The machine had a limit of 300,000 yen per transaction, and she withdrew this in full ten times. Three million yen in all.
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Without so much as fiinching, she put the bills into her school bag.
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She then headed directly to a nearby dance club.
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Once before, a friend had taken her there. Kotoe herself had been unable to get swept up in the crowd’s enthusiasm for the indie band’s passionate, yet unskilled performance, and she had never gone back.
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But now, without the slightest trace of hesitation, she headed straight down the stairs to the dimly lit basement entrance.
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She paid the five thousand yen cover charge (which came with a free drink), and went in. Her ears were instantly filled with a horrific noise. Kotoe never glanced at the band, wailing away on stage, or the audience, bobbing their heads and waving their arms around. No, she headed straight for the drink counter.
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“‘Sup,” said the spiky-haired, punk-styled guy behind the counter, listlessly. He put a paper cup in front of Kotoe.
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Ignoring the drink entirely, Kotoe said, “I have a question.”
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“Mm?”
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“You ever heard of the Imaginator?”
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The punk’s expression changed the moment the word left her mouth.
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"Wh-what...?"
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“You have?”
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“No, never!”
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“Liar,” Kotoe declared.
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The punk flinched. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I don’t know where the hell you heard that, but you really shouldn’t say that name out loud. It might-”
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Before he could finish, “What? The Imaginator?” interrupted a man sitting in the corner. He was a two-meter tall skinhead.
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“Where’d you hear that name, high school girl? You know where that asshole is?”
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The man advanced on her, the thick soles of his boots so loud they could be easily heard above the racket on stage.
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“That asshole? This Imaginator is an individual?” Clearly, the man had failed to frighten Kotoe at all.
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“I’m the one asking questions!” he yelled, grabbing the collar of Kotoe’s uniform.
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He lifted her into the air.
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“Don’t you piss me off! Everyone in my band’s screwed up now, all because of that Imaginator freak! What the hell did he do to them?!” The veins stood out on his bare scalp.
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Swinging around at the end of his arm, Kotoe shook with the waves of his anger.
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But she simply asked quietly, “So, the Imaginator does something to people, and moves them over to its side? Does it use religion or something?”
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The skinhead frowned at her, puzzled.
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“How exactly were they changed?” she continued.
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“Girl, who are you?” he asked, putting her down.
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He’d been sure she was just some cocky kid, but there was something far stranger about her behavior.
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Kotoe gave an enigmatic smile. “Just in case things aren’t perfectly clear, I’m not asking for any favors.” She pulled a wad of cash out of her bag. 100,000 yen. “I’m buying information.”
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The skinhead’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Who are you?”
✦ ✦ ✦
he said again.
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“No friend of the Imaginator,” she purred.
✦ ✦ ✦
They had shifted location to the empty locker room, where the skinhead had begun talking.
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“Something?”
✦ ✦ ✦
“His words. He wasn’t really sure what. But there were several of them, and the Imaginator sent them all flyin’. Yeah, that’s what he said-not punched, not kicked, not even beat-he just sent them flyin’!
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“The guys who got beat weren’t pussies or anythin’. This isn’t just some tough guy winning a street fight. This is bigger than that.
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After the dudes went flying, they stood up, and they started pinning down their buddies that were still standing. Their own buddies!
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This Imaginator turned their friends against each other!
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“So no matter how badly you get messed up, you can never lay a finger on the Imaginator. Everyone that’s crossed paths with that mother ends up slammed into the pavement, pukin’ blood.
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I seriously don’t know what he is. Must be some kinda monster.
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Like Dracula, or somethin’.”
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“What happened to the people he beat up? Have you talked to them?”
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“They. . .they were. . .I mean...”
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“Your friends were different?”
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“I saw Tsuyoshi only once after. He was walking through town alone. We never really got along that well, but since everyone else had up and vanished on me, I called out to him. He turned around, looked happy to see me.”
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“How is that strange?”
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“He’s the type that always snarls, ‘ Shut the hell up’ when you speak to him. Least if he’s alone. He’s usually always with some chick. But this time, he was grinning, like someone had. . .stripped all his thorns off. Creepy calm.”
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“Where had he been?”
