Chapter 5: Intersecting Realities

The sweltering, oppressive heat of summer was maddening. Cicadas, clinging stubbornly to the trees, droned on in a ceaseless, mind-numbing, almost mocking chorus.

Yuki Kirishima lay sprawled limply on the tatami-mat floor of her small, stuffy apartment, staring blankly up at the slowly rotating blades of the electric fan as it circulated the thick, warm, and utterly useless air.

On a scorching hot day like this, a day that could melt asphalt, why in the seven circles of hell does she not just turn on the air conditioner?

Because, according to the strange, mystical, and probably completely unscientific knowledge her dear, sweet, and utterly baffling mother had acquired from some obscure, alternative-health blog, the cold, artificial wind from an air conditioner was "unnatural" and would, apparently, cause irreparable harm to the delicate human body. A ridiculous notion. She, Yuki Kirishima, felt like she was about to literally, physically die from not having any goddamn air conditioning.

Should I just head over to the Darkmoon Coven’s delightfully chilled headquarters today and… leech off their industrial-grade AC for a while? Yes. Yes, I think I will.

She had, with remarkable success, used her real, civilian identity to get close to the target, Kenji Tanaka. The fearsome, high-level fiend known as Dark Butterfly was, in reality, a seemingly ordinary, and currently very sweaty, young woman named Yuki Kirishima. The part where she had, with a masterful display of feigned grief, lied through her teeth, however… was that her parents were still very much alive and well. And currently nagging her about her life choices.

She was also, it was true, a published web novelist. You could even, if you looked hard enough, find her rather niche and moderately successful works online. While not exactly setting the literary world on fire, her writing was more than enough to support her modest, if somewhat reclusive lifestyle. She was essentially one of those so-called "NEETs"—a seemingly useless, ambitionless youth who, after graduating from university, had effectively become a "professional" unemployed person, a hikkikomori who just hid away at home all day. Although she, in her own mind, felt she was righteously, and with no small amount of artistic effort, supporting herself through her creative endeavors, her family, of course, did not see it that way. Not at all.

The mission to emotionally compromise and psychologically shatter Kenji Tanaka had been an excellent, almost perfect plan. When she had first heard the details from the Queen, she had become incredibly, deliriously excited. The reason? Her heart, her very soul, her artistic sensibilities, were just that… twisted. She simply, purely, loved to see others suffer, to watch them struggle, to witness that beautiful, exquisite, almost sublime moment when they finally lost something precious, something irreplaceable. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her own upbringing or any past personal experiences. It was just… an aesthetic preference. Like how some people see a beautiful flower and subconsciously feel a sense of joy, she, Yuki Kirishima, felt that same, profound sense of aesthetic pleasure when she witnessed a perfect, well-executed tragedy.

As a novelist, as a creator of worlds, she was deeply and academically fascinated by the beautiful, intricate mechanics of tragedy. In fact, most of the world’s great literary masterpieces, if you really thought about it, were, at their core, profound tragedies. Even those stories that paraded themselves as "comedies," their core was still one of deep, biting sorrow, of bitter, poignant satire. This, she firmly believed, was where true, timeless beauty resided.

She loved this kind of thing. And while carrying out this mission, this beautiful, tragic assignment, she had felt a sublime, divine sense of creative purpose, something entirely different, something far more potent than the mundane, solitary act of updating her web novel online. She had a tangible, thrilling, intoxicating awareness that she, Yuki Kirishima, was personally, actively inflicting the world’s pain, its darkness, its beautiful despair, upon a living, breathing symbol of love and hope—a magical girl. Could there possibly be anything more delightful, more artistically fulfilling, more exquisitely, beautifully perfect than that? She thought not.

However, her perfect, beautiful plan had failed. Spectacularly. Utterly.

