Ryouta was dozing peacefully in bed, half-awake but well on his way to falling asleep again. It was a weekend and that meant he was sleeping in for as long as possible, as long as nobody had seen him with his eyes open and tried to get him out of bed.


...Scratch that. Ryouta pretended not to hear and attempted to feign sleep a while longer in hopes that the voice would give up and go away.

"Ryouta, I know you're awake. Get your ass out of bed, boy; you're burning daylight," Cosa Nostra growled, a small hologram of him floating right in front of Ryouta's face. Grumbling, Ryouta sat up.

"Nostra, you know it's a Saturday. Saturday means sleeping in," the teenage boy complained, crawling out of bed and rooting around in his dresser for something to wear. He eventually settled for a pair of ordinary jeans and a black T-shirt with some indecipherable handwriting on the back.

"I don't give a shit what day it is, when you wake up you're expected to get up," Cosa Nostra retorted, his worn face appearing even more lined than usual as it contorted with annoyance. "And stop calling me Nostra. You named me Cosa Nostra, I damn well expect you to keep to that," he added, taking a long drag from his omnipresent cigar. You would never guess from this exchange that the two were as close as brothers.

The day went on as per the usual for a Saturday: Ryouta surfed the Internet, doodled a bit, listened to music, wrote down some ideas for solos, and got out his saxophone and attempted said solos. By late afternoon he had nothing to do. "Any ideas, Nostra?"

"How many times have I told you now that you're only saying half of the damn name that you gave me in the first place?" Cosa Nostra asked, scowling. When Ryouta only shrugged and gave a simple grin, the gritty Navi scowled. "One of these days... whatever. We're giving the Net a housecall."

And that was the end of it, as Ryouta recalled Cosa Nostra into the PET and jacked him in through his computer.