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Locker of misery

The Shadow of the Red Ribbon

The Mendō estate was a fortress of silent, oppressive luxury. Within its sprawling acres of manicured zen gardens and high-tech security perimeters, Shūtarō Mendō sat cross-legged on a pristine tatami mat, his eyes closed in what he hoped looked like profound spiritual contemplation. In reality, he was fighting a war against his own memory. Every time he drifted toward sleep, he felt the phantom sensation of a cramped metal wall against his back and the frantic, rhythmic squirming of a certain lecherous idiot against his lap.

"It was the darkness," Shūtarō hissed to the empty room, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his knees. "The claustrophobia induced a temporary neurological short-circuit. My body was simply in a state of high-alert survival. It had nothing to do with Moroboshi. It could have been a fire hydrant, and the physiological response would have been the same!"

A sliding paper door creaked open with agonizing slowness. Shūtarō didn't move, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

"Brother? You’ve been in here for three hours without your tea," a sweet, melodic voice chirped.

Ryōko Mendō stepped into the room, looking every bit the refined young lady in her school uniform, her long brown hair perfectly accented by her signature ribbons. Behind her, two Kuroko—the silent, black-clad attendants—hovered like shadows, carrying a low table laden with a steaming teapot and a plate of suspicious-looking rice cakes.

"I am fasting, Ryōko," Shūtarō said, his voice tight. "Go away. I must purify my spirit."

"Purify? My, my," Ryōko giggled, her eyes sparkling with a predatory glint that Shūtarō knew all too well. She signaled the Kuroko to set the table down. "And here I thought you were hiding. The Black Glasses Squad mentioned you had a... rather intimate encounter in a locker today. They said you looked quite flushed when Lum-san rescued you."

Shūtarō bolted upright, his dignity crumbling. "Intimate? It was a struggle for survival! I was trapped with a monster! A beast! A man who possesses the moral compass of a stray cat!"

Ryōko leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. "And yet, you haven't called for your private jet to go hunt him down. Usually, by this time of evening, you’ve at least attempted to fire a tactical missile at the Moroboshi household. You’re being very... quiet, Brother. Is there something about that locker you aren't telling me?"

"There is nothing!" Shūtarō roared, pointing a trembling finger at the door. "Leave me to my meditations!"

Ryōko’s expression shifted instantly from playful to wounded. She pulled a delicate lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "How cruel. I spent all afternoon preparing these special rice cakes to cheer you up. I even added a special ingredient just for you."

Shūtarō eyed the rice cakes warily. Given Ryōko’s history, they were likely filled with either industrial-grade laxatives or high explosives. "I’m not eating those, Ryōko."

"Fine," she sighed, standing up with a graceful swirl of her skirt. "But if you change your mind, I’ll be in the garden. I’ve invited a guest over to help you 'decompress.' Since you seem so bothered by your experience with men today, I thought some masculine company might help you realize how much you truly prefer the company of... others."

Shūtarō felt a chill run down his spine. "What guest? Ryōko, what have you done?"

She didn't answer. She simply drifted out of the room, her laughter echoing like silver bells through the hallway.

Ten minutes later, the front gates of the Mendō estate groaned open. Ataru Moroboshi was practically dragged through the entrance by four Kuroko, his feet skidding across the gravel.

"Hey! Let go of me! I was in the middle of a very important stakeout at the girls' swim club!" Ataru yelled, though his eyes lit up the moment he saw the opulence of the mansion. "Actually, never mind. If I’m here, it means Ryōko-chan wanted to see me. My darling Ryōko! Where are you?"

He was led not to Ryōko, but to the private dojo where Shūtarō was currently venting his frustrations on a wooden practice dummy with a katana. The air in the room was thick with the scent of cedar and desperation.

"You!" Shūtarō screamed, the moment Ataru stepped inside. He swung his sword, stopping just inches from Ataru’s nose. "What are you doing in my home? Have you come to finish the job? Have you come to humiliate me further?"

Ataru blinked, completely unfazed by the blade. He reached up and casually pushed the sword aside. "Relax, Mendō. Your sister invited me over for a 'reconciliation dinner.' She said you were feeling depressed about the 'incident' and that I should come over to make amends. Personally, I think you should be thanking me. My bladder control is legendary."