She had done so much meticulous research! She had bothered the ever-irritable, but undeniably useful, Shadow Walker to dig up every last scrap of data, every forgotten file, on that long-dead woman named Kaoru Shirakawa. She had used that information, those old, faded photos, those personal records, those shopping receipts, to repeatedly, obsessively study and try to figure out every single one of Kaoru Shirakawa’s mannerisms, her expressions, her gestures, her likely turns of phrase. She had thought about it day and night—until she had almost, in a strange, disorienting way, become Kaoru Shirakawa herself! There was even a fleeting, terrifying, exhilarating moment, when she was clinging to him, when she thought she might have actually, genuinely, against all logic and reason, fallen in love with the sad, pathetic, middle-aged man named Kenji Tanaka.

She had even, in her more whimsical moments, entertained the thought that, once this man had truly, finally lost everything, once he had lost his precious daughter’s respect, once he had lost his ability to transform into the magnificent Magical Girl Black, she, Yuki, could perhaps… swoop in and marry him. After all, her own parents were constantly, tiresomely nagging her about getting married and settling down. It could have been a neat, tidy, and rather wonderfully, ironically tragic conclusion to her little, real-life story. Of course, that thought was just a fleeting, terrible, and frankly quite unprofessional whim, one that Yuki had quickly, and with some disgust at her own sentimentality, erased from her mind. After all… making this man, this surprisingly resilient man, experience the world’s greatest, most beautiful, most profound sorrow and despair, that was what she truly, deeply enjoyed. That was the art. Whether she would decide to benevolently heal him afterwards, only to sadistically break him all over again… well, that was a matter for a potential sequel. A good, professional novelist, after all, must learn to control her wild, untamed imagination, to not let her thoughts stray too far into the distant, unplanned future. Otherwise, she would never be able to properly, effectively write the beautiful, tragic story that was happening right here, right now.

But—that meticulously crafted, beautiful, perfect plan had failed.

The man named Kenji Tanaka, the magical girl known as Black, when faced with that impossible, agonizing choice, had not shown even a single, solitary, almost insulting shred of the beautiful, dramatic entanglement she had so carefully engineered for him. But… but in a situation like that, there should have been hesitation, shouldn’t there? There absolutely should have been!

How would the world view him now? What would the people around him, his colleagues, his friends, say about him? And even his own daughter… wouldn’t she, at the very least, call him "disgusting"? For a normal, middle-aged man, for any man with a shred of pride, shouldn’t that kind of public, familial humiliation be something he would rather die than willingly endure?

And yet, he had simply, without a moment’s hesitation, transformed. Right there, in front of everyone, without any apparent regard for his true, mundane identity being known, simply, purely, to save his daughter, he had become the magnificent, terrifying Magical Girl Black.

The sheer, unadulterated, heroic coolness of his figure at that moment, the overwhelming, almost apocalyptic power he had unleashed… even the mighty, seemingly invincible Darkmoon Queen had been seriously, grievously wounded and forced to flee in disgrace.

And she, Yuki Kirishima, the master manipulator, the artist of despair, had fled as well.

It wasn't that she was afraid of being subjugated by an exhausted, battle-worn Magical Girl Black. No, that wasn't it. She was terrified, utterly, completely terrified, of that spirit, that unwavering, blindingly bright resolve. In that single, life-altering instant, she had felt like a disgusting, pathetic, insignificant little insect. The so-called "tragedy" she had always so desperately craved, her lifelong pursuit of that dark, melancholic beauty, suddenly seemed like nothing more than the self-indulgent, pretentious whining of a spoiled, bored child. The unyielding, almost sacred will she had witnessed, that firm, decisive step he had taken towards certain doom, had mercilessly trampled all over her twisted, carefully constructed aesthetics, her entire worldview. A new, strange, and deeply unsettling kind of will, of light, had surged in her own heart, one that made her unable, unwilling to face him, to face herself.

