Chapter 18: Locker Room Probing
“Tsuko-chan, P.E. is next. Let’s go change together, okay?”
During the class break, Nakamori Manatsu, ever the thoughtful companion, sought out Yomikawa Tsuko.
At Suzaku High, the weekly schedule for all grades was pretty standard, peppered with one or two “special” classes like physical education or ethics. P.E. was the most frequent, and for Yomikawa’s current class, it was the last period of the day.
“Ah, yes. Sounds good.” Yomikawa offered a polite smile. Last week, she’d strategically taken sick leave precisely to avoid P.E. But now, inhabiting Senpai’s body, such evasions were unnecessary. This new form, at least, was physically capable.
As they made their way towards the girls' locker room, a cavernous, echoing space she’d never before entered, Nakamori Manatsu made casual conversation. “Club activities after school today, Tsuko-chan? Your group seems to be buzzing with energy lately.”
“Indeed. The sleepwalking incident has everyone thoroughly… engaged. We’ve been dissecting it daily,” Yomikawa confirmed. “However, today’s meeting will likely be cancelled. Two of our members requested leave during the lunch break – unforeseen personal matters, apparently. So, I saw no point in proceeding with just a few.”
Her original, rather mundane, plan had been to lead the club on a visit to Kimura’s house. A futile exercise, she knew, unlikely to yield any real clues, but a useful way to consume time, to keep them occupied. Before summer vacation descended, every day spent on these trivialities was a small victory. She had a strong suspicion that ĹŚgami YĹŤsuke, with his relentless curiosity, would return to his hometown for the holidays – he was only in this city due to his father’s work, after all. A long summer break, she hoped, would be enough for the troubling legend of Lord Mask-Taker to fade from his active memory.
But then, at noon, ĹŚgami and Junko had approached her separately, requesting leave for the afternoon. Their stated reasons were different, but the timing was too convenient. They’d clearly coordinated. Interesting.
“Senpai!”
They’d just reached the gymnasium when Takada ShĹŤji, a whirlwind of athletic energy, jogged over to them. He was already in his gym attire, his tanned skin and well-defined muscles giving him a robust, healthy look. His class, it seemed, shared their P.E. slot, and from his easy greeting, this wasn’t their first encounter in this setting.
“Takada-kun. Is there something you require?” Yomikawa asked, her tone even.
Takada ShĹŤji scratched the back of his head, a familiar, slightly sheepish gesture. “I just heard today’s club meeting was called off. ĹŚgami-san and Junko-san couldn’t make it, right?”
“Circumstances beyond our control, unfortunately.”
“Right. Well, I was going to mention it after the club meeting anyway, but I won’t be able to make it to the club tomorrow or the day after either. So… really sorry about that. But I’ll definitely be there for the weekend activity, promise!”
“Understood. Focus on your preparations for the weekend, then,” Yomikawa Tsuko replied with a faint, dismissive smile. It mattered little.
After their brief exchange, she and Nakamori Manatsu navigated the corridor flanking the right side of the gymnasium, took a sharp left, and found themselves at the entrance to the girls' locker room. It was strategically placed at the corridor’s dead end, a measure, presumably, to deter prying eyes. Only female students had any reason to venture this far. Any male attempting to approach would be glaringly conspicuous.
With two classes sharing the period, the locker room was a hive of activity, a cacophony of chatter and rustling clothes. For Yomikawa Tsuko, this was entirely new territory. Nervousness was an alien concept, but a flicker of… detached curiosity… stirred within her.
She pushed open the door. Inside, a dozen or so girls were in various states of undress, clustered in small groups, their conversations flowing easily as they changed. None of them so much as glanced up at their arrival.
Yomikawa Tsuko’s eyes swept the room, a quick, clinical scan. Her expression remained impassive, a perfect mask of polite indifference. Inwardly, however, a cold, almost amused thought surfaced: If the boys from my old life could see this, witness this unguarded, everyday scene… they’d likely expire from sheer envy.
In her past existence, the girls' locker room had been a subject of much juvenile speculation, a mythical space discussed in hushed, eager tones with classmates. She’d even, in a moment of detached research, viewed a couple of those… special interest… videos. But now, confronted with the reality, it all felt rather… mundane. Anticlimactic, even.
Physiologically, the old urges, the reflexive excitement, were gone, extinguished by the transformation. It was like watching one of those films again, but in a state of perpetual post-coital detachment. No flicker of interest, no stirring of the blood. In fact, a detached part of her brain registered that most of these female forms were… aesthetically unpleasing. Far less appealing, certainly, than the borrowed body she currently inhabited.
