He was every inch the quick and easy villain that Haruhi would’ve wanted him to be.

But the fact that Koizumi had needed to go to such lengths in order to create the antagonist that was Haruhi’s fondest wish meant that she wasn’t truly omnipotent. If she was indeed all-knowing and all-powerful, it would’ve been the simplest thing in the world, wouldn’t it? I asked Koizumi whether all his effort didn’t mean exactly that.

“Ah, but the result of our labor was the creation of exactly the student council president that Haruhi wanted, which means that her wish did in fact become reality, does it not? Practically speaking, it does.”

He was talking circles around me again. Only Tsuruya was better at it than he was.

The president irritably crushed out his cigarette. “Anyway, Koizumi. Next year you be the president. If what you want is to avoid Suzumiya running for the job, then just do it yourself.”

“I wonder about that. I’m fairly busy myself, and lately I feel as though Suzumiya wouldn’t make a bad president herself.”

The hell she wouldn’t. If Haruhi set out to conquer the school, there was no telling what would happen. I had a feeling that it would wind up being a huge pain for the rest of the brigade too. She might decide to give the entire student body the SOS Brigade treatment. Knowing her, she’d probably decide that, since she was president, the rest of the students were now her subordinates. The whole school would turn into an alternate dimension.

Still, so long as the election was carried out correctly, I couldn’t imagine that Haruhi would actually win. I still believed in the average North High student’s sense of common decency. So long as Koizumi didn’t pull some kind of stunt, no election could possibly result in Haruhi winning high office.

I sighed. “So basically, Koizumi, this is another one of your games, is what you’re telling me. You’ve just invented this ‘student council plotting to destroy the literature club’ scenario to give Haruhi something to do.”

“It was no more than the seed, though.” Koizumi exhaled a sigh into the drifting smoke. “There are a number of outcomes that are now possible. All will be well if we finish our publication by the deadline, but if we cannot finish, or if we fail to meet the requirements…” He shrugged lightly. “If that time comes, we’ll just think of a different game to play. I’ll be counting on your brain for that too.”

I was happy enough to participate as an observer, but I sure wasn’t interested in trying to think of new challenges that I myself would have to face. What could I possibly have to gain from that? I wanted to know.

“As far as my being the student council president goes,” said the punk prez, “it definitely has its perks. First of all, it makes my school record look great. Of all the reasons Koizumi used to try to talk me into it, that was the biggest one. You said you’d get me through the college entrance exams, right? You better not have forgotten about that.”

“Of course not. I remember. We’re making the arrangements, naturally.”

The president eyed Koizumi suspiciously, as though he were interrogating a suspect. He then sniffed. “You’d better be. Doing this ridiculous job has been a pain in the ass, but I’ve learned some things in the last few months. The student council really has been totally useless so far. It might as well not exist. Which means I can mess around with it as much as I want.”

The president then smiled for the very first time. There was a certain degree of malice in it, but it was more a human expression than it was a calculating one.

“ ‘Uphold student independence’ really is a great slogan. Depending on the interpretation, it can mean anything. That budget is especially interesting, let me tell you. I’ll bet there are some delicious details in there.”

Some president we had. He was definitely up to Haruhi’s expectations of villainy.

“We’ll permit a modest abuse of authority,” said Koizumi, miffed. “But please do not get carried away. There is a limit to how much support we can provide.”

“Oh, I know. I won’t pull anything that’d get the teachers’ attention—I’d lose my hold on the sympathies of the council. I’ve already swept away the remaining members of the student council. There’s no one left to oppose me.”

I was starting to like this president guy. He was obviously up to no good, but for some reason he was strangely compelling. It was a little strange to be feeling as though following him would be all right, but…

Suddenly alarm bells went off as Tsuruya’s face appeared in my mind. I remembered what she’d told me when I’d encountered her in the hallway. Her keen, almost extrasensory perception had told her that the student council and its president had a hidden agenda. The student council’s spy—that wasn’t me, Tsuruya; it was Koizumi. He was more than a spy, though; he was a puppet master.

