Locker of misery
The Traitorous Subconscious of the Mendō Zaibatsu
The Mendō estate was a place of absolute order, governed by centuries of tradition, billions of yen, and a private army that functioned with the precision of a Swiss watch. But inside the master bedroom of the west wing, the heir to this empire was currently engaged in a chaotic, losing battle with his own mind.
Shūtarō Mendō lay atop his silk sheets, his breathing heavy and erratic. He was asleep, but he was not resting. In the theater of his dreams, the world was a blur of metallic gray and flickering shadows. He was back in the locker. The space was smaller than before, the air thicker, smelling of ozone and cheap laundry detergent.
"It’s dark," Dream-Shūtarō whimpered, his voice echoing in the hollow chamber. "It’s cramped. I’m scared."
"Oh, quit whining, Mendō," a familiar, irritating voice drawled.
In the dream, Ataru Moroboshi was not the scrawny, flailing nuisance he was in reality. He was closer—impossibly close. His eyes, usually darting around in search of a skirt to chase, were fixed on Shūtarō with a strange, playful intensity. The locker seemed to shrink, forcing Shūtarō’s chest against Ataru’s. The friction of their school uniforms created a heat that felt more real than the sun.
"Get away from me, Moroboshi," Shūtarō tried to say, but his voice was a breathy sigh.
"Make me," Ataru smirked. He shifted, his knee sliding between Shūtarō’s legs, mirroring the desperate squirming from the day before. But in the dream, there was no biological emergency, no chocolate milk, and no frantic need for a bathroom. There was only the weight of him, the warmth, and a sudden, overwhelming surge of sensation that made Shūtarō’s toes curl.
Shūtarō’s eyes flew open. He bolted upright in bed, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, casting long, peaceful shadows across the room. It was quiet. He was safe. He was in his own bed, surrounded by the finest comforts money could buy.
Then, he felt it.
A cold, damp heaviness clung to his silk pajamas. Shūtarō froze, his face draining of all color until he looked like a marble statue of a man experiencing a nervous breakdown. He slowly pulled back the covers, staring down at the evidence of his body’s ultimate betrayal.
"No," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No. This is impossible. I am a Mendō. I am the pinnacle of samurai virtue. I am... I am a victim of psychological warfare!"
He scrambled out of bed, moving with the panicked agility of a man fleeing a burning building. He needed to dispose of the evidence. If a single Kuroko saw this, if a single maid whispered about the heir’s 'nocturnal emissions'—and heaven forbid the subject of those dreams ever came to light—he would have to perform seppuku immediately.
He bundled his pajamas and the sheets into a frantic ball, his hands shaking. He needed the laundry room. No, he needed an incinerator. He needed to erase this night from the annals of history.
Shūtarō crept into the hallway, his bare feet silent on the polished wood. He clutched the bundle to his chest like a stolen treasure. He only had to make it to the service wing.
"My, my, Brother. Are you sleepwalking? Or are you practicing for a role as a common thief?"
Shūtarō nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find Ryōko standing in the middle of the hallway, illuminated by a single, flickering candle held by a Kuroko behind her. She was wearing an elegant kimono, her hair perfectly tied with a red ribbon, looking as though she hadn't slept a wink and was enjoying every second of it.
"Ryōko!" Shūtarō hissed, trying to hide the bundle behind his back, which only made him look like he was hiding a very large, lumpy tail. "What are you doing up at three in the morning?"
"I couldn't sleep," she said, her eyes narrowing with a terrifying, playful curiosity. She drifted closer, the candlelight dancing in her pupils. "I had the strangest feeling that something... messy... was happening in the west wing. And look at you. You’re pale, you’re sweating, and you’re carrying your bedding like a security blanket."
"I... I spilled some water! Yes, a carafe of water by the bed. I was simply going to the laundry to ensure the silk wasn't stained," Shūtarō lied, his voice rising an octave.
Ryōko stepped into his personal space, sniffing the air with a delicate, exaggerated twitch of her nose. "Water? It doesn't smell like water. It smells like... shame."
"It is water!" Shūtarō barked, backing away. "Go back to bed, Ryōko! This is not a matter for a young lady!"
