/jp/ - Otaku Culture

> The Corolla plunged through a starless night, sheets of rain reducing visibility even further. The occasional thud of weathered potholes in the tired dirt road punctuating incessant smooth jazz.
> She imitated it all, the music and ambient noise both, between bites of cold leftovers and tap water gulped down from a reused 20 ounce plastic bottle. Yagoo slowly threaded his way along an uneven dirt path, headlights a wavering arc of light in the tediously unvarying scenery of pouring rain and twisted shrubbery.

> This was far outside of his comfort zone. He biked to and from work every day, happily pedaling along in the crisp morning air to the upbeat tunes of Japanese pop idols new and old. Here, the atmosphere was… stagnant, a cold stillness he had never felt before. Sheets of rain, falling since who-knows-how-long before they’d even arrived, did nothing to wash away a pervasive stink of peat, frothing dirt and sand.
> Despite being mere days, it felt like weeks ago Watson had appeared in his office, announcing her presence by pulling the fire alarm and causing half the building to evacuate (as was her custom) before unrolling a crumbling map and insisting that they depart immediately for Japan’s Easternmost territory, a small island the name of which she could not read as it was written in a mix of hiragana and kanji.
> Yagoo called a contact at a government office only to discover that the island was off-limits to civilian travel. He pressed and the man relented, putting him on hold so he could attempt talking a supervisor into a short-term visitor’s permit. “Knowing what we know can happen there, it’s only natural they’d lock it down,” Ame whispered.
> The catchy muzak rendition of Gurenge (mandatory as background music in every store, hospital, elevator, karaoke stream and government office for months now) ended as the man returned, obviously flustered. “Owing to your company’s status as a cultural asset... you’ve been granted a pair of visitation permits valid for two days. Entirely off the record, and contingent upon waiving all liability rights for the duration of your trip to the island. A list of forbidden activities will be faxed to your office by…”

> Yagoo’s thoughts drifted back to the present. They’d put nearly 100 kilometers on the car, driving in a straight line on an island scarcely a kilometer and a half wide.
> He put it in park, taking off his seatbelt and turning around to face the young woman lying in the bench seat behind him. “As I’ve said before, we’re getting nowhere. We should turn around and try to go back before we run out of gas.” He gestured out into the storm and as if on queue the windshield was peppered by a noisy swell of rain. “I’d rather not walk.”
> She rolled over to face him, shaking her head. “Not to backseat, but I don’t think that would be very productive.” Pulling her hand from the blanket she’d wrapped herself in, Watson brandished her signature pocket-watch. Its arms stilled themselves before spasming wildly, thrashing and jerking to different times in no discernible pattern before falling motionless again, both sagging to the bottom of the clock face as if exhausted by their ordeal. She set it atop the blanket with a tender pat and pulled out a bricky gray gameboy from a backpack on the floor in front of her. She turned away quickly to hide an uncharacteristically worried expression. “At this point we’re not getting out unless we’re 'let' out.”

> He shambled forward and knelt in the wet sand, arms cradling a heavy bundle wrapped in a straw mat. Seeking shelter from the winds, which seemed to intensify once they’d reached their destination, he placed his burden between two great boulders on the beach and paused briefly for his eyes to adjust to the scarce light. The wind battered him with cold droplets of rain as he unfurled the mat, fumbling through his pocket for tent stakes and securing it to the wet earth.
> Finally, tenderly, he reached under his coat and unsheathed a stout, heavily patinated dagger. The knife was a curious object, ornate hilt no worse-for-wear in spite of the decades it had spent languishing in the shallow waters surrounding this very isle. The spine of it was thicker than a butcher’s knife, despite the relatively small length of the thing. It gave the copper blade a triangular shape representing movement even as it sat idly in his hand. He traced his fingers along the intricate carvings across its handle, feathers and wisps of smoke in bone overlaying a core of dark Japanese redwood.
> He sheathed the knife once more and rose to his feet, shambling his way across the rocky shoreline and back to the car. Amelia perked up in the back seat, turning away from her gameboy as she heard the driver door open. “Back already? That was quick! Uh, Where is she?”
> “No, we’re just getting started.” He popped the trunk and gazed back at the beach. “Are you coming?”

>>27164367
So this false narrative is permanent now huh

> He’d been racing through the streets for hours, the soft pitter-patter of an afternoon drizzle giving way to a hefty shower and finally the deafening crescendo of a cold fall downpour.
> Squat businesses and towering apartment buildings alike closed their doors and drew down their lights as the evening grew cold and quiet, but for the hiss of raindrops on pavement and the erratic gasps of his own breaths.
> Exhausted, one last frantic time he cast his gaze upon his dingy surroundings before hurrying himself into a small shed. A garbage collection site, scarcely filled by neighbors unable or unwilling to hold their recycling until the morning. He pulled the plywood door shut and found himself lost in thought.
> He was one of the first translators in the vtuber scene, and finally landed a job with the biggest: Cover. He could put everything, even his JAV aspirations, behind him, and interact face to face with real idols… then, as tends to happen, someone found him out.
> It was strange, really. His assignments came via anonymous Discord messages and usually required access beyond his pay grade, yet he consistently found the paths to his objectives open and undefended.
> Slow, even footsteps snapped him out of his musings and back to the cold Tokyo night. He peeked through plywood walls into the grungy alleyway. Nothing… nothing… hmm. A figure paused briefly there, at the end of the alleyway, shadowed by a tall brick building and cheap umbrella.
> He waited with baited breath for the figure to leave. Whoever it was eventually walked on to the other side of the alley’s mouth, out of sight. He didn’t exhale until the footsteps became inaudible with distance.
> He pulled off his sweatshirt and laid it, along sopping-wet sweatpants, on a pile of PET bottles. Perhaps it wasn’t safe here, but going out there would end even worse. He didn't know what would happen if he was found.
> Damn Her! He signed up to drag depressed former idols out to karaoke, and receive adoration from content-starved western EOP plebs. Not to play spy. None of the others had posed such a problem. Mori hadn’t even noticed when he hacked her ancient Dell laptop and stole most of her frames, making her debut a slideshow.
> He tried to digitally steal RAM from Amelia, but… 32 GB? What the fuck, it was like she already knew it was coming. He had to abort. But after a few days his… benefactors were growing impatient. They’d seen enough of him tricking HoloENs into saying slurs. They wanted the detective “Yabee’d”, and they wanted it now.