Chapter Text
The air in the SSG Office was thick with the smell of Earl Grey tea, cheap photocopy ink, and the collective anxiety of twelve student leaders.
Marionette Guillotin—though most people only called her Sandrone or, more frequently, "Pres"—didn't look up from her desk. She was currently staring at her Muji planner as if she could telepathically move the tasks around. It was a mess of color-coded highlighters and tiny, mechanical handwriting, but the most prominent feature was a large, jagged ring of brown: a tea stain right over the date for Friday.
Intramurals Opening.
"Pres, yung logistics team daw sabi ni Childe, hindi pa raw tapos yung arch sa main gate," Pulonia, the Public Information Officer, shouted over the noise of three different people arguing about the budget for streamers.
"Tell Ajax if he doesn't finish that arch by 5 PM, I will personally use his head as the centerpiece for the entrance," Sandrone said, her voice flat, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion.
She didn't scream. She didn't have to. The office went dead silent for a micro-second. Everyone knew the "Robot President" wasn't joking. She operated on a logic that was almost non-human; every movement she made was precise, like she was being guided by invisible strings. Her uniform was always pressed, her lace collar perfectly straight—a stark contrast to the haggard, late-night study look of every other Grade 12 student in the room.
"Katheryne, the budget?" Sandrone asked, her eyes finally snapping up.
"Uhm, Pres... si Pantalone kasi, ayaw pirmahan yung reimbursement for the sound system. Sabi niya masyado raw mahal yung kinuha nating supplier," Katheryne replied, clutching her folder like a shield.
Sandrone felt a twitch in her temple. Bwiset. "Puntahan ko siya mamaya," she muttered, closing her planner with a sharp thwack. "Right now, we have a bigger problem. We need the gym. Ngayon na. The decorations team needs at least six hours to set up the stage and the lighting rig for the opening ceremony tomorrow."
"Pero Pres," Kuni, the Sports Representative, interjected nervously. "Naka-reserve yung gym sa Volleyball team hanggang 6 PM. Regional qualifiers na nila next week, ‘di ba? Sabi ni Coach, hindi raw pwedeng i-cut yung training."
Sandrone stood up. She was small, but when she stood, she had the presence of a 10-foot-tall ruin machine. She adjusted her glasses, the light reflecting off the lenses so her eyes weren't visible.
"Article 4, Section 2 of the Student Handbook states that the Student Government has priority use of all school facilities for school-wide events. The Grand Intrams Opening is a school-wide event. Volleyball training is..." she paused, her lip curling slightly, "...an extracurricular activity."
She grabbed her clipboard—her version of a weapon—and started walking toward the door. Her movements were stiff, rhythmic, and terrifyingly purposeful.
"Pulonia, bring the tape and the floor layout. We’re going to the gym."
"Ngayon na, Pres? Eh, andun pa yung team ni Columbina," Pulonia whispered, scrambling to follow.
Sandrone didn't stop. She didn't care about the star athlete. She didn't care about the "Magandang Middle Blocker" that the whole school was obsessed with. She had an agenda to fulfill, a 99-100 general average to maintain, and a reputation as the most efficient president in Teyvat Academy history to protect.
She pushed open the heavy double doors of the gymnasium.
The sound was immediate: the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of balls, the squeak of rubber against the wood floor, and a sharp, melodic hum that seemed to cut through the chaos.
Sandrone didn't look at the game. She looked at her watch. 4:32 PM.
"Attention!" Sandrone’s voice wasn't loud, but it had a frequency that demanded obedience.
On the other side of the net, a girl with impossibly pale skin and hair that looked like it belonged in a Victorian painting stopped mid-motion. She was holding a volleyball, her eyes half-closed, looking like she was caught between a dream and a game.
Columbina.
"Pres," Columbina said, her voice airy, almost like a song. She tilted her head, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Ang aga mo yata. May dalawang sets pa kami."
Sandrone stepped onto the court, her black shoes clicking sharply on the hardwood. She didn't move an inch as a stray ball rolled past her feet.
"You're out of time, Columbina," Sandrone stated, holding up her clipboard. "The gym is now under SSG jurisdiction. Pack up your things. We have a stage to build."
Columbina didn't move. She just twirled the ball on her finger, her gaze fixed on Sandrone's cold, mechanical expression.
"Paano kung ayoko?"