"Make amends?" Shūtarō’s voice reached a pitch only dogs could hear. "You want to make amends? You turned my body into a traitorous vessel of shame! I should slice you into ribbons!"

"Your body? What are you talking about?" Ataru asked, picking his ear with a pinky. "Oh, you mean how you were shaking? Look, I told you, claustrophobia is a psychological thing. You really gotta work on that, man. It’s embarrassing. If I were a girl, you’d have been fine. But since it was just me, you turned into a total wreck."

Shūtarō froze. Ataru was oblivious. He truly didn't realize what had happened. To Ataru, the heat, the friction, and the physical reaction were all just part of Mendō’s "pathetic" fear of small spaces. The relief that washed over Shūtarō was so immense that he almost dropped his sword.

"Yes," Shūtarō exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. "My phobia. It... it manifests in strange physical ways. Tremors. Heart palpitations. Elevated body temperature. It was a purely medical phenomenon."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night," Ataru said, wandering over to a rack of expensive ornamental armor. "Anyway, where’s the food? Ryōko promised me a feast. And maybe a little 'thank you' kiss for being such a brave companion in that locker."

"You will stay away from my sister!" Shūtarō barked, but before he could move, the paper doors at the far end of the dojo slid open.

Ryōko stood there, framed by the moonlight, holding a small, ornate box. "Dinner is being served in the summer pavilion. But first, since you two shared such a... transformative experience, I thought we should play a little game to commemorate your bond."

"A game?" Ataru asked, his eyes turning into hearts. "Anything for you, Ryōko-chan!"

"It’s a traditional Mendō family trial," Ryōko explained, her voice dripping with mock solemnity. "The 'Box of Eternal Friendship.' Since you were trapped in a locker together, you must now prove that you have overcome the trauma by spending five minutes inside this."

She gestured to a large, black-lacquered chest that the Kuroko had just wheeled in. It was even smaller than the locker. It looked more like a coffin designed for twins.

"No," Shūtarō whispered, his face turning ghostly white. "Not again. Ryōko, I’m your brother! Have mercy!"

"But Shūtarō, didn't you say you wanted to purify your spirit?" Ryōko tilted her head innocently. "And Moroboshi-san, if you do this, I might just have to reward your bravery with a very special, very private tea ceremony."

Ataru didn't even hesitate. He grabbed Shūtarō by the arm and began dragging him toward the chest. "Get in the box, Mendō! Do it for love! Do it for my future with your sister!"

"Let go of me, you animal! I’ll kill you! I’ll—"

With a synchronized shove from the Kuroko, both boys were tumbled into the chest. The lid slammed shut, and the heavy iron bar was slid into place.

"It's dark! It's cramped! I'm scared!" Shūtarō’s muffled scream erupted instantly from inside the wood.

"Shut up, Mendō! You’re stepping on my hand!" Ataru’s voice muffled through the lacquer. "Move over! If I’m gonna be in here, I’m gonna be comfortable!"

Outside, Ryōko sat on top of the chest, fanning herself gracefully. She leaned down, pressing her ear to the wood. "Oh, listen to them. They’re becoming such fast friends."

Inside the chest, the nightmare had returned with a vengeance, but this time, it was worse. The chest was lined with silk, which only served to trap the heat more effectively. Because it was shorter than the locker, they weren't just standing; they were curled into each other, knees tucked into chests, a tangled mess of limbs and school blazers.

"Moroboshi," Shūtarō gasped, his face pressed against Ataru’s shoulder. "If you... if you move... I will end you."

"I have to move! My leg is falling asleep!" Ataru grunted, trying to shift his weight. In the process, his hip slid firmly against Shūtarō’s thigh.

Shūtarō let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. The heat was back. That horrible, traitorous, Mendō-disgracing warmth was flooding his system again. Every time Ataru shifted, trying to find space, the friction sent a jolt of pure electricity through Shūtarō’s spine.

"Why are you so hot?" Ataru complained, his voice vibrating against Shūtarō’s chest. "Seriously, Mendō, you’re like a space heater. Are you sure you don't have a fever?"

"It’s... the... phobia..." Shūtarō choked out, his eyes squeezed shut so hard he saw stars. He could feel Ataru’s breath on his neck. It was rhythmic and calm, a sharp contrast to his own ragged gasping.

