After a couple more rounds, the group of magical girls and their managers paused their game for a dinner break. Grace had, thankfully, decided not to cook anything at Ketzia’s level of spice. She opted instead for a classic chicken parmesan, which Nora complemented with some roasted broccoli and asparagus. The seven magical girls all crammed themselves into the agency’s tiny kitchenette to help with cleanup after, which in all likelihood made the process take twice as long. That said, it was probably twice as fun.

  Eating in such a large group—and on something resembling a proper table at that—was pleasant enough to make the events of the past few days fade from Adah’s mind. In fact, she forgot for a time that she or anyone else here was a magical girl at all. That was something she very much needed to forget once in a while.

  They swapped to playing “Werewolf” after dinner, thinking it would be one of the better games to accommodate a group of their size. Adah didn’t mind that—she always did well in these social deduction games, though Nora was giving her a run for her money today. The Apex Vox manager’s demeanor hardly shifted, no matter whether she was being accused of being a werewolf or laying out her logic for why someone else was. When they wound up on the same side, their win was almost guaranteed.

  Eventually, though, the night passed by and the hour grew late. Nora had driven her team here, and would need to start the journey home before she got too tired. Surprisingly, Adah got the sense Nora would have kept playing until the sun rose if Grace hadn’t mentioned how late it was getting. That was another small way they were different, perhaps.

  The teams said their goodbyes, and the Last Light sent Apex Vox off with a series of hugs—even between their managers.

  “Funny to think you were so suspicious of me when we first met,” Sheffa said to Adah as their hug broke apart.

  “I’m sure you can understand,” Adah said. “After having met some of our local competition.”

  Sheffa laughed and said, “DreamRise doesn’t leave the best first impression. I can’t blame you for being cautious after dealing with them. But even if they won’t admit it, I’d bet they were glad you showed up to help them on that mission.”

  “What does it say about me that, for a while, I didn’t want to help them?” Adah said. “Just because of some competition.”

  Sheffa shrugged. “You’re human,” she said. “In the end, you did what you thought was right. Who can judge you for the mixed feelings you had along the way? I’m sure those feelings are still there, actually. Isn’t it fine to dislike them if you’re not going out of your way to harm them?”

  Sheffa was right that the feelings remained in Adah’s heart. Even after what had happened to Ekki, even as he was still unconscious in his hospital bed, she felt this drive to pull further and further ahead from DreamRise. She couldn’t shake the sense they were competing and the desire to come out on top.

  “I guess I just wish it wasn’t that way,” Adah said.

  “You need to understand that feeling to overcome it,” Sheffa said. “This industry understands it. People like our regions’ Secretaries want to abuse that feeling to keep us climbing over the top of each other. Despite how poorly that worked out for Thibault, no one else is going to slow down. It’s up to us to form our own alliances. To resist what they want from us.”

  “I don’t think DreamRise—or a bunch of other teams, for that matter—have any interest in joining that alliance,” Adah said with a frown. “And if I knock down Roland Thibault, what are the chances someone just like him takes his place? Someone who was more than happy to climb on top of the ruins of his career?”

  “So that’s your game?” Sheffa asked, grinning. “Trying to cause a little chaos?”

  “More like trying to put an end to the chaos. As long as people like Thibault are calling the shots, more people are going to end up hurt. Those with magic and those without.”

  Sheffa’s face grew more serious as she said, “Well, an alliance is an alliance. If you ever need help, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Thank you,” Adah said. “Though, I’m also looking forward to the day we can enjoy our own friendly competition.”

  “That makes two of us,” Sheffa said. “Don’t keep us waiting too long.”

  That brought to mind a question Adah had been debating whether to ask Sheffa.

  She was curious about the girl’s FP level. You could determine the general range of another magic user’s level based on the number of spells they had at their disposal, whether they had their weapon, and other breakpoints like that. However, the specific value wasn’t typically shared outside of one’s own team. The number couldn’t really give a rival team an advantage over you, but because FP levels were the closest thing to an objective measure of popularity, it was considered rude to ask about.

  Adah thought her team and Apex Vox might have moved beyond that kind of social convention. At least, Adah wouldn’t have a problem telling Sheffa or any of her teammates what her FP level was. They all knew that Apex Vox was more popular than the Last Light at the moment, but Adah was curious by how much.

  In the end, she decided to stand on her tiptoes and whisper the question into Sheffa’s ear.

  “Almost 25,000,” Sheffa replied out loud. “Getting close to another augmentation.”

  “What’s this?” Mari asked. Sheffa had declared her level so loudly that everyone could hear it. “We talking about FP? I had the lead at one point, but now Canto and I are trailing behind Sheffa again.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Canto chimed in. “I’ve been right on her tail the whole time.”

  “How bold!”

  “Shut up!”

  While the Apex Vox girls continued to tease each other, Adah thought about what Sheffa had said. She had reached double Adah’s FP, despite them starting on the same playing field during the IndieMagie. That was the power of momentum at work. Their team hadn’t slowed down one step since winning the competition, and they were seeing the success they’d earned from that.

  Something similar should be possible for the Last Light, and Adah had every intention of catching up to Sheffa sooner rather than later.

