/jp/ - Otaku Culture

“Feels functional, but function doesn’t mean it won’t explode sooner than later…” I mumble to myself and scratch my hatless scalp, even this small effort bothering the twin freeloaders in my belly—your mama is trying to do magic, ze, sheesh. Patchouli attentively stares at the table emblazoned with a dozen hand-drawn esoteric inscriptions and sigils on its surface, paying only half mind to my work as her other hand continues gesturing and moving to give life to another sigil and so another star to the universe floating just above our heads.

It was… quite the overwhelming surprise entering the Voilé and seeing the entirety of a manually built universe just floating there—worst of all, not knowing exactly what its purpose was—but that's just Gensokyo: you never fully know the answer to whatever wonder is happening around you, but man look at all those pretty lights~

“Countless things in this world are in constant peril of unexpectedly exploding, but that hasn't stopped great people from pursuing such things… Will it stop you, Marisa Kirisame?” She lazily turns the page, her brows suddenly frowning as her purple eyes scan the paper, shifting to me for a brief moment. Patchouli Knowledge seemed amused.

What the…?

I hum, my curiosity spiking and my skin tingling, the seeker of mysteries—or more likely, adrenaline—pushing me to get answers… And I could get such answers from that odd book, which calmly floats to Patchy's side.

… For the chance of being vaporized alone, it's not worth it, but also the complete disgust that fills my heart at the thought of again stealing from Patchy and so losing her trust…

A little peek, though, shouldn't hurt.

As Patchy lets the utterly complex sigil she holds float up—golden, black and white, spiky and undulating like a crashing wave; somehow, it feels vaguely familiar—and turns the page, she sighs. “No, Marisa Kirisame, a 'little peek' would be very bad. Control yourself.” H-Huh, how did she…?! Patchy stares at me intensely, and I'm about to try defending myself, my heart rate skyrocketing. “Don't fret—you'd regain your mind before attempting it, so I'm not mad at you.” She pauses, as if pondering something beyond me on the papyrus of that book, before sighing and resuming. “I'm… proud of your change. Good work.” She said those words without an ounce of feeling in her face, and I blinked, utterly confused.

Because that face is the face of honesty.

Suddenly extremely cozy inside, I had to avert my eyes from her, cheeks rosy and smile silly. C'mon, you middle-aged dumbass, it's just some compliments! No need to act like a teen again! Composing myself again and giving the finishing touches on the table, I mumble, “Y-Yeah, uh, sorry for that… And thanks.” The week magician nods, strands of hair falling on her face due to the movement—I wonder where's her hat. Perhaps she's not feeling wearing it today? She looks undoubtedly different… I wouldn't say she's softer; Koa can attest to that after being nearly set on fire for trying to flip the very threads of the handmade universe, but… More open to hearing others? Something along those lines. It is nice, and I look forward to the day when I can bring my children here to learn from her without worrying that they will catch fire for looking the wrong way at a book.

Speaking of those little devils, I step back with a huff, forearm cleaning the sweat from my forehead. “Guess it's done.” I consider the two dozen books pilled around us, floating in clouds of soft magic and open on specific pages—a chaotic mishmash of diverse spells to form a ritual that, when conducted, should help me the way a mercurial concoction whose only intent is ending life would never help.

With a satisfying thud, Patchouli closes the mighty book and puts it away, sending one final sigil to join its thousands of brothers and sisters. The woman hovers by my side, examining the table and the various apparatuses that siege it closely. “I must say, 'twas a stroke of genius only a buffoon could pull off.”

I stared, puzzled. “Was that a compliment, or…?”

“It was a compliment.”

“Nice, ze~” I clap, my eyes closing as I do my best to ignore the hurt on my swollen feet and stiff back from the various movements and arching I had to do during the construction of this ritual—all soon to be eradicated.

After all, this is a ritual to temporarily separate me from my pregnancy.

My heart is frantic just thinking about the crazy process, sharing it with the pride of putting it all together—not that I was lacking in free time or help: Alice and the others won't let me do anything substantial due to my late pregnancy and, without the entire Voilé free for me to explore, I'd never have access to the plethora of fascinating knowledge just hidden beneath books I once considered much cooler reads.

… Man, why didn't I apologize to her all those years ago?

“First test.” Patchy mumbles to herself, and, abruptly, a calm but very pregnant rat appears on top of the table.

H-Huh…?