Prologue: Unrequited Love.

The color brown had never looked so worn out since the day he strode into school wearing it. It was always the same tired old wardrobe, the same aloof expression, the same coffee mug. When one gathered the courage to speak to him, they would find it was much like conversing with an Interactive Webster's CD Library. One would never believe that he was a twenty-six year old man. You could mistake him for sixty-two.

Sharp, cutting gold eyes were wrought into an impatient scowl when questions were not answered correctly, and yet the mischievous gleam could not be denied. His pretentious nature made snapping shrewd corrections enjoyable for him. He only ever smiled when it was sarcastic.

It was a shame that, had he made his impression more charming, he could easily have his pick of any female counterpart he chose. His features were strikingly feminine, but with the masculinity of a prominent jaw line and height of six-foot-one. The fair beauty portrayed in myths of Narcissus and the Arch Angel Raphael, made modest with tired brown suits and a pair of glasses, and the alias of Takahashi Sensei.

Perhaps it was the wrathful scorn of a woman that confirmed his fate as a teacher. Some women prefer the unattainable. Ayame Suzuki, a seventeen-year-old Sophomore, had been infatuated Takahashi Sensei (affectionately named Akira) since her swelled ego sustained a dire injury due to her post break up with the King of all Seniors, Kyuso Itou. She wanted revenge on Kyuso, the wide renown slut of the school, and a treasure to add to her collection.

She wanted Akira Takahashi.

It was an ordinary Monday morning, to Akira’s dread. Monday mornings were venomous. And much to his surprise and dread, his morning solace would be imposed on by a student. She was propped up on a desk parallel to his own, shapely legs shamelessly flaunted due to the length - or lack thereof - of her pleated skirt.

“Oh! Takahashi Sensei! I was just -”

“Is there something you need?” He had successfully stolen a long drag of scalding coffee before securing the door closed behind him, brown jacket slung over his forearm.

“Do I need something to, ah … Commune with my favoritist Sensei ever?”

Akira’s eyebrow flinched. He sucked in his cheek as though attempting to worry out an after taste. Ayame was beaming.

“Apparently not. But wouldn’t you prefer to ‘commune’ with your own flock, instead?”

“But they’re not as enlightened as you are,” she pouted, slipping off her desk to limit the distance between them. “Please, teach me some words. Like … What’s another word for bra?”

“B-bra?”

“Buh bra? Really?”

“…”

“Aww, you’re blushing!” Ayame giggled.

“Brassiere. How should I know? Victoria has yet to divulge her secrets to me,” he huffed, and concealed his fuming face with a book he was impressively decoding upside-down.

“Just curious,” she replied, and traced her fingertips airily down her chest. “I bought a new bra yesterday.”

“ … Well, you are the subject of my envy,” Akira stated after a pause, shifting uncomfortably in the seat he was stationed at. The siren’s newest objective seemed to be fitting herself in the flustered teacher’s lap. With a quick thrust of his legs, he had never been so thankful that his chair was constructed with wheels.

“Oh, don’t you run … Roll away from me!”

Those wheels were quick. She was quicker. And she had him cornered.

Ayame had flung her arms around the man’s shoulders, the addition of weight in his lap causing him to cringe. His fingers were clutching the arms of his chair until the white of his knuckles were exposed, and his eyes bulged like a frightened deer’s. “G-get …”

“Akira,” she breathed, and nestled her sable head into the hallow of his shoulder. “I’m in love with you.”

“…”

“… Well?” Lips pouted at him, fingertips tracing the jolted curve of his jaw. “Do you love me, too?”

“… I would love for you to get off of me. This instant.” Dual golds were not effected by her illustrious antics, they failed to provoke her. It was quite clear that he meant every dry, shrewd word, and that she should get off of him immediately. And with only a moment’s reluctance, she abandoned his lap to stand, expelling rivers of tears. “Oh, don’t … Don’t do that …”

“What do you care! You bastard!” She tossed her head angrily, leaving the flustered man in his corner while she stormed out, exerting much of her pent up fury into slamming his door.

And thus, Operation: Get Takahashi Sensei Fired! began.