Imamimi Notanobu - IV

The name Imamimi Notanobu belongs to me. It’s a name absent of any particular heritage, great bloodline, or meaning of great significance. It belongs to a man with no particular talent besides being good-looking, and at times, convincing others that he is. Yes. Despite working as a Magical Consultant, I can’t happily claim to be a ‘Mage’.

This is all despite my odd appearance. While the rest of my family are all normal-looking humans, with arms, legs, and all the necessary components, the same can’t be said for me.

I was born as an anomaly—a human tainted by magic in the womb, and given the condition ‘Thaumatogenic Dysmorphia Syndrome’.

I have brown eyes and orange hair that bleeds to a gradient of white. I have the striped patterns of an Otiocerus coquebertii, a strange insect resembling a land shrimp. And perhaps most discerning of all—I have a pair of wings, long, tapered, and snug against my side, which I never, when I can, show to others.

Because of this, people say I’m a mage. They think I have the dignity and appearance of one. They look at me and think, ‘Wow, he seems special, so he really must be, huh? People like that must come from a special bloodline, or have great talents!”

However—that couldn’t be far enough from reality.

The truth is, I don’t even have a license to do what I do. I’ve been rejected by my country’s Bureau of Magic twice, failed entrance exams to any prominent magical university in high school, and have a nonsensical grasp of the concept itself.

But I didn’t give up. Not then, not never.

After dropping out of college, I decided to gather what money I had and travel the world. Why? If you have no options, the best way to cope is to blame your environment and go somewhere else, naturally.

Travelling the world.

Going from place to place.

Asia. Europe. America. Africa…

I came to realise that I had no skill for magic, even then. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that being repeatedly shown the problem lies within, and not without, in every environment possible, did precisely the opposite.

After all—while magic isn’t entirely genetic, there’s no saying that anyone can learn it either.

But.

But!

Luck struck one day.

When I was moping in a bar overseas, I decided to work my cute charm and seduce a pretty lady. She was impressed. Largely by my words, but somewhat in part due to my looks.

I stayed over at her place, and over pillow talk, she confessed to me. Leaned in real close. Fingers on my cheek.

“Do you know that I’m a witch?”

I didn’t, of course. I just knew this beautiful, possibly Nordic woman was very much my type, and thought to try my luck.

“A witch?” I said, “what does that mean?”

I remember doing my best puppy eyes in an attempt to goad more out of her. It worked. That evening, she played her hand and cast a variety of spells. As far as I could tell, she was the real deal─a genuine article of supreme magic, in a world filled with lessers.

“Do you want to learn how to do what I do?”

“Whaat─really? I-isn’t that kinda dangerous? (PLEASE LET ME LEARN PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!)”

“It can be. But with a good teacher, anything’s doable.”

“Oh, um, if you say so. (YESSSSSSS, I WIN, VICTORY IS MINE! I EXIST PURELY AS A VESSEL OF MAGIC, AND GET TO LEARN IT ALONGSIDE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN HAHAHAHA!)

I’d gotten involved with magic after that. For a year, we travelled together. Stopping at places for weeks or days at a time, scouting for local treasure, and learning from native masters.

I acquired a plethora of trinkets during this, learned about local spirits and demons, and came to be able to create them from their respective baubles. Still, all good things came to an end. For unfortunate and quite tragic reasons, we departed from one another.

“We’ll meet again, my dear. Until then, keep up your training. I’ll make sure to write every now and then to keep your homework updated.”

Thus.

I returned to Fukuoka. Set up a Magical Consultation firm (illegally), and am working through the kinks and cranies of actually having a job.

“I see,” says the woman flatly. “In other words, you’re like me.”

“A hard-working member of society?”

“Unemployed.”

I cross my arms. “Did you not hear what I said? I’m a Magical Consultant.”

“Illegally. Do you pay taxes?”

“Yes.”

“On everything?”

“No. But I do have a job outside of my consultation business.”

“Photos?”

She looks towards my PC setup. There’s a webcam installed, and a few lights on the desk.

“I make videos and stream to a loving audience.”

“Stream? Like a fish?”

“Broadcast videos live─make videos too, about dealing with magic, tips, tricks, all that stuff.”

“I see. That explains why you care so much about your appearance. And, the things in your closet.”

She must be referring to my outfits.

I click my tongue. “Do you know the name Yoshihiko Murakami?”

“No.”

“Well, he was a leading expert on women’s clothing, and in the 1930s, a reader wrote to him thus, ‘Just as women have long fought for the right to wear pants, I hope that men would one day freely wear skirts.’ You could say that I’m just an advocate for equal rights.”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“If anything, it’s society that’s at fault here. If everyone put as much effort as I do into looking cute, you wouldn’t have guys running around in t-shirts and trousers all day long.”

In any case.

The woman has a look of satisfaction on her face. As if she’s finally grasped just what sort of person I am. On the other hand, I still can’t quite make much out of what she is. Beyond knowing Mad Dog Kung Fu, I guess (is that even real?).

