The man in his forties whose hair was peppered gray looked like a typical nice bus driver. Still wearing the oxygen mask that was digging into his slightly sagging chin, he turned towards the Class B students with a faint look of pity. But as soon as another man appeared under the window, his face stiffened. He gave the Republic's idiosyncratic salute. Then he pressed the switch to open the door. Shuya glanced outside as the masked men in battle gear came rushing in.
Under the moonlight, the bluish-white concrete pier gleamed like bone, and beyond the pier the ship that would transport "the players" was swaying sluggishly in the wide open black sea.
42 students remaining
1
For a moment Shuya thought he was in a familiar classroom.
It wasn't the usual Third Year Class B classroom of course, but there was a lectern, a worn out blackboard, and on the left, a tall stand with a large television. There were rows of desks and chairs made of plywood glued onto steel tubes. On Shuya's desk someone had carved anti-government graffiti into the corner with a pen: "the Dictator loves women in uniform." Then he noticed everyone at their desks, the boys clad in buttoned up school uniforms and the girls in their sailor suit school uniforms, all forty-one classmates who'd only moments ago (at least that's what it felt like) been riding the bus together. The only thing was— other sprawled over their desks or slouched back in their seats—they were all completely asleep.
From beside the frosted window on the side of the hall (assuming this building had the same layout as his school), Shuya surveyed the rest of the room. He seemed to be the only one awake. In front of him to his left and towards the middle of the room was Yoshitoki Kuninobu.