The Bird Research Club sat in the Science Building; the Film Club nested in the Activity Building. After pacing the map in her head like a migrating crane, Yekase chose the birds first.
Her mood was lazy as a cat in sunlight. She wasn’t into their events; she just wanted a legit place to slack.
“Hello…”
She peeked in like a sparrow at the windowsill.
One person sat inside, a forest of cages stacked around him like iron bamboo.
“No. 1, say something, will you?”
He pleaded to the cage in his arms, voice soft as mist. Yekase squinted, and saw a bird sleek as oil, black as fresh ink.
“Crow?”
“I’m a myna! You’re the crow—your whole family are crows!”
The bird cocked its head like a pebble skipping water and cursed straight at Yekase.
That cadence rang familiar, like a childhood rhyme turned gutter.
Her grin burst like a firecracker. The plan to glance and bail crumbled; curiosity tugged her in like tide.
“Hey, senior, just you?”
“Oh.” The guy blinked, stunned, like a deer caught in headlights. He hadn’t expected anyone to care about Bird Research. He’d picked the name to scare off strangers, hoard the funds, and keep a room to raise his flock. Plenty had signed up for the no-attendance vibe, but they never set foot here.
“The others… are just names on paper. I’m the president, Wang Ping.”
“All these birds are yours? That’s impressive.”
She eyed the cages, colors flaring like a market of feathers. Pets weren’t her thing, but she knew wrangling this many wasn’t easy.
“Yeah, yeah.” His pride floated like a kite in a spring wind.
“New to first year? My birds are well trained! Let me introduce…”
He lifted No. 1, the myna, for a few lines. The bird stared like a stone idol and ghosted him. Awkward fell like a thin drizzle.
“No. 1’s a bit tsundere, haha…”
Face flushed, he hung it back and grabbed another cage. “This is v3, a budgie.”
Yekase leaned in, eyes bright as lanterns, expecting a line.
“Yo mama! Yo mama!”
Before her shock landed, several parrots and mynas chimed in from the racks like pots clanging:
“Then it’s fine! Burn your dreams!”
“Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”
The room roared into a symphony of swearbirds, rowdy as a night market. The air sagged into gutter-grade smog, and the plaque reading “Bird Research Club” felt like it morphed into “Profanity Research Unit.”
“The hell?!”
She clawed her way back from the wave of curses, then saw Wang Ping crouched with his head in his hands, reality flooding him like cold rain.
He looked like a quiet tech nerd, the kind that lives in code. Who knew he spent days alone in here teaching birds to curse? Ruthless, in its way.
“Wasn’t me!” Wang Ping caught her look, turned beet red, veins jumping like little rivers. “Two people came in days ago and taught them a pile of trash talk. These traitors learn anything from anyone, just not from me. I can’t help it!”
Yekase couldn’t hold it; a giggle burst like a popped bubble.
Since she’d laughed, she dropped the pretense of sympathy and let it roll, clutching her belly as if laughter were waves hitting a shore.
Minutes later, the swearbirds settled like dusk. Yekase had laughed herself winded.
She weighed it, tapping thoughts like abacus beads. The place felt right: the president loved low attendance, so skipping carried no guilt; and dropping by to hear a myna spit curses felt like pressure valves hissing open. Smooth in and out, best of both worlds.
“Classmate…”
Wang Ping looked at her with puppy eyes, a drizzle of grievance clinging to him. If you didn’t know his own birds had chewed him out, you’d think he was begging her to join.
“You raise them well! Normal mynas struggle to talk; yours are… a bit indiscriminate, sure. Still, they talk.”
“Mm, mm!” His face brightened like cloud break.
“I’ve got a backup club to check. If that one feels mid, I’ll join Bird Research,” Yekase said, frank as clear water.
“Okay, take care…”
He didn’t push. He dropped his gaze and went back to coaxing his myna, stubborn as a fisherman on a quiet lake.
As she left, a “Yo mama!” drifted from behind like a stray gust.
She honestly hoped the swearbirds wouldn’t get axed by teachers for “ruining campus image.” She sent the wish up like a paper crane.
Next stop: the Film Club.
The Activity Building housed artsy outfits, the ones stronger than clubs that did nothing, but not heavy-duty enough to live on the field or in the gym. It felt like a theater stitched from scrap wood.
On the third floor, she finally understood what Ling Ya meant by “sound-bomb.” From far off, she could hear screams, engines, and explosions frying the air like cheap speakers.
…Cult flicks.