“Why do you want to find the Tearer? Do you plan to magically consult the person?” she asks, not hiding the confusion in her voice.

I don’t answer immediately, since honestly, I’m not sure myself. I had no clue I would go this deep, all things considered.

“Good question. Maybe because I have no sense of self-preservation, and have a not-so-subtle desire to get famous off covering this case.”

When she hears that, Mad Dog immediately follows up. “How did you learn about The Tearer?”

I turn on my PC and open up the browser. After a while, I find the website I’m looking for.

“This is a Paranormal Site. We discuss and share information on stuff and whatnot.”

“Paranormal? Isn’t the term ‘Magical?’”

“Not necessarily.” I spin around, feeling quite proud in my swivel chair. “Here’s a famous example from France. There’s a series of fifty murders, and it involves victims having themselves drained of all blood. What or who would you say is responsible?”

“A doctor.” She stops. “Free blood.”

“Okay, creative answer. But most people would’ve said a vampire. And for a long time, police questioned whether it was a vampire or a human crime. So during this so-called questioning period, the murder is effectively a ‘Schrodinger’s Crime’. It’s simultaneously committed by a human and by a vampire unless the box is open, and it's proven otherwise. Hence—a paranormal site. Something beyond the scope of our understanding. Whatever the case, the Tearer is in a similarly tenuous position. Until people know exactly what it is, it could be a human, an automaton sprung to life, or a werewolf.”

Of course, my sense of holistic intuition tells me the Tearer is a human, tried and true. But a chance to explain stuff I meticulously researched is still well-appreciated.

“Was the murderer in Europe a vampire?”

“We don’t know. But the Vampire Coven of Europe said in an official statement that they believed it was a renegade mage who attempted to frame them, and cited a man who was spotted visiting the scene of the crimes.”

The woman’s eyes widen. Like she’s genuinely amazed.

“Wow. Killing people is easy in Europe. Maybe I should’ve gone there instead.”

“Hm, I don’t want to be rude, but where are you from exactly?”

“The mainland.”

“You’re Chinese?”

Last I heard, the civil war was still going strong there. So, would that make her a refugee? For some strange reason, a particularly dramatic scene of her as a war-torn orphan crosses my mind, and a sense of sympathy follows.

I entertain the thought for a moment, only to quickly realise that she'd probably be a warlord-type instead.

“Yeah. I took a flight from Shanghai to Tokyo. It was only two hours, and colder than I expected.”

“Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did. But the landing gear compartment got cold at times.”

“Uh huh.”

What a way to travel!

I’m surprised, but also intrigued at the same time. She’s brave, I’ll give her that. That’s a good quality. And kinda attractive too.

“But, why’d you come all the way to Fukouka?”

“China is too big. Competition is tough and plentiful. Everyone says it’s easier to start a business overseas these days.”

“What sort of business?”

She fixes her eyes on me, and remains motionless for some time. Looking at the woman, I get the impression of an oblivious child who doesn’t quite get social cues yet, like not staring at people, beating them up, or growling like a dog.

“Martial arts school.”

“Mad Dog Fist,” I recollect out loud.

She nods. “The Tearer is a murderer. They are good at killing. If I kill them, then I’m better.”

“Still, I’m impressed that you know about them.”

While not exactly obscure, the ‘Tearer’ is a made-up name for a murderer people can’t confirm to exist. In other words, it belongs to an individual who’s yet to be acknowledged by the police or official media.

But now.

This woman from China somehow heard it through the grapevine?

“Do not be impressed, easily-impressed boy. I did not discover this Tearer alone.”

Reaching into her duster coat, she retrieves an object I understand as a cellphone. She finnicks with it for a while with surprising dexterity, and shows me a webpage. It’s a forum. Just like the one I use.

Well, except that it’s Chinese.

As I contemplate the circumstances of her discovery, she takes me through a post detailing what I suppose are theories, discussion, and even images on the ‘Tearer’s’ identity. Then─she stops.

On one particular message. One standout text and image in a long line of nothings.

“Do you see, boy? The reason I was there yesterday is because someone posted a picture of it here.”

An image of someone bound and gagged, in that very room where that corpse had been. Even more eerie is that, according to the date of the post, it was only posted five minutes after the end of my stream.

I struggle to conceive of a reason why, why exactly someone would do that. If the killer posted both pictures. If the killer did so at around the same time.

Did they want me and this woman to meet?

“My name is Mad Dog.”

“Huh?”

My brain, which had been so engrossed in that image, takes some time to recalibrate. Right. This woman is staring at me quite intently, and is about to shove a finger up my nose.

She pulls back her finger. “It’s proper to introduce yourself. I forgot to. I am Mad Dog.”

“Nice to meet you Mad Dog, I am Imamimi Notanobu.”

I realise it just now, but having this woman around does help with my nerves.