"Man, Ryōko is worth it, but this is a lot of work," Ataru sighed, settling his head into the crook of Shūtarō’s neck. "Just relax, buddy. Five minutes. We can do five minutes. Just think about... uh... think about how much you hate me. That usually keeps you going, right?"

Shūtarō tried to focus on his hatred. He tried to remember every time Ataru had stolen his spotlight, every time Ataru had leered at Lum, every time Ataru had called him a "pampered prince." But it was hard to hate someone when you were currently being used as a pillow. It was hard to maintain a grudge when the sensory input was overriding his brain's ability to process logic.

Then, the ultimate disaster struck.

"Hey," Ataru said, his voice suddenly small. "Mendō?"

"What?" Shūtarō hissed.

"You know that tea Ryōko gave me while I was waiting for you?"

Shūtarō’s blood ran cold. "The tea? What about it?"

"It was a really big cup," Ataru whispered. "And I think... I think the 'biological emergency' from earlier? It’s back. With interest."

Shūtarō’s eyes flew open in the darkness. "No. No, no, no! Moroboshi, I swear on the Mendō family crest, if you do it this time, I will not just kill you. I will hire a necromancer to bring you back so I can kill you again!"

"I’m trying! But the chest is vibrating! Is Ryōko shaking the chest?"

Outside, Ryōko was indeed rocking the chest back and forth with her feet, humming a jaunty tune.

"Stop moving!" Shūtarō screamed, grabbing Ataru’s waist in a desperate attempt to stabilize him. But the movement only made things worse. As he held Ataru tight, the physical contact became too much. Shūtarō felt his face burning, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was horrified to realize that, despite the threat of being urinated upon, his body was still responding to the proximity in a way that would require years of therapy to unpack.

"Mendō, you’re squeezing too hard!" Ataru wailed. "The pressure! The pressure is reaching critical mass!"

"Hold it in! For the love of all that is holy, hold it in!"

"I can't! It’s like a tidal wave! A tsunami of green tea!"

At that moment, the summer pavilion was illuminated by a sudden, brilliant flash of blue light. The roof of the dojo was vaporized as Lum descended from the sky like a vengeful thunderbolt.

"DARLING! I KNEW YOU WERE HERE!"

She didn't bother with the latch. She simply blasted the chest with a bolt of high-voltage electricity. The wood splintered and exploded outward.

Shūtarō and Ataru were launched in opposite directions. Shūtarō landed face-first in a koi pond, the cold water finally—mercifully—quenching the fire in his blood. Ataru, however, was caught mid-air by Lum, who began to shake him violently.

"Darling! Ryōko-san said you were having a 'secret meeting' in a box! What were you doing in there? Were you hiding a girl?"

"IT WAS MENDŌ!" Ataru screamed, his hair standing on end from the static. "I WAS WITH MENDŌ! AND NOW I REALLY HAVE TO GO!"

He tore himself out of her grip and sprinted toward the bushes with a speed that defied the laws of physics.

Shūtarō crawled out of the koi pond, dripping wet and shivering. He looked up to see Ryōko standing over him, holding a camera she had hidden in her sleeve.

"Oh, Brother," she said, showing him the digital screen. It was a perfect, high-definition photo of the moment the chest exploded—Shūtarō and Ataru tangled together, Shūtarō’s face a mask of primal, conflicted emotion. "This is going to look wonderful in the family album. Or perhaps on the school bulletin board?"

Shūtarō looked at the photo. He looked at his sister’s sadistic smile. Then he looked toward the bushes, where the sound of Ataru’s relieved sigh echoed through the night.

"Ryōko," Shūtarō said, his voice hollow and defeated. "Just... just tell the Kuroko to prepare the diving bomber. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to fly into the sun."

"Don't be silly, Shūtarō," Ryōko giggled, patting his wet cheek. "The sun is far too bright. And besides, you have school tomorrow. I hear the lockers are being replaced with even smaller, more 'efficient' models."

Shūtarō Mendō didn't scream. He simply tipped backward, falling silently back into the koi pond, letting the dark, cold water swallow him whole. It was the only place he felt safe from the world, from his sister, and most of all, from the terrifying, confusing reality of Ataru Moroboshi.