I didn’t particularly care if the president used his powers to his own advantage, but if Haruhi realized it, she might press for an immediate recall and recommend Tsuruya as his replacement. I could imagine Tsuruya laughing heartily and charging straight in, right along with her. Koizumi and I would automatically wind up being on Haruhi’s side too, and the president would be overthrown.

I wish you luck in your future secret maneuverings, Mr. President. Just keep them where we can’t see them.

He probably didn’t need me to tell him that, though. And while his role would probably bring him into occasional conflict with Haruhi, I just wanted him to choose his battles carefully.

I walked out of the student council room side-by-side with Koizumi, then remembered there was something I needed to ask him.

“So I understand that the president is under your supervision. But what about the secretary? Is Kimidori one of your confederates too?”

“She is not,” said Koizumi, like it was nothing. “Kimidori took the secretary post rather unexpectedly. The truth is that when I thought to check, she was already there, which is why I hadn’t noticed until that point—even though I feel that in the early days of the current student council administration, we’d appointed a different student to that position. But when I checked later, all the records said she was there from the start. Even my memory. Nobody, not even the president, has any doubts about it. If it is a case of falsification, it’s an extraordinary example of such.”

If it were so extraordinary, I asked, why didn’t he sound a little more surprised?

“If I were surprised to such an extent, if anything more unexpected were to happen, I might very well go into cardiac arrest.” Koizumi turned his head to regard the windows as we walked leisurely down the hall. “Emiri Kimidori is one of Nagato’s comrades. That much is unmistakable.”

I’d figured as much. Her coming to us with the cave-cricket trouble had been too perfect of a coincidence. If it had been just that, I might’ve believed that Nagato had set up the whole thing herself, but given the current situation, our previous encounter could hardly have been an accident. What worried me was not knowing how closely Nagato and Kimidori were tied.

“There was the trouble with Ryoko Asakura, yes. But I don’t think we need to worry too much on that count. It seems that Kimidori and Nagato are comparatively closely related. At the very least, they do not oppose each other.”

How did he know that? They didn’t look like they got along very well. Although they didn’t look like they got along especially poorly either, I admitted.

“We in the Agency would like to test our intelligence-gathering capabilities. We contacted some—not many but a few—TFEIs like Nagato, in an effort to convey our intentions. While they were by no means cooperative, we can make some deductions based on the fragmentary conversations. It seems that a different faction within the Data Overmind sent Kimidori than the one Nagato is associated with. But we know that, unlike Ryoko Asakura, they are not hostile.”

I wasn’t sure what to think of the things I heard Koizumi saying so casually, but it wasn’t anything new, so neither of us was particularly worried.

Still, I’d known there were different kinds of aliens, but to think that Kimidori was one of them… Given the way she’d calmed down the furious Nagato in the student council room, perhaps her faction was a peaceful one, I said.

“Quite possibly. We have concluded that there is no need to be excessively conscious of her movements. In my opinion, Kimidori’s role is to observe Nagato. I don’t know how long it’s been the case, but that seems to be the job she’s currently settled into.”

Koizumi’s voice sounded like he was in the middle of climbing a mountain during a long hike, so I didn’t press him on the matter. As far as Nagato went, I had quite a few memories of her myself, many of which I preferred not to share. Even if he was a member of the SOS Brigade, Koizumi wasn’t someone I wanted to explain these things to over and over again. I’d play them back in my head as many times as I wanted to, though.

I fell vaguely into silence as we walked quickly to the clubroom, Koizumi likewise keeping his mouth shut.

When you get a rapid input of strange information, it seems like the last things you hear are the most memorable.

Which is why I hadn’t forgotten.

I hadn’t forgotten that Haruhi, having snatched Nagato and flown out of the student council room, was in there.

I was just kind of spaced out, thinking about everything—about the outlaw student council president and about Kimidori.