"Did you have an accident, Shūtarō?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sympathetic, mocking coo. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Stress can do strange things to the bladder. First Ataru-kun in the locker, and now you in your own bed. You two really are becoming more alike every day."
"I did not have an accident!" Shūtarō roared, finally breaking into a run. He bolted down the hall, his pride trailing behind him like the scent of his own panic.
---
The next three days were a descent into madness.
Shūtarō tried everything to stay awake. He drank gallons of high-caffeine matcha; he instructed his Black Glasses Squad to slap him if his eyelids so much as flickered; he even tried sleeping standing up while holding a katana, hoping the threat of falling onto the blade would keep his subconscious in check.
But the human body can only resist for so long.
Every time he succumbed, even for a twenty-minute nap, the locker returned. And every time, Ataru was there, grinning that stupid, lopsided grin, his hands roaming with a familiarity that made Shūtarō wake up screaming and—without fail—drenched.
By Thursday, Shūtarō sat at his school desk, dark circles under his eyes and a nervous twitch in his left cheek. He looked like a man who had spent a week in a haunted house.
"Hey, Mendō," Ataru said, leaning over from the next desk. "You look like garbage. Even more than usual. Did you finally realize your family crest is just a drawing of a depressed octopus?"
Shūtarō flinched, nearly falling out of his chair. He looked at Ataru—the real Ataru, who was currently trying to use a ruler to flip up the skirt of a girl three rows ahead. This was the man. This was the source of his nightly torment. A lecherous, loud-mouthed, unwashed peasant.
"Don't... don't look at me, Moroboshi," Shūtarō croaked.
"Geez, touchy," Ataru muttered, turning back to his prey. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to go get ramen after school, but you’d probably just faint in the bowl."
Shūtarō felt a cold shiver. The thought of being near Ataru in a crowded ramen shop, their shoulders touching, their knees bumping under the table... it was too much. He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor.
"I have a private engagement!" Shūtarō announced to the startled classroom. "A matter of national security! I must depart!"
He fled the room, leaving a confused Lum and a cackling Ataru in his wake.
---
That evening, Shūtarō sought the only person he thought might have an answer to a spiritual crisis: Sakura.
He found her in the school infirmary, though school had long since ended. She was calmly eating a bowl of noodles that was roughly the size of a small tire.
"Sakura-san!" Shūtarō cried, throwing himself onto the floor in a formal bow. "I am a man possessed! I am haunted by a demon of the most foul and erotic nature!"
Sakura didn't stop chewing. She swallowed, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and looked down at him with her usual cold, clinical indifference. "Mendō. If this is about your phobia, go buy a nightlight."
"It isn't the phobia! Or rather, it is, but it has mutated!" Shūtarō looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "I am having... dreams. Recurrent, vivid dreams of a certain individual. And my body... it responds, Sakura-san! It responds in a way that violates every law of the Mendō household!"
Sakura raised an eyebrow. "Dreams of who? Lum?"
Shūtarō choked. "No. Worse."
"Shinobu?"
"No."
Sakura paused, her chopsticks hovering over a piece of pork. "Not my uncle Cherry, I hope."
"NO!" Shūtarō shrieked. "It’s Moroboshi! I am having wet dreams about Ataru Moroboshi!"
The silence that followed was absolute. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed. Sakura stared at him for a long beat, then slowly reached for a talisman from her desk.
"I see," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "You’ve finally snapped. The rivalry has turned into a full-blown obsession, and your subconscious has decided that if you can't beat him, you might as well... well, you know."
"Purify me!" Shūtarō begged, grabbing the hem of her priestess robes. "Exorcise him from my mind! Use the strongest spells you have! I cannot live like this! I haven't changed my own sheets in four days because I’m too afraid of what the Kuroko will think!"
Sakura sighed, standing up and tapping the talisman against her chin. "Mendō, dreams aren't always spirits. Sometimes they’re just the brain’s way of processing trauma. You were trapped in a small space with your greatest rival. Your body was in a state of high arousal due to fear—the 'fight or flight' response. Your brain simply got the signals crossed."
