the phone and offered her a thumbs-up. "She said you look incredibly cute."
"Really?!"
"Really."
Stelle beamed, practically radiating happy, raccoon-like energy as she went back to aggressively polishing the floorboards.
"Just one piece of advice, though," Rekka added dryly, rubbing his chin. "Next time you chat with Firefly, try not to mention my name in every single sentence."
'Because at this rate, Firefly is going to try and incinerate me with a mecha suit every single day.'
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