/jp/ - Otaku Culture

Komachi eyes me for a long moment, the penetrating gaze remaining as she made her way out of the boat and onto the gravel; a note of tension and a droplet of sweat, I hope, were the only hints she had of the mess that's going inside of me: liberating oneself from mind control bears as much recoil as the removal of a pertinent parasite, the places where its tentacles sank sensitive and dazed, my vision slightly blurred and legs and arms struggling as to not shake, breathing all over the place. I need a moment to recover… And to think what I should do next. Saying and doing are, after all, very different in nature— “I despise people like you.” She says out of the blue, throwing her scythe over both of her shoulders and letting her hands hang over the handle. “People who believe they should live longer than others due to unfinished business: newsflash, dumbass, that is no longer your concern! You're dead—let the new generation take your place; let your ideals hold a spec of importance as you had only one life to define them… But no, you must continue living; otherwise, how possibly would the world carry on spinning?” The sheer outrage in her words cut deep, face of pure disgust but also of hope: Is she trying to… convince me?

My chest clenched with the understanding and the bittersweet poignancy of her words—history, after all, is a collection of deeds that cannot be undone…

… Not by everyone, that's it.

My face firms and, at my hands, Danmaku sprouts in patterns of blue and red—I may not have my spell cards anymore, but to duel in Danmaku is to use the energy of the spirit… And of that, I have to spare. “You're not stopping me, Komachi-san—”

“—Do you even have a plan?” She asks, headache dispersed and limbs recovering from numbness. Her question, however, is valid and sweat pours down my nape.

There's very little I can do, but it's not quite hopeless. I revived once, she said…

… But how?

The plan is to get it from her, one way or another.

Her eyes narrow with understanding as the Danmaku cloaking my hands grows stronger and unfurled scrolls start orbiting me from beyond the veil, a tired 'tsc…' leaving the lazy shinigami. “Fine, so be it. I still got a ton of work today because of you.”

The gut punch takes my attention for a split second and before I can grasp it, all distance between me and her vanishes, her scythe plunging, eyes wide and nigh predatory; my left hand thrusts into paper and the taste of what had just happened is as pungent as reading about a gruesome death, the distance between us returning just as her scythe hit the gravel—so this is her power… problematic.

She sighs. “I was afraid of that… Ah, this could've been easy: manipulate the distance and sit on the other side of the Sanzu until you either go mad or give up.” Anxiety builds up inside: the world goes on despite my death—Mokou, Suzu… Hold on, please. “… Enough talking.”

Any thought is cleansed as the duel resumes; the structure of Danmaku not totally forgotten as the distance suddenly increases and decreases at her pleasure, forcing me to eat the past in order to unmake it. I struggle to avoid the absolute lunatic patterns of golden Danmaku—golden coins? Fitting, I guess—my last duel a few months ago, eyes jumping around at full speed and throwing my own bullets—

—I'm in front of her, hand plunging into the nearest scroll—she's not aiming for me! “You're not the first!” I pull the scroll, but a good chunk of it is ripped off from the ring of paper circling me. Opportunity arose and hundreds of bullets whizzed in her direction, the shinigami dodging immaculate, eyes never leaving me. “Many came before, meandering endlessly about how they must return to do this and that—do you know what I do with those people, Keine Kamishirasawa?!” The disparity in technique is evident as the seconds pass, her Danmaku and scythe aiming entirely for the scrolls orbiting me, chipping them effortlessly… And just as effortlessly, they were fixed or replaced.

She's not fighting for a win; she's just wasting my time…

Each second, more happens on the other side. My eyes are big and nervous, heart beating frantically—I must get my answers from her quick—

—The scythe changes direction and before I can entirely sink my left hand inside the scroll, the sharp edge shears off half of my hand, two torn fingers flailing through the air.

… It's odd how painful a wound can be even after death, body tumbling backwards and other hand furiously scrambling to reach inside the nearest scroll. “… I sit with them on the margin, eating apples or whatever! I make the ride to the Yama longer so we can talk; so I can give them a sort of peace before harsh judgment! And you know what?! It works most of the time! Not always, but I try my best!” Distance melts, and a few hairs are sliced off. “So what makes you think you deserve more? More time, more life—more anything! What gives you the impression that you’re so superior to people who felt they also deserved more?!