The SSG members behind Sandrone collectively held their breath. Nobody said 'no' to the Marionette. It was against the laws of physics.
"Then I'll have you cited for obstruction of school activities," Sandrone replied, her voice dropping an octave. "Don't test me. I have a schedule, and currently... isa kang malaking abala."
Columbina chuckled, a soft, haunting sound that echoed in the high rafters of the gym. She took a step closer to the net, the height difference making Sandrone have to tilt her head up just a fraction.
"Masyado kang seryoso, Pres. Baka maputol yung mga strings mo niyan."
Columbina leaned over the net, her face inches away from Sandrone’s. Sandrone braced herself for the scent of salt and exertion—the typical "amoy araw" of a gym in the afternoon. Instead, her sensors were hit with something completely unexpected.
Even with the sweat dampening her hair and the heat radiating off her skin, Columbina smelled... soft.
It was the unmistakable, nostalgic scent of baby powder and white cologne. It was the smell of a toddler after a bath, or a freshly laundered handkerchief. It was so out of place in this humid, testosterone-filled gym that it felt like a glitch in Sandrone’s reality.
"One game. Give me twenty minutes. Pag natapos kami, sa inyo na 'tong gym."
Sandrone looked at her clipboard. Then at the girl who looked like an angel but played like a demon.
"Fifteen minutes," Sandrone snapped. "And not a second more."
Columbina’s smirk widened. "Deal. Watch me, okay? Baka sakaling matuto kang lumipad, Pres."
As Sandrone sat on the bleachers, opening her tea-stained clipboard to cross out 'Gym Clearance,' she realized for the first time that her hands were shaking. Just a little bit. And for a "Robot," that was a very, very serious malfunction.
Sandrone stared at her right hand. The fingers, usually steady enough to fix a motherboard, were twitching against the edge of her clipboard. It was a minute, almost imperceptible tremor, but to her, it felt like a system-wide crash.
Diagnostic: Cortisol spike. Likely due to sleep deprivation and excessive caffeine intake, she told herself, her internal monologue sounding as cold as a read-out.
She forced her hand to grip the pen tighter, the knuckles turning white. She refused to acknowledge the girl on the court—the one who was currently soaring through the air, hair trailing behind her like tattered silk, as she slammed a ball into the floor with a sound like a gunshot.
"Pres, okay ka lang?" Pulonia asked, hovering nearby with a roll of masking tape. "Ang putla mo yata lalo. Gusto mo bili kitang tubig sa canteen? O baka kailangan mo ng C2?"
"I am perfectly functional, Pulonia," Sandrone snapped, her eyes not leaving her clipboard. "It’s the budget. Pantalone is being... difficult. He thinks the Student Government is a charity, not a governing body. I spent three hours last night reconciling the receipts for the Journalism Trophy, and we are still short by two hundred pesos. Two hundred. It’s a mathematical insult."
She scribbled a note in the margin of her clipboard, the ink bleeding slightly into a dried Earl Grey stain.
"And the CETs," she added, her voice dropping into a low, frantic mutter. "I haven't reviewed for the USTET math subtest yet. My mock scores in Physics are only at 98%. If I don't hit 100%, my application for the Engineering program might be compromised. Plus, the principal wants a full report on the waste management project by Friday."
Yes. That was it. It was the crushing weight of being the "Academic Weapon" of Grade 12. It was the fact that she had three different group chats muted because everyone was asking her for the Canva link for the Intrams poster. It was the humidity of this godforsaken gym that was causing her "mechanical" parts to swell and glitch.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Columbina had leaned over the net. Nothing to do with the way the light from the high windows had caught the strange, pale shimmer of her eyes, or the way her voice sounded like a melody that Sandrone couldn't quite categorize as major or minor.
Thump.
Another ball hit the floor, closer this time.
"Pres!" Columbina’s voice floated over the court, airy and annoying. "Nanonood ka ba? Para sayo yon."
Sandrone didn't look up. "Twelve minutes left, Columbina. Huwag mong sayangin ang oras ko sa pakikipag-usap. Just finish the set."
"Galit agad," Columbina laughed. It was a soft, tinkling sound that made the hair on the back of Sandrone’s neck stand up. "You know, for someone who likes things so organized, your strings are looking a bit tangled today."
Sandrone’s pen poked a hole through the paper.
Strings. Columbina loved that word. She used it as if she could see them—as if she knew exactly which one to pull to make Sandrone’s carefully constructed world fall apart.