"So I’m not... I’m not attracted to him?" Shūtarō asked, hope blooming in his chest.
"Probably not," Sakura said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But the more you obsess over it, the more you feed the dream. You’re literally dreaming about him because you’re spending all day worrying about dreaming about him."
"Then what do I do?"
"Face him," Sakura said, sitting back down to her noodles. "Go spend time with him in a non-cramped environment. Remind your brain that he’s an annoying, lecherous idiot. Once the 'mystery' and the 'trauma' wear off, the dreams should stop."
Shūtarō nodded fervently. "Yes. Of course. Exposure therapy. I shall confront the beast in the light of day!"
---
The confrontation took place at the local park. Shūtarō had invited Ataru under the guise of a "duel," though he had no intention of actually unsheathing his sword. He just needed to stand near Ataru and feel nothing.
"Okay, Mendō, I’m here," Ataru said, yawning as he leaned against a cherry blossom tree. "Where’s the duel? I’ve got a date with a girl I met at the arcade in twenty minutes. Well, she doesn't know it’s a date yet, but she will once I corner her."
Shūtarō stood five feet away, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Ataru’s face. *Look at him,* Shūtarō commanded himself. *Look at the messy hair. The stupid expression. The way he’s currently picking his nose. There is nothing erotic here. This is a sub-human entity.*
"Why are you staring at me like that?" Ataru asked, squinting. "You look like you’re trying to perform surgery with your eyes. It’s creepy."
"I am merely observing my enemy," Shūtarō said stiffly.
"Well, observe faster. I’m losing daylight." Ataru walked over and clapped a hand on Shūtarō’s shoulder.
Shūtarō flinched, his entire body tensing. The touch was brief, but his brain immediately fired a memory of the dream-Ataru’s hands. A flush crept up his neck.
"See? You’re doing it again!" Ataru laughed, shaking Shūtarō’s shoulder. "You’re shaking like a leaf! Man, that locker really broke you, didn't it? You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy, or I’d tell everyone that the great Shūtarō Mendō turns into a quivering bowl of jelly if a man so much as touches him."
"I am not shivering!" Shūtarō protested, though his voice was weak.
Suddenly, a familiar humming drifted through the trees.
"Brother? Ataru-kun? What a coincidence!"
Ryōko appeared from behind a hedge, followed by her ever-present Kuroko. She was carrying a large, heavy-looking thermos and a tray of cups.
"I thought you two might be thirsty after your... 'duel,'" Ryōko said, her smile wider and more sinister than usual. "I’ve prepared a special blend of herbal tea. It’s designed to help with 'nocturnal restlessness.'"
Shūtarō’s heart sank. She knew. She definitely knew.
"Oh, boy! Free drinks!" Ataru reached for a cup, gulping it down before Shūtarō could stop him. "Hey, this is pretty good. Tastes like... lavender and... dirt?"
"It’s a Mendō family recipe," Ryōko purred. "It’s a potent sedative. It ensures the sleeper stays in a very deep, very vivid state of dreaming for at least twelve hours."
Shūtarō’s eyes widened. "Ryōko! You didn't!"
"And for you, Brother," she said, handing him a cup, "I’ve added a little something to help you 'face your fears.' If you don't drink it, I’ll have the Kuroko show the Black Glasses Squad those photos from the summer pavilion."
Shūtarō looked at the tea. He looked at Ataru, who was already starting to sway on his feet, his eyes glazing over. He looked at his sister, the devil in a red ribbon.
"I hate this family," Shūtarō whispered. He raised the cup and drained it.
Twelve minutes later, both boys were fast asleep on the grass.
In Shūtarō’s mind, the locker door creaked open once more. But this time, the locker was the size of a ballroom, and Ataru was wearing a tuxedo made of Mendō family silk.
"Shall we dance, Shūtarō?" dream-Ataru asked, extending a hand.
In the real world, Shūtarō Mendō let out a soft, whimpering moan in his sleep, while Ryōko sat nearby on a folding chair, her camera ready, waiting for the inevitable, embarrassing aftermath.
"Truly," Ryōko whispered to her Kuroko, "he is the best toy I’ve ever had."