/jp/ - Otaku Culture

I open my eyes, then blink repeatedly.

The world ahead is water and fog, foggy water and humid fog, both stretching much further than what I can see. I blink again, trying to breathe, yet nothing comes; hands touch my chest; it doesn't go up and down anymore. With broad eyes, I then notice my clothes: barefoot and a white yukata, only that. The yukata's collar is a reverse 'Y'…

“I'm dead.” I mumble to myself.

“Ho…” A familiar whistle calls my attention and what once was an infinite river—the Sanzu—is now but a small water crossing, cherry blossoms letting their petals fall on the waters and gravel margins as the fog subsides just a little, revealing a simple wooden boat moored to the ground by rope and… An oar stabbed into the earth. “Not everyone notices it so fast; mostly happens when they see me.” The voice was from the person perfectly balancing herself on top of the oar, crouching and holding a scythe over her shoulder—a big frame for a woman and hair the color of strawberries—looking at me from above. “Hello…” Komachi Onozuka hums. “… again, Keine Kamishirasawa~”

Again…? Why is the shinigami—

“Man, you gave me a bunch of work that day, y'know? There were so many feral souls to dispose of—sheesh.” She shrugs, swathing off a petal that fell on top of her nose. “Still, it's okay for you to not remember. Death is as remarkable as your name—and yours wasn't when your time arrived; I wonder if that's how you slipped right beneath my nose.” She leaps off the oar and lands in front of me, growing to her full height—a menacing half-head taller than me. She laughs. “… Or maybe because I was napping, but don't tell Eiki that~”

All I can react with is utter confusion. What's she talking about? 'Escaping beneath her nose'…?

As the seconds of thought come and go, clarity soon sparks like fireworks: death… No, no, this cannot be! Aki and Mochi need both their parents; it's my responsibility for adopting them! The revolution cannot work without me; it'll crumble and disappear without consolidation! Who knows what will become of its ashes? I promised hope for the children of Gensokyo—for those that suffer and aren't helped by shrine maidens!

To die like this, to just accept…

—Everything stops. Suddenly, my body is not my own anymore.

“Don't fight it.” Komachi's voice reaches me, vigilant. “I should've done this that day, but controlling spirits just after suddenly awakening…? Not really viable,” she yawns, tapping the back of the scythe repeatedly against her shoulder. “Eh, guess I shouldn't be worried—history has shown that when the Sanzu swallows something, it never lets go… Still, just to be sure.” My legs walk towards the rowboat, Komachi watching like a hawk, mind slowly draining out any thought as if some type of hypnosis. I tried fighting, but the flame inside was constantly and rapidly assaulted by snow that damped and sapped life off anything, leaving in its wake a mere corpse… “Who'd have thought?” She muses. “Many have tried, and I've grown bored by their attempts. You gave me a scare once, but in the words this poet Kasen knew, ugh… They really fit this situation, but, um…” I barely register she's speaking, struggling dearly against becoming like that frozen corpse.

It was futile to fight the world and protect those two little babies; anyone in possession of a functional brain knows; only death waits, sooner or later.

“Eh, it doesn't matter. Just know one thing, Kamishirasawa: Death always catches up~”

History has shown time and time again…

My feet hit the wood, about to climb onto the boat, Komachi already having climbed, oar in her other hand, a lazy trepidation lingering in her mulberry eyes.

The Sanzu was the shortest I'd ever seen.

… But history is never written in stone.

I stop.

“… For fuck's sake.” She desperately tries to row the boat to the other margin, the other hand releasing the oar and trying to pull me inside—

That corpse is not Keine Kamishirasawa.

—the boat rocks as, with an abrupt pounding headache, I kick her away from me and fall back onto land, tripping and rolling on the gravel, everything inside of me shaking with agonizing pain.

Rage is hot and nigh impossible to hold beneath my skin, knuckles closing as my eyes meet Komachi's; she'd lost her smile, clutching to the scythe with tenacity—a sight to behold: Gensokyo's most notorious slacker, furious…

Around us, the rosy petals litter an arena of soft gravel, the Sanzu—an ocean again—eerily silent, though shadows of unfathomable size lurk right beneath the waters.

With deep breaths, I push myself up. “Komachi-san, I know Gensokyo wouldn't work without you to guide the souls of those that died, and I'm very sorry for being a nuisance…” Hurting still, I take a powerful tug on the yukata and, with a tearing sound, rip the inverted collar and let the frayed white cloth hang on the obi; my breasts are, gladly, wrapped in bandages, so I'm not entirely torso-nude. “… But I fear I must postpone my death just once more.”