Imamimi Notanobu - XIII

I’ve never believed in luck. That’s a lie. But the fact is, prior to this moment in time, I don’t believe I’ve ever been on the receiving end of such great fortune, to the extent that everything prior to this might as well have been a lie.

Somehow. Despite investigating a series of potential murders.

Somehow. Despite getting captured by the gang responsible for a series of potential murders.

I am now playing video games with one of its members, while feasting on a selection of Chinese snacks.

Grumbling, I nearly end up dropping my controller, as my high-speed racecar swerves into a corner, and implodes into a shower of sparks and metal. The boy next to me—Hong, stifles a wry chuckle. Racing past my destroyed car in a flash of trailing red.

He wins shortly after that and gives me a consoling, if not educational look. “It is better to walk a thousand miles over two days, than to run a thousand over seven.”

“Is this some Chinese proverb?”

“Everything spoken by a Chinese person might as well be a Chinese proverb.”

“I’ll take that as a maybe.”

He lets out what I think is a self-derisive laugh and stands up. It’s in the late afternoon, and I’ve sort of settled into the idea that I’m genuinely not getting away from this place. Like, I can’t say it’s completely pleasant. There’s still this general notion that they could just kill me for whatever reason, and that’d be the end of it.

But there is also this idea that it’s not that bad. That whatever my current situation is, is preferable to being, let’s say, a prisoner of war in some battle-torn country. I mean, my limbs are still intact, and my tongue hasn’t been seared off at the ends.

That’s a good sign, right?

Hopefully that’s not just Stockholm Syndrome speaking. I have enough fetishes to set me back for a lifetime.

Hong gives me a ‘I need to say something’ look. I return with a ‘Yeah, I’m literally your prisoner, be my guest’ expression in turn.

“I’ll be heading out for dinner this evening, do you wanna come?”

“Depends. What are you getting?”

“What do you think?”

“Chinese food?”

“I think not. What use is there in buying that which can be made better?”

I try to think about something else. “I only guessed once, and I’m already out of ideas.”

“Well,” he says, with something approaching sympathy. “I suppose I overestimated your investigative prowess.”

I slouch against the floor. “Or maybe… I already know the answer, and am just pretending not to.”

A smile plays on his face, and a proud-sounding mumble follows. “Sure you do.”

As I try to reposition myself, a jolt of pain worms through my wings. I must’ve been obvious about it because Hong gives me a concerned stare.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Not much.”

He pats me on the knee. “Liar.”

“Okay.” I decide to might as well. “When Chinese Emolord kidnapped me, he decided it was a good idea to do so with a kick to my chest. Which probably broke something.”

“I see.”

“It’s not the biggest of losses. I can’t fly anyway.”

“Why not?”

I think about whether to give a joke answer. Something like, according to all known laws of aviation, the aerodynamics of a human like me is incapable of flight. I decide against it. I don’t really know why. I think it’s the earnestness in his eyes; I’d feel bad otherwise.

“When I was young—”

“You still are.”

I smile a bit. “Okay, when I was younger, this guy got real angry, and decided to land a sucker punch on my back. Breaking most of my forewing.”

“Why? Why did he do that to you?”

“Oh, cause I slept with his girlfriend.” I laugh. A nostalgic, if not slightly pained one.

“Why’d you do that?” asks Hong curiously.

“Because I’m a lustful degenerate?” I say, in a voice that’s oddly self-reflective. “Ah, well, that’s part of it, anyway.”

“What’s the other part?” asks Hong, with his childlike curiosity.

Not knowing how much I should explain it, I take a moment to think and gather my thoughts. (isnert expression late)

“Probably because, beyond being a lustful degenerate, I’m also an envious one, with an inability to be content with whatever I have. When there’s someone better-looking than me, I hope they get acne and become disfigured. When there’s someone with more money, I hope they lose it on a stupid investment. When there’s someone who has something I don’t have—something I can never have—and makes me me aware of the grim truth of life itself, I want to do everything to get at them.”

“Like screwing their girlfriend?”

“Yeah. Like screwing their girlfriend.”

“He who holds to simplicity will forever hold to inner peace,” he adds, with a certain callous air. “But I understand. All I can say is that you may permit one of those people whom you hold in contempt to help you.”

“Hm, do you think I hate Chinese people or something?”

He starts to laugh with a dumbfounded look in his eyes. “Nevermind,” says Hong, before moving on. “Take off your clothes.”

“Uh.”

“I’ll help you with your wings. I’m a student of the Eight-Virtue Sect, you know. That means something where I come from.”

“Alright then.”

Worst-case scenario, he casts some evil curse, thus instantly killing me. Best-case scenario, the pain gets better, so might as well. I take off my clothes, and slowly turn my back to him.