She suddenly felt as if she had been living in her own little, self-contained, self-aggrandizing world this whole time. She’d always felt that her family looked down on her, that they were always criticizing her work, her lifestyle, her very existence. But she had perhaps never once stopped to consider their own clumsy, often misguided, but ultimately genuine worries for their only child, limited as their narrow, mundane understanding might be. She had, with a certain artistic arrogance, convinced herself that the world was a fundamentally dark, tragic, and miserable place. But the magical girl named Black, a creature born of that very same, supposedly dark world, possessed the firmest, most resolute, most undeniably bright fists imaginable.

Magical girls themselves, she now realized with a dawning, sickening horror, were actively, tangibly creating love and peace, right here, in the real, messy, complicated world. Not in some escapist, fantastical novel, not through secondhand, exaggerated accounts on the virtual, anonymous internet, but right there, in front of her very own eyes. He had, with his own two, surprisingly small hands, swung his fist and had, quite literally, shattered her darkness.

She felt as if she, personally, had been the one hit by that devastating, reality-altering punch, as if she had suffered a grievous, soul-deep injury. Even though the physical blow had landed squarely on the magnificent Darkmoon Queen, it was her, Dark Butterfly, the architect of the whole affair, who had felt the greatest, most profound impact. So much so that she had, in the days following the incident, fallen into an unprecedented, almost crippling state of confusion and disillusionment.

Why? Why can a person, a pathetic, middle-aged man no less, be so… so cool? So unbelievably strong? Why can a person’s will, their spirit, be so unbreakable, so absolute? Is it… is it only I who is so weak? So fragile? So pathetic? After being subjected to that kind of carefully crafted, deeply personal malice, anyone, anyone at all, should at least have hesitated for a single, solitary moment, right?! They should have!

At this very moment, lying limply on the tatami-mat floor of her sweltering apartment, feeling the oppressive, suffocating heat that was like being slowly, mercilessly steamed alive in a giant sauna, she murmured, her voice a dry, cracking whisper, “Is this… is this how you feel too, my Queen? So… lost?”

......

Magical Girl Red had been quite, quite troubled lately.

Suddenly, inexplicably being able to transform into a real, live magical girl was, of course, an incredibly, unbelievably exciting, dream-come-true kind of thing. She had yearned, had desperately, obsessively yearned to be a magical girl ever since she was a little girl, fantasizing countless times, in excruciatingly detailed daydreams, about what she would do, what kind of amazing, heroic hero she would be, if only, if only she were chosen. But she had always been, and had resigned herself to always being, just an ordinary, powerless, insignificant person. And then, suddenly, one day, with a flash of red light and a surge of terrifying, unfamiliar power, she had become the one and only Magical Girl Red. The feeling had been absolutely exhilarating. For about five minutes.

But then, in only her second, disastrous battle as Red, she had lost. Badly. Humiliatingly. Almost fatally. If not for the timely arrival of other, more competent and significantly less panicky Espers, she might have been killed, unceremoniously, right then and there. Turned into fiend-chow before she’d even had a chance to figure out her own catchphrase.

And now, she was afraid. Terrified. Soul-deep, bone-chillingly terrified.

The organization, in their infinite, and often quite misguided wisdom, had brought in the "strongest" magical girl in the world, the legendary, the perfect, the ever-smiling Strawberry Sweetheart, to personally give her some one-on-one "training." This girl, she had heard in hushed, reverent whispers, had been active as a magical girl since the almost unbelievable age of nine, had defeated countless, terrifying fiends, had even, it was rumored, conquered her own inner, personal demons, to finally, deservedly ascend to the glittering, lonely throne of the "strongest." To have such a person, such a living legend as her personal instructor… it should have been a wonderful, incredible, once-in-a-lifetime thing.

But she was scared. So, so scared.