Psychologically, or perhaps, emotionally – with the physiological drivers silenced – all that remained was a kind of cold, scientific curiosity. What are the standard protocols for disrobing among females? That girl, the one with the perpetually aloof expression, what style of undergarments does she favor? There are rumors, urban legends really, that some girls don’t wear underwear beneath their tight gym shorts. Is there any truth to such claims?
Lost in these detached, almost anthropological, musings, Yomikawa Tsuko followed Nakamori Manatsu to the lockers at the far end of the room and began to change.
The P.E. uniform was brutally simple: a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of form-fitting, unforgivingly tight gym shorts. Sock regulations were apparently non-existent; some girls opted for white soccer socks, others, like the original Yomikawa Tsuko, habitually wore their black over-the-knee ones.
She changed into the t-shirt first, methodically pulling her – Senpai’s – long hair free from the collar. Then, she unfastened her uniform skirt, letting it fall, and pulled on the gym shorts. After a moment’s adjustment, ensuring the fit was… adequate… she glanced at her companion. “Aren’t you changing, Manatsu-san?”
“Oh! Uh, yes, right away!” Nakamori Manatsu started, then fumbled with her own clothes, a sudden, uncharacteristic awkwardness in her movements.
Yomikawa Tsuko’s eyes narrowed for the briefest of instants, then her expression smoothed back into its usual placid neutrality. Interesting. Could it be? Has she noticed some subtle discrepancy? Some tell-tale awkwardness in my movements, a gesture that doesn’t quite align with the ‘Tsuko’ she knows?
With this new, unsettling thought, she observed Nakamori Manatsu’s changing process with a heightened, almost predatory, focus. Manatsu, she noted, pulled on her gym shorts first, directly over whatever she was wearing beneath, then unfastened her uniform skirt. Her skirt was longer than Yomikawa Tsuko’s current one, effectively shielding her lower half from view throughout the entire process.
Then, Manatsu turned her back completely to change her top, before finally stowing her uniform in her locker, closing the metal door with a decisive click. Only then did she turn back, a bright, slightly too-wide smile plastered on her face. “All set! Shall we go?”
Is this the standard procedure, then? This elaborate dance of modesty? Yomikawa Tsuko’s gaze flickered around the room, a quick, covert survey. Some girls, she saw, were like her current self – efficient, direct, unconcerned. Others, however, mirrored Manatsu’s more… conservative… approach.
This is… exasperating. How had Senpai navigated these countless, trivial, yet potentially treacherous, details of everyday female existence? How many more of these unspoken rules, these subtle social codes, were lurking, waiting to trip her up?
Emerging from the locker room’s humid, perfumed air, Yomikawa had been on the verge of subtly probing Nakamori Manatsu, testing her observations. But Manatsu spoke first, her voice casual, yet with an undertone Yomikawa couldn’t quite decipher. “Tsuko-chan, your legs are absolutely gorgeous. Mine are so… chunky in comparison.”
“Well, they serve their purpose, I suppose,” Yomikawa Tsuko replied, her words carefully chosen, noncommittal. “And Manatsu-san, you are, if I recall correctly, slightly taller than I. And your overall physique is quite… well-proportioned.” A strange, prickling sensation ran down her spine. Was it possible? Was Manatsu… testing her?
“Being too tall… it’s a curse sometimes,” Nakamori Manatsu sighed, a theatrical sound. “Boys always make those stupid comments. ‘She’s built like a tower,’ or ‘Look, it’s the friendly giantess.’ I think your height, Tsuko-chan, is just… perfect. Honestly, I’m so envious.”
Yomikawa Tsuko’s current height was approximately 162 or 163 centimeters. Not short, by any measure. Slender, yes. But Nakamori Manatsu was indeed taller. The ‘giantess’ or ‘tower’ comments from insecure teenage boys were, unfortunately, all too plausible. In the bizarre, often irrational, calculus of male adolescent attraction, a height around 155 to 158 centimeters was often deemed the arbitrary standard for ‘cuteness.’
“Height… is a matter of genetics, I suppose. One simply adapts,” Yomikawa Tsuko said, her voice cold. “Though, I agree, boys who resort to such crude labels as ‘tower’ or ‘giant’ are… rather tiresome, aren’t they?” She had, in that instant, completely abandoned any intention of probing Nakamori Manatsu further. This girl… she seemed to possess an unnervingly accurate understanding of the ‘Tsuko’ she believed her to be. One careless word, one ill-judged question, and the entire carefully constructed facade could shatter.
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