The bite of the lukewarm air caresses my wings. They unfurl and spread, catching the light of the lights above. Hong gives a long look at them. I’ve always thought they were a bit unpleasant myself, somewhere between the texture of satin and a wet napkin.

His expression is serious, but with a certain admiration. “I’ll be back.”

I watch him leave the room, then return after a good minute with something in his hands. A wooden stool… and that’s it. None of the signature fulu paper I’ve come to expect from these people.

He sets the stool down and points to it for me to sit on. I do just that. Without pause, Hong rests his hand on my back. An immediate warmth spreads from palm to flesh. His hands have an almost unnatural heat, like a radiator at half-capacity.

I turn my head, catching the subtle glow of something coming off his hands.

It’s comfortable. A massage in every sense but the word. But, I mean. What is he doing?

Like, how is he doing it? The Eight-Virtue Sect use fulu paper, right? So is he just skipping that process somehow?

“You’re not just holding a warm compress with an LED light next to it, are you?”

“Consult your body,” he replies. “Does that seem the case to you?”

I note the hint of pride in his comment and continue paying attention to the process.

A sudden coldness. All of a sudden, a flash of coolness graces my wings, and with it comes a bit of weight, like something pulling down. This is accompanied by the warmth at the same time, like two different forces in cohesion, working and wrapping their way around one another.

Hong stops, patting me on the shoulder with a sort of goodbye gesture. He draws a mirror from his great robe, adorned with gold and all kinds of richness. I look into it. There’s something stitching the broken parts of my wings together. Pieces of red metal, gleaming like they’re fresh-forged out of the blacksmith’s oven or whatever it’s called.

I reach a hand over my back, feeling the stitches with a gentle finesse. For a moment, I think to even fly with it, but decide against my better judgement. One thing’s for sure, though. They’re not in pain anymore. The prior aching, the prior sensation you’d get from just rubbing against something gone, is replaced instead with all the limb-like sensations you’d expect from anywhere else.

I burst out smiling at the comfort I feel. I end up patting Hong on the head, and because of it, feel a bit weird, but continue doing so anyway because I do not care.

“Thank you,” I say, between a chuckle or two.

“It is better to perform one’s duty, as defective as they might be, than to do another’s,” replies Hong, trying not to smile.

“Yeah.”

He stares at me, probably sensing my relative confusion, then laughs, as if happy at my ignorance, or my reaction in spite of it. We spend a while longer playing video games. I keep having this strange desire to open up conversation. Not out of obligation to my wellbeing and desire to make pseudo-amends with my kidnappers. But because I’m a weirdo and genuinely like him for some reason.

If nothing else, he can be a interesting character in the video I’ll make. A young lad, thrust into a world beyond his knowledge, and forced to work under some quite bad people. That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it?

“Hong,” I ask, as we sit idle on a selection screen. A breadth of cars, motorcycles, and even trikes before us. “Why are you working for these people?”

I half expect a simple answer. Something like, ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ or a dissatisfied grunt. Instead, he just smiles, and tilting his head to the side, poses a question of his own.

“How about we place a bet? If you beat me in the next track, I’ll give you my answer.”

I’m surprised at how quickly he replied. And how he seems genuinely willing. “Let’s do it.” I pause. “What are the meta cars?”

“A hard question. Back when it came out, I believe the 3rd Gen Black Cycle was held in great admiration, but now…”

“Well, I doubt the competitive scene for Project Nightrider has advanced much in the fifty or so years it’s released…”

“Then, the 3rd Gen Black Cycle it is,” says Hong, before quickly swapping to his signature motorcycle.

A slick and sturdy brick of a thing, with rather great handling, but poor speed. That’s Hong’s choice.

I hover over the 3rd Gen Black Cycle. The yellow-accented motorcycle sports great speed, and acceleration both, but incredibly poor handling and turning. That’s about what I expect for a thing like this. Great at the top level, but rather poor otherwise for scrubs like myself..

In the end, I go back to my previous car. It boasts even better acceleration, at the cost of worse speed, and for some reason, even worse handling. I don’t know who decided it was a good idea to make it an allegory for real life, and have it be shittier than its peers for no reason. But it’s what I’m used to. And it’s what I plan to use to dominate.

We lock onto our respective vehicles. The screen moves on, changing to one of map selection, where Hong pauses before deliberately choosing one. The scene pans to a night street somewhere in Europe, actually somewhere in the New Logres—since the name ends with ‘Shire’. We start in a narrow street surrounded by red brick buildings.

“Okay, everyone!” says the announcer in accented English.

Three. Two. One. Go Nightriding!”