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“He said he hadn’t been anywhere in particular. Insisted it was just a coincidence we hadn’t bumped into each other until then. At the time, I still hadn’t heard about the Imaginator, so I didn’t know Tsuyoshi’d gone up against him. I only heard about that later. So at the time, I was just confused. But I haven’t seen him since. He won’t answer his damn phone.”
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“You been to their houses?”
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“Nope. No idea where he lives. Never asked.”
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“Is that what bands are like these days?”
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“Hey, I thought it was a little sad too, but everyone else seemed cool with it, so I guess I just went with the flow, you know,” the skinhead protested weakly. It seemed like he was basically a nice guy deep down.
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Kotoe sniggered, “So? This Imaginator. . .this guy heard him give his name?”
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“Yeah...”
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“What did he sound like?”
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“Prim and stuck up, apparently. Said, ‘If you must, you may call me the Imaginator,’ whatever the hell that means.”
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“He didn’t see him?”
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“Nah, he was hiding. Oh, that reminds me...”
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“What?”
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“White. He said he saw a figure in white.”
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For reasons she didn’t understand, Kotoe was badly shaken by this. “WHAT?!”
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The skinhead was surprised by her sudden, strong reaction.
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“Wh-what? You know someone that wears white?”
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".................." But Kotoe had been programmed to suppress all unnecessary memories. So she was utterly unable to determine the cause for her surprise. She had a vague feeling that she knew a man who always dressed in white, but she couldn’t remember who.
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She could hear the faint roar of the musicians and the audience, like the sound of wings in a swarm of insects. It swirled around her, made her ears hurt.
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“N-no. . .” Kotoe said, shaking her head as if trying to clear out the confusion. “Never mind.”
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“So who are you? Why are you after the Imaginator?”
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“Don’t you want revenge?” Kotoe suddenly asked, out of left field.
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“For those guys?” The skinhead looked dubious.
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“You’d rather leave them to their fate? Fine by me...”
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“Not that!” he yelled, turning red. He leapt to his feet, kicking over the folding chair he’d been sitting on.
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“Then do as I say,” Kotoe smirked, looking up at him.
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She opened her bag, and took out the rest of the money. She dumped it on top of the table.
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The skinhead gaped.
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“Use this to gather all the people you can. We’re going to hunt the Imaginator down.”
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“That’s. . .that’s a lot of money,” the skinhead gulped.
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“Not to me,” Kotoe said, unperturbed.
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“What if I take the money and run?” he asked. Like good guys always do.
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“No skin off of my teeth,” Kotoe said, cool as cucumber. “I’ll just know you’re a coward.”
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“............!”
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“But if you’re going to swindle me, you should wait a little longer. There’s more where that came from,” Kotoe said, broadening her grin. No matter how big her smile became, her eyes never narrowed.
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Just like Spooky E.
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My name is Taniguchi Masaki. I became a high school student this past April, and about a month ago, I began imitating-okay, maybe it’s just cosplaying as-the legendary Boogiepop.
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It was the first time I’d ever fallen in love with a girl, so I got carried away and did whatever Orihata Aya told me-even if that meant dressing all in black like some sort of shinigamz’ and walking around acting like a superhero. What’s crazy is that I still have no idea why she wanted me to do all this.
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But every time she called me, I’d come running. I made fun of myself awhile for it, but just being with Orihata was the best time I’d ever had.
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Then early one Sunday, as I was tying the laces on my sneakers, getting ready to leave, my sister popped up behind me.
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“Hey, Masaki.
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“What, Nagi?” I said, not turning around.
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“You’ve been out of the house a lot lately.”
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“Have I?”
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“And back late, too. What’s going on?”
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My sister always sounds a little harsh, but she’s a nice person, fundamentally.
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“You’re out all night too, Oneechan,” I said, smiling.
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But this time she wasn’t letting me get out of it that easily.
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“Same thing, every time?”
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“Same what?”
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“You don’t look like you’re off to meet a girl. Your clothes aren’t nice enough. You used to dress better.”
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I was wearing a pretty shabby T-shirt, a pair of 3,000 yen jeans, and a cheap Windbreaker. I’d be disguised as Boogiepop anyway, so I hadn’t put a lot of thought into it.