“You’re late, Kyon! You too, Koizumi! What were you doing? We’re running on a deadline here! If we don’t hurry, we’re gonna be in trouble!”

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen her so happy. This is how Haruhi always looks when she’s gotten her eyes fixed on a goal.

“We’ve been going crazy searching for the old newsletters the literature club put out. I asked Yuki where they were, but she said she didn’t know.”

Nagato was plopped down at her usual corner of the table, staring at the screen of the laptop the computer club had left us.

“Um…” Asahina stood there, fidgeting uncomfortably in her maid outfit. “Are we making a book? Do we have to? What are we going to write, I wonder…?”

I hadn’t forgotten about this either. Haruhi had swallowed the president’s story about the literature club’s job of printing a whole newsletter. It was for Nagato’s sake. Nagato was the sole member of the literature club, and in reality she had another face as a member of an unauthorized student organization that occupied the literature club’s room. Said unauthorized organization’s chief had agreed to create a publication, which by the principle of commutative responsibility now fell upon my head, and for a publication to exist in the first place, someone would have to write something, and that “someone” would have to be me and the other club members.

“All right, pick one.”

Four folded scraps of paper lay in the open palm of Haruhi’s hand—the same kind of lots used to determine classroom seating assignments. Doubting what these scraps could possibly decide, I picked one up. Haruhi immediately grinned.

Koizumi amusedly did likewise, as did Asahina, who blinked rapidly. Haruhi gave the last scrap to Nagato.

“You will write what is written on the paper. That will go into our club newsletter. Now that it’s decided, hurry and sit down! You’ve got to get to writing!”

An unpleasant premonition ran though my body as I opened the piece of folded notebook paper. Haruhi’s writing leaped up at me like a freshly landed fish.

“A love story.” I read the contents aloud and immediately bemoaned my fate. A love story? Me? That was what I had to write? I asked.

“Yup.” Haruhi grinned like a cunning tactician who took advantage of every weakness. “The lottery decided it fair and square. I shall brook no complaints. So, what’re you doing, Kyon? Get your butt in front of the computer!”

I looked and saw several laptops set up on the table. It was nice that she hadn’t had trouble getting everything set up, but how the hell was I supposed to write a story just because she told me to?

The paper in my hand felt like a grenade whose pin had been pulled out.

“What’d you get, Koizumi?” I asked, hoping that he’d be willing to switch with me, thereby securing my salvation, but—

“It says… ‘Mystery,’ ” said Koizumi with a pleasant smile, not looking particularly troubled at all. Asahina, however, was upset, as usual.

“I got ‘Fairy Tale.’ A fairy tale is for children, right? A story that’s good for, um, putting children to bed? Is that right?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. But anyway—a mystery and a fairy tale, eh? Between those and a love story, which one was the best?

I looked to Nagato. She’d quietly opened her scrap of paper, and upon noticing my gaze, showed me Haruhi’s handwriting with a flick of her wrist. The writing read: “Fantasy Horror.”

I didn’t really understand the difference between fantasy horror and mystery.

“I’m just relieved I didn’t get ‘love story.’ I feel as though such a thing would’ve been impossible for me to write,” said Koizumi, as though he were trying to deliberately get on my nerves. He was obviously calm. I wanted to know the secret behind his relaxed attitude, I said.

“It’s quite simple. In my case, I can simply treat the mystery games from last summer and this last winter as real events and create a novelization of them. They are originally scenarios I created, after all.”

Koizumi coolly headed for the table and began setting up his computer, looking totally unconcerned. Nagato returned her gaze to the liquid crystal display in front of her, unmoving. She might have been considering what “fantasy horror” meant, or thinking about Kimidori.

There was no further explanation. Asahina’s eyes practically projected question marks around the room as she flailed around, at a loss. I was no different. Wait—let’s think about this. There were four scraps of paper. The SOS Brigade has five members.

“Haruhi,” I said to the brigade chief, who was grinning like a temple guardian on laughing gas. “What are you going to write?”

