Possibly this doesn't even count. Spoilers for Genius 349-352 and counting.
This is the slowest stupidest most boring helicopter on earth, Ryoma thinks. Naturally it belongs to the Monkey King.
He grips his knees and looks out the window. Momo-senpai's cell phone rings.
"MOMO-SENPAI!!!!!!!!!" it is Horio, as everyone in the helicopter is now aware, even over the turbulence and engine noise and rotary blades. "TEZUKA-BUCHOU IS LOSING!"
Ryoma rolls his eyes but his hands ball into fists.
"HE CAN'T USE HIS ZERO-SHIKI AND HE'S GOING TO DESTROY HIS ARM IF SOMEONE DOESN'T DO SOMETHING!"
No one is seeking to snatch the phone away or put a muzzle on Horio. They can all tell it must be bad.
"What-" Momo-senpai blurts, but the phone is lifted gracefully from his hand.
"Ore-sama will have no one shrieking into his ears on his own air transport," says Atobe. "Echizen is on his way." He snaps the phone shut on a note of pure shocked silence, and hands it back to Momo-senpai, who looks genuinely impressed. It is the first time anyone's ever been able to shut Horio up.
The ground below them is muddy and flat. Ryoma wants the helicopter to go faster. He was just warmed up and ready but now he feels like all the energy and strength have been zapped from his limbs, like they are cold and lifeless too like the landscape they are flying over.
Atobe had said Echizen was on his way. Not we. Just Ryoma.
His tennis bag is on the floor between his knees. He picks it up and unzips it. His racket is red. He doesn't have any wristbands.
Even his racket feels heavier when he picks it up and twirls it. He thinks, Buchou, and feels an answering twinge in his left elbow. He traces his fingers over the bone lightly. Tezuka knows how to play through pain. Buchou, he thinks again. Use Nitoryuu. You can beat Sanada with both hands. Almost as soon as the thought has found a voice in his brain, he feels silly, foolish for thinking anything like this can help - but at the same time he feels lighter; a great sense of relief is spreading over him. Yes, he thinks, without really knowing what he is doing. You can still win. He grips his racket in his left hand. You're *going* to win, Buchou.
He settles back against the seat. And i'm going to watch you.
The window is fogging up from his breath, shaky and warm and too close to it as he leans down to look for the familiar white lines of the tennis courts.
He traces a circle on the pane. He imagines it green: a wristband or a tennis ball. He imagines Tezuka seeing it - looking at it, and saying his name.
The helicopter is starting to descend, the engine roar increasing as they drop. His stomach is suddenly heavy again, his shoulders newly tense.
He makes the circle bigger, like some kind of protective rune.
Then, inside it, he writes: