Third Person: The Pulse of Rebellion
The bass of 'Insomnia' wasn't just a sound; it was a force of nature. It rumbled from the high-fidelity speakers, a sonic beast unleashed in a room accustomed to whispers and innocuous background music. The first kick of the drum was a stone dropped into a still pond. The shockwaves spread instantly.
The students closest to the speakers flinched. Some clapped their hands over their ears, expressions of genuine offense. At one table, a punch glass vibrated to the brim and spilled, staining a pristine white tablecloth. It was the night's first casualty.
Ichika Orimura, the guest of honor, choked on a piece of cake, staring at the stage with the confusion of a golden retriever shown a card trick. Cecilia Alcott, beside him, frowned, her refined face contorted in disgust. "What is this barbaric noise?" she exclaimed, though her voice was barely audible above the pulsating beat.
Houki Shinonono seemed simply bewildered, as if trying to analyze the rhythm with the same logic she'd apply to a kendo kata. Lingyin Huang, on the other hand, had a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, her foot beginning to tap to the beat. Laura Bodewig didn't move, but her single visible eye scanned the man at the DJ booth with the intensity of a target acquisition system. She was classifying him, analyzing him, and she didn't like what she saw: an uncontrollable variable.
And then there was Chifuyu Orimura.
She remained motionless, a monolith of authority amidst the burgeoning chaos. Her gaze, cold and sharp, was locked on Leo. It wasn't a look of anger, not yet. It was one of evaluation. She was giving him rope, waiting to see if he'd hang himself with it.
Leo, from his DJ throne, felt that gaze as a physical weight. He knew he was at a tipping point. Either he won over the crowd, or Chifuyu would walk onto the stage, rip out his spine, and use it as a whip to restore order. There was only one way forward: escalation.
As 'Insomnia's' synth climaxed, Leo was already preparing the next onslaught. He couldn't give them time to think. He had to hijack their central nervous system. With a seamless transition that betrayed years of forgotten practice, he mixed the song's outro into a new intro. An instantly recognizable, distorted guitar riff.
It was A-Trak's remix of 'Heads Will Roll' by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
Karen O's ethereal voice filled the room: "Off, off, off with your head... Dance, dance, dance 'til you're dead."
The lyrics were a prophecy.
Second Person: The Sermon on the DJ Mountain
You know this is the moment of truth. The resistance is strong. Social inertia is a powerful force. These people haven't come to dance; they've come to fulfill an obligation. They need a push. They need permission. They need a leader.
With a move that feels both terrifying and strangely natural, you grab the microphone. The screech of feedback catches everyone's attention for a split second. Chifuyu's gaze intensifies. This is crossing the Rubicon.
Your voice, amplified by the sound system, booms through the room.
"Hear me, Infinite Stratos Academy!" you begin, your voice firmer than you feel. "I've been watching. And I see a bunch of future elite pilots, the planet's defense, the crème de la crème... and you're stiffer than an accountant's meeting during tax season!"
Some muffled gasps. A nervous laugh here and there. Ichika looks even more confused, if that's possible.
"This isn't a G7 summit. This isn't a funeral! This is supposed to be a party to celebrate your one and only guy!" You point a finger dramatically at Ichika, who shrinks under the attention. "And you're offering him the excitement of watching paint dry!"
The energy shifts. People don't know whether to be offended or entertained. You've got them hooked. Now you have to reel them in.
"I've seen parties in morgues with more life than this. Where's the energy? Where's the chaos? Where's the joy of being young and having the world at your feet? Someone needs to remind you how it's done!"
And with that last phrase, you look directly into the eyes of the crowd. Your finger hovers over the bass drop button.
"So this one goes out to everyone who's forgotten how to lose control. This is 'Pursuit of Happiness'!"
You hit the button.
And the world explodes.
First Person: Unleashing the Beast
Steve Aoki's remix isn't a song; it's a seismic event. The bass drops with the force of a meteor, a pressure wave hitting everyone in the chest. The euphoric melody and relentless rhythm are an irresistible invitation to anarchy.
And, for the first time tonight, the academy accepts.
It's like watching a dam collapse in slow motion and then fast forward. First, it's just a few. A group of first-year girls in a corner who start jumping in unison. Then, Lingyin, with a war cry, grabs a stunned Houki's hand and drags her to the center of the room, which is now rapidly becoming a dance floor.
Ichika, overwhelmed by the events, is absorbed by the rising tide of dancing bodies. Cecilia, after a moment of aristocratic horror, sees Ichika having fun and, with a sigh of competitive resignation, throws herself into the fray so as not to be left behind.