  The Apex Vox members and Nora departed soon after, and Grace followed suit as soon as she and the girls finished rearranging the lobby furniture.

  Adah suddenly felt like a kid the night before returning to school after a long vacation. She and her teammates had needed a break from work, and to connect with other magical girls outside of battle, but tomorrow they’d resume their busy schedule.

  Perhaps it’d be even busier than before.

  ☆☆☆

  A week had passed since Apex Vox visited.

  With Ekki still hospitalized, DreamRise had to scale back their participation in missions almost entirely. Iris and Clair couldn’t handle most C-Ranks without Ekki’s offensive potential, so they only ever took D-Rank jobs. Even then, they avoided missions at all unless the volume of low-level work was overwhelming the other teams in the region.

  Adah imagined that Iris probably tried to wrap up what little work they did take as fast as possible. Every day, she posted some new gift she had left at Ekki’s bedside for when he finally woke up, or some notebook she had filled with well-wishes from his fans, or anything else that might help his recovery. She was trying anything to inspire more support from Ekki’s fans. Adah had reshared all of it.

  Unfortunately, DreamRise’s absence left Adah’s team responsible for nearly every C-Rank in the region. The jobs themselves were easy, but the stress of always being on call was already wearing Adah and her teammates thin. During the past week, they had completed eleven missions, with only one lucky day off. Most of the time, they had to split into pairs and tackle two jobs in one day.

  The workload was unsustainable, and Adah had already resolved to demand Thibault retract his ridiculous rule about prohibiting other regions from assisting. If he fought back, Adah had plans to overwhelm his resistance. The fans had noticed just how much work the Last Light was handling, and Adah would be more than happy to mobilize them against Thibault. The piglets would protect their princess.

  While Grace arranged yet another meeting with that snake of a Secretary, Adah had gone out with Emi to complete today’s mission. When she returned, she was greeted by Michel, who had already gathered the rest of her teammates and Grace in the agency lobby.

  If he was here, that could only mean more work. Adah wanted to be grateful, but the thought of adding anything more to her plate at the moment made her nauseous.

  “Good, you two are here,” Michel said as they walked through the agency doors. “You’re going to love this.”

  “I sure hope so,” Adah said.

  “Fast, please,” Emi said. “I want to shower.”

  “What’s the rush?” Michel asked. “Big news deserves a big announcement.”

  Adah and Emi stared at him. The exhaustion on their faces must have added to the glaring effect.

  “All right, I’ll skip to the good part,” he said, scratching his hair. “The four of you are officially the exclusive models for a new product line of a good friend of mine.”

  It had been a while since the girls had all shouted at their agency’s producer in unison. It felt good to bring back the old routine.

  “You actually found real work?”

  “It’s a holiday miracle!”

  “What kind of ‘good friend’ is this?”

  “You’re one step closer to redemption, Producer.”

  Michel looked as confused by the onslaught as he always did, but whatever words his brain managed to process resulted in him smiling.

  “What did you think I was doing every time I went out?” Michel asked. “It just takes some time for me to work my magic.”

  None of the girls were bold enough to tell him they had all assumed he was either out drinking with his friends or sleeping the day away. He had just landed them some proper work, so he had proved them wrong, after all!

  “What’s the brand?” Grace asked.

  “Magi-Melo,” he said.

  “Melon?” Ami said.

  “Melo,” he repeated. “Like ‘melody.’ It’s a one-woman operation. She makes costumes, like concert outfits for idols.”

  “Is that what we’re modeling?” Adah asked. “Concert costumes?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “That’s all she designs right now.”

  “So it’s not a product line at all,” Adah said. “Nobody buys costumes except for other agencies. We’re going to be modeling for our competition—what’s the point of that?”

  Michel made a tutting sound and shook his head.

  “I thought you would understand the best out of everyone,” he said. “Who cares if no one else buys it? You girls don’t need to sell clothes right now—you need to sell yourselves. Or market yourselves, anyway. You need portfolios, and to do that you need photos. Nice photos, in clothes no one else is wearing, that will make a scout think you might wear other clothing well, too.”

  “But we’re leaving the fans out of the equation,” Rika said. “What do they care if we build our portfolios or not?”

  “Sure,” Michel said, “because fans notoriously hate looking at cute pictures of magical girls. Look, this is just about the best way you could hope to get your foot in the door. You have a boutique brand, whose quality I can vouch for, designing a line dedicated to you. You’ll get to stand out in outfits no one has ever seen before—and will never see on anyone but you—and you get to share it with the world right away. No waiting for the magazine to publish, no getting cut from the spread at the last minute, no exclusivity rights that bury your work at the bottom of a trash heap.”

  “You did good,” Grace said, then looked to the four magical girls next to her. “Didn’t he?”

  “It’s a good opportunity,” Adah answered on behalf of her teammates. “Sorry for doubting it. Now it’s up to us to make the most of it, right?”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard,” Michel said. “I’m a huge fan of Lina’s work. She’s the next big thing in her space, so it’s only right that she works with the next big magical girl team.”

  “And when do we start working?” Adah asked.

  “Let me see,” Michel said, closing his eyes to think. “I told her you could come by for measurements tomorrow.”

  Never a day off, huh?