Sandrone took a deep, shaky breath, smelling the ozone of the gym and the faint, lingering scent of Columbina’s perfume. She opened her "To-Do" list and added a new item at the very bottom, written in the tiniest letters possible:
- Calibrate internal sensors. Fix the glitch.
But as she watched Columbina dive for a ball—graceful, messy, and terrifyingly alive—Sandrone realized with a sinking feeling that this wasn't a glitch she could just code away.
Sandrone stood up, her black shoes clicking like a metronome against the bleachers. She didn't need to look at her watch; her internal clock was never off.
"Time is up, Columbina," Sandrone called out. Her voice was steady now, the "Robot President" back in full control, even if her heart was still doing a frantic double-time rhythm that she blamed entirely on the three shots of espresso she’d had for lunch.
The gym suddenly went quiet as the volleyball team began to scatter, picking up balls and heading for the locker rooms. Columbina, however, stayed. She stood at the center of the court, the ball tucked under her arm, watching Sandrone with that unreadable, dreamy smile.
"Eksakto talaga, Pres? Kahit 30 seconds na bonus, wala?" Columbina asked, walking toward the bleachers where Sandrone was standing.
"The schedule is a constant, not a variable," Sandrone replied, clutching her clipboard like a shield. "Move. My team needs to start taping the floor."
As Columbina reached the edge of the bleachers, she didn't stop at a respectable distance. She stepped up, one, two, three steps, until she was standing on the same level as Sandrone. She was taller—dangerously so in this proximity—and smelled of sweat—but beneath it was something soft, powdery, and so strangely addictive that it made Sandrone’s logic circuits momentarily fry.
"You look like you're about to short-circuit, Marionette," Columbina whispered. It was the first time she’d used Sandrone's real name today, and the sound of it sent a jolt through Sandrone’s system that felt like a power surge.
"I am simply... preoccupied," Sandrone stammered, her eyes darting to her clipboard. "The budget, the CETs, the—"
"Shh." Columbina reached out.
Sandrone froze. In her mind, she was already calculating the social and disciplinary repercussions of an athlete touching the SSG President. But Columbina didn't grab her. Instead, her cool, pale fingers reached for the ID lanyard around Sandrone's neck—the one that was currently tangled and twisted from her morning spent running around.
Columbina’s fingers brushed against Sandrone’s collarbone as she slowly untwisted the fabric. The touch was light, almost non-existent, but to Sandrone, it felt like a live wire. She could see the faint smattering of baby powder on Columbina’s neck and the way a stray strand of her hair was damp against her forehead.
"Ayan," Columbina murmured, her eyes finally meeting Sandrone's. Her fingers lingered for a second too long on the fabric of the ID lace. "Ayokong makitang magulo 'tong lanyard mo. Nagmumukha ka kasing marionette na nagkabuhol-buhol na ang mga strings. Masasaktan ka niyan."
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a teasing lilt. "By the way, I saw your hand shaking earlier. Kung stress lang 'yan sa budget, baka kailangan mo nito."
She pulled something from the side pocket of her gym bag and pressed it into Sandrone’s hand. It was cold—bitterly, wonderfully cold.
A bottle of strawberry-flavored Dutch Mill.
"Para sa blood sugar mo. Baka mahimatay ka sa gitna ng meeting niyo, mahirap na," Columbina smirked, already stepping back and hopping down the bleachers with a grace that felt almost supernatural.
"I don't even like strawberries," Sandrone lied, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears.
Columbina looked back over her shoulder, her hair swaying. "Lie to your clipboard, Pres. Huwag sa akin. See you tomorrow? Sa opening?"
Sandrone didn't answer. She couldn't. She just stood there, clutching the cold bottle of Dutch Mill, watching Columbina disappear into the locker room.
"Pres? Start na ba tayo?" Pulonia asked, holding a roll of duct tape and looking confused.
Sandrone blinked, shaking her head as if to clear a cache of corrupted files. She looked down at the bottle in her hand. There was a small, hand-drawn "wing" on the cap, done in silver permanent marker.
"Yes," Sandrone said, her voice regaining its mechanical edge, though she didn't put the drink down. "Start the taping. And someone get me the Pantalone file. I have a budget to dismantle."
As she turned away, she took a sip of the strawberry milk. It was sickly sweet and exactly what she needed.
System status: Operational. (But the error log was growing.)