“Such a sweet smell to blood…”
A passing girl heard Yekase murmur, excitement smothered like embers under ash, and flinched as if spotting a terrorist. She hissed and sidestepped like a spooked cat.
Yekase dipped her head in apology, calm as a pond, but the girl bolted anyway.
She didn’t mind. She followed the noise like a stream to its source, and stopped at a classroom door.
“Hello…”
She peeked in, habit like a bird’s beak at a crack.
The room was dark as a cave. Fabric and planks sealed the windows like winter shutters. A giant screen leaned against the wall, the kind that made you wonder how it crossed the school gates.
Opposite the screen sat three people.
No—rode. Their poor stools had one leg in the grave, creaking like old ships. The groans tucked into the film’s audio and vanished.
“Woooooo!!”
“Damn, that blade hurts to watch!”
“Yikes!”
Yekase stepped beside them, eyes drinking the scenes like tea. Only then did the trio notice the stranger at their shore.
“Newcomer? Talk after it’s done!”
So she stayed and watched a twenty-minute short soaked in chainsaws and ketchup, gore splashing like red paint.
Then the club intro finally started.
“Whoa, you didn’t run. There’s hope,” said the blond boy, thumb up like a flag.
Yekase eyed his hair, doubt fluttering like a moth, but she kept it to herself and nodded stiffly.
The one in the middle was a black-haired short-cut girl, a quiet-lady look like a porcelain teacup—though being here shattered that vibe. She smiled sweet as fruit. “Hi, big sis! I’m the Film Club president, name… Changshan Koharu! I’m ten years old.”
…
…Huh?
You don’t look ten at all…
Shock pricked her skin like sleet. Also, that Japanese name felt odd. People from Japan and Huaxia look similar, but tiny differences show. This one was clearly local to Huaxia.
“Changshan Koharu’s her pen name. Real name’s Tengben Shu,” the blond boy finally tossed her a lifeline.
“Denji, seriously, you always expose me.”
“Denji isn’t necessarily real either! I’d buy ‘Lei’ as a surname, but ‘Dian’? Come on!” Yekase couldn’t help tossing the pebble.
“Right. This silly kid’s real name is Lei Ci.”
The third member—long pink hair smooth as silk—spoke in plastic-standard Mandarin, thick with hometown flavor.
“He’s really Lei Ci! Also—what’s with your pink hair?!”
“I’m Zhang Dali.”
“You two are a pair, huh.”
This place screamed crazy, neon as a night carnival. If she stayed, she’d blend in, become the fourth lunatic flaunting a fake name, and her future would go dark like a cult protagonist’s fate.
“Then what’s your name? Besides, folks in Henan do have ‘Dian’ as a surname!”
Zhang Dali had done nothing but get her name mocked—yes, you admit Denji isn’t normal either—and anger flickered like a match.
“Yekase.”
“Hakase? Who gets named ‘Doctor’?”
“But my name is Yekase.”
“Then mine is Zhang Dali.”
“Fair enough.”
Mocking real names felt rude as spitting in the well, so Yekase let the matter drop like a pebble.
She scanned the room. Chaos swirled like a junkyard storm. Only the area around the big screen stayed clean as a shrine. Takeout and snack wrappers carpeted the rest; cans lay toppled like fallen soldiers. It had the echo of her room before she met Ling Yi.
“You watch restricted films here every day?”
“That’s right!” Tengben Shu nodded hard, like a pecking woodpecker.
“How haven’t you been wiped by the Student Council?”
Zhang Dali folded her arms, stepping in front of the president like a guard dog. “So what? You visiting or picking a fight?”
“I just don’t want to join and need a new club in days.”
“Huh?”
“Dali, don’t bark! If you scare off newbies, how do we get activity funds?”
Lei Ci and Zhang Dali locked horns, spinning like dust devils, and rolled aside to scuffle.
“They… get along really well,” Tengben Shu explained, voice as calm as a lake.
“Mm… I can see that,” Yekase said, dry as autumn wind.
No no no no.
Maybe it was post-movie blood heat, but they were grabbing collars and hair, rolling like cubs on the floor. It looked like play-fighting, sure… Still, didn’t they know what a first impression was?
She did want their stash of films. But as a viewer, she stayed still even through storms. Watching with them felt impossible. Trash cinema needed quiet to sing.
Shame. No fate here.
“I’ll head back now…”
She smiled thin, inching toward the door like a crab to shore.
“Aw, we wanted to watch the just-arrived ‘Thousand-Headed Shark of Doom’ with you…”
…
“Is it okay to watch it right here?”