The room transforms. Polite conversations die. Stiff postures melt. People start moving, first awkwardly, then with increasing abandon. They jump, shout, laugh. Punch spills, chairs are pushed aside, balloons pop. It's a glorious chaos.
And I am its conductor.
A wild grin, one I haven't felt in over a decade, spreads across my face. The former FBI agent, the man with the plan, the cynical survivor... has been killed and replaced by the DJ.
From my command post, I have a perfect view of the madness I've unleashed. I see students who probably had never spoken to each other, now jumping together, united by the beat. I see the tension of weeks of military training and academic pressure dissolving into sweat and euphoria.
They're not used to this, I realize. They live in a high-pressure environment of constant discipline. They've never been given an outlet.
Well, I'm not an outlet. I'm a dynamite stick in the dam.
My brain, the same one that hours earlier was planning escape routes, now works at full speed on my playlist. The energy is at its peak. I can't let it drop. I need to take them to the next level of madness.
As "Pursuit of Happiness" draws to a close, I already have the next weapon ready. It's stupid. It's a meme. And it's absolutely perfect.
"ACADEMY!" I shout into the microphone, and the crowd responds with a roar. "I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT'S COMING NOW!"
I drop the unmistakable bassline and the robotic voice from "With the Terrorists," followed by the phrase that launched a thousand viral videos: "Do the Harlem Shake."
For thirty seconds, the room follows the beat, a palpable tension in the air. I see a student, a bespectacled boy who seemed the soul of seriousness, climb onto a table and start moving spasmodically. He's the catalyst.
And then... the bass drops again. "DO THE HARLEM SHAKE!"
The room explodes.
It's anarchy personified. It's not dancing; it's a collective spasm of pure dementia. I see someone using a canapé tray as a flying saucer. Another group has lifted Ichika and is crowd-surfing him. Someone, and I swear it's one of Laura's German entourage, is doing the worm on the floor with military precision.
The System flickers with a message in my vision.
[Atmospheric Analysis: Chaos Level elevated to 'Glorious'.][Property Damage Probability: 120% (Collateral damage expected).][Host Status: Euphoria. Hydration recommended to avoid collapse.][Observation: User 'ORIMURA-CHIFUYU' has not intervened. Possible programming error or... enjoyment?]
I look over to where Chifuyu is. She's still there, impassive, but there's something different in her posture. It's no longer that of a jailer. It's that of an observer. There's a strange expression on her face, a mixture of disbelief and... nostalgia? It's as if she's watching a ghost from her own youth, a party she never went to. She doesn't stop it. I don't know why, but she doesn't stop it.
My confidence skyrockets. I'm untouchable. I am the god of this party.
The madness of the "Harlem Shake" melts into the aggression of DJ Snake's "Turn Down for What." I shout the question into the microphone, and the entire room answers with a roaring "FIRE UP THAT LOUD!"
Then, to cap it all off, I unleash Skrillex's fury. The screeching chaos and demolishing bass of "Bangarang" fall upon them like a meteor shower. Strobe lights flash to the beat of the bass growls, turning the scene into a series of maniacal photographs.
For almost an hour, I keep them at peak intensity. I mix J-Kwon's "Tipsy" with Avicii's "Levels," creating a cultural clash of club hip-hop and euphoric EDM that somehow works. People sing the "Levels" melody at the top of their lungs, arms raised, faces shining with sweat and happiness. It's a scene of tribal unity.
Finally, I know I have to start winding down. I can't keep this pace forever; the academy's medical services aren't equipped for it.
For the grand finale, I choose a classic. I play Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg's "The Next Episode." The West Coast hip-hop beat, more relaxed but with undeniable authority, changes the mood. The frenzy calms, replaced by a collective sway. When the iconic final line hits, I hold the microphone out to the crowd.
"SMOKE WEED EVERYDAY!" they all shout in unison, though I doubt most of them even know what it means. It's the perfect ending.
I let the beat fade into silence.
The room grows still. The only sound is that of hundreds of people gasping, laughing, and the ringing in my own ears. I look at the battlefield. The banner is torn. Cups are everywhere. A chair is overturned. It's the most beautiful mess I've ever seen.
And everyone is looking at me. Not with fear, not with confusion. They look at me with awe. With gratitude.
I came to this academy to escape. To be invisible. Instead, in the span of one night, I've become a legend. I am the Ghost DJ. The guy who taught them how to party.
My escape plan is dust. I'm more trapped than ever, now under the scrutiny of everyone from the greenest student to the fearsome Brunhilde.
My stupid Rank A Luck has worked again. It's solved my short-term problem—avoiding capture—by creating the biggest long-term problem imaginable.
And as I look at the exhausted, happy crowd, a terrible, terrible idea begins to form in my head.
This has been fun.