“Oh, I’ll write something,” she said as she sat at her desk and picked up the armband that had been left there. “But I have a more important job. Listen—there’s a lot of work that goes into making a book. You need a person to direct it all. And that’s what I’m gonna do for you.”

She quickly slipped on the armband, puffing out her chest and speaking grandly.

“Starting today and for the rest of the week, I will no longer be the brigade chief. Since this is the literature club, there’s a different title that’s much more appropriate.”

The brilliantly shining armband said all that was necessary.

Thus it was that Haruhi appointed herself as editor in chief, boldly declaring her intentions as she utterly ignored Asahina’s and my bewilderment.

“Come now, everybody! Get moving! There’s no use complaining about details—just write! Something good, of course.”

Haruhi reclined arrogantly in her brigade chief’s chair and regarded us pitiful brigade members.

“And of course, if I don’t think it’s good, then it’s out.”

And so—

In the week that followed, we were stationed in the literature club’s room, toiling away at this suddenly literature-club-like activity.

It was Asahina who ran bravely at the fore. It was fortunate that fairy tales seemed to suit her, but if writing one was a simple matter of sitting down and cranking it out on command, then anybody could be a fairy-tale author.

Nevertheless, Asahina was persistent. She checked out a pile of books from the school library and read through them with utmost seriousness, occasionally flagging sections with Post-it notes, scribbling furiously with her pencil.

Meanwhile there was Haruhi, whose main job seemed to be either grinning maniacally as she gazed at the many fanzines she’d borrowed from the manga club for the purpose of study material, or aimlessly browsing the Net on her desk’s computer.

Asahina steadily submitted manuscripts, and Haruhi steadily rejected them.

“Hmm.” Haruhi managed a plausible sound of ambivalence as she finished reading the exhausted Asahina’s latest effort. “It’s getting better, but it still needs more impact. Oh, I’ve got it, Mikuru! You need to add some illustrations. Make it like a picture book. It’ll draw people in more quickly, and give it more flavor than just plain old words.”

“P-pictures?”

Asahina looked ready to cry at this latest and totally unreasonable demand. But rejecting the orders of the editor in chief was no easy task, so Asahina resigned herself to adding illustrations.

The always serious girl attended a lecture on sketching given by the art club, learned four-panel comic creation from the manga club, and worked so hard that it made me want to tell her there was no need to go to such lengths—and with no time left over for her to brew good tea, I was left to idly, silently sip mediocre tea brewed by either myself or Koizumi.

And I had to write a love story, of all things? No way. If it’d been a feline observation diary, I would’ve had material aplenty, but…

The only one of us making easy progress on his composition was Koizumi; even Nagato only occasionally hit a key. When it had come to a video-game contest, her fingers had flown over the keyboard with unbelievable speed, but evidently she didn’t have the knack for putting the information in her head into words. I was starting to wonder if that was part of why she tended to be so silent, but I couldn’t help but be interested in the “fantasy horror” story she was writing, so I snuck a glance at the display of her laptop.

“…”

Nagato quickly rotated the laptop sideways, hiding the display from me. She looked up at me.

“C’mon,” I said. “Let me have a bit of a look.”

“No,” replied Nagato flatly. No matter how I tried to sneak a look, her timing in moving the display away from me was perfect. I was starting to get more and more interested, and eventually tried sneaking up and looking over her shoulder, but besting Nagato’s reflexes was impossible.

“…”

Finally she repelled me with a sharp sidelong glare. I returned to my own seat to confront the blank white screen of my empty word-processor document.

Thus had the past few days in the clubroom unfolded.

Things had begun to reach a bit of a stalemate, so while it might be technically a false start, let’s go for a change of pace and have a look at Asahina’s fairy tale.

Asahina’s manuscript had been rejected over and over by the editor in chief, who’d eventually ordered her to add illustrations, and Asahina had continued to agonize over the piece, killing herself over every word selection. I’d finally come to her aid, and the work had eventually been completed once the editor in chief added her own revisions.

Anyway, feel free to have a look.