Strawberry Sweetheart was an idol, an icon, a veritable goddess. Especially for all the people of this crazy, chaotic era who admired and looked up to magical girls, Strawberry Sweetheart was a truly, absolutely perfect, almost divine existence. And so, Red was intimidated. Completely intimidated. She was afraid of her own deep, shameful fear being discovered by the perfect, fearless Strawberry Sweetheart. She was afraid of Strawberry Sweetheart finding out that she, Magical Girl Red, was secretly, deeply, pathologically terrified of fighting fiends. She was afraid, more than anything in the world, of Strawberry Sweetheart looking at her with those kind, gentle, and inevitably disappointed eyes and saying, with a soft, sad sigh, "You… are unworthy of being a magical girl."

If she were ever told such a thing, by her, by her idol, she was absolutely, positively certain… she would never be able to transform into a magical girl again! Her dream would die.

So, when Strawberry Sweetheart had arrived, all smiles and sunshine and oppressive, positive energy, she, Red, had, in a fit of pure, panicked self-preservation, used harsh, cutting, cruel words to hide her own pathetic, trembling fragility. She had, with a desperation that was almost painful to watch, parroted the nasty, hateful things she’d seen Strawberry Sweetheart’s anonymous, pathetic online haters say, the very things she herself had often fought against in online flame wars. She had put on a brave, arrogant act of being fearless, of being full of fierce, unshakeable fighting spirit.

And she had, with spectacular, immediate success, managed to genuinely, truly anger the usually unflappable Strawberry Sweetheart. And then, as was probably inevitable, she had been soundly, thoroughly, and with a surprising amount of righteous fury, thrashed. An enraged, no-holds-barred Strawberry Sweetheart, the terrifying pink energy released from her deceptively cute, heart-shaped staff had instantly, contemptuously extinguished her own flickering, pathetic flames, and then had, with a single, devastating blow, knocked her straight out of her magical girl transformation and back into her mundane, powerless, and now deeply bruised civilian state.

In other words, she had already, in her heart, died once. As a magical girl, she had been utterly, completely, and with a profound sense of shame, defeated.

At that time, Strawberry Sweetheart, her expression grim but her eyes still filled with a strange, unwavering light, had held that cute, whimsical staff of hers, the one with the big, sparkly, heart-shaped gemstone, and had pointed it directly at her, saying, with a voice that was both firm and somehow, impossibly, still gentle, "Get up. Transform back into Red. And attack me again. We’re not done here."

Impossible. It’s absolutely impossible. How could I possibly do that? How could I possibly face her again?

And so, Red had fled. She didn’t know where the strength, the sheer, desperate willpower, had come from, but she had somehow managed to transform back into Red, had somehow managed to activate some latent, hidden potential, and had run away, had fled as fast as her magical, trembling legs could carry her. For some strange, perhaps merciful reason, Strawberry Sweetheart hadn’t pursued her.

But—what no one, absolutely no one, not the organization, not Strawberry Sweetheart, not even her own worried parents, knew was that Red had fled all the way to the one place she thought she might find a different kind of salvation: S-City.

Why?

Because that’s where Black was. As a long-time, hardcore player of "Magical Girl Brawl," as a die-hard, obsessive magical girl fan who knew all the stats, all the lore, all the matchups, the very first, and perhaps only, person who came to Red’s panicked, desperate mind who could possibly, theoretically stand up to the might of an enraged Strawberry Sweetheart was the enigmatic, terrifying, and ridiculously overpowered Magical Girl Black. Although Black was currently, she knew, embroiled in a massive, ugly storm of public controversy, Red, unlike many others, deeply, truly admired Black’s brutal, no-nonsense style. If it were Black, surely, surely she would listen to her, would understand her weakness, would know her fighting spirit! She wasn’t a goody-two-shoes like Strawberry! She was real!

She had absolutely no idea, of course, that she and the very magical girl she was so desperately seeking had already, in a classic, almost tragic twist of fate, completely, utterly missed each other.

Magical Girl Black, lately, had been… training. In her own unique, pragmatic way.

She was trying, with a certain amount of frustrated trial and error, to find a way to increase her own raw power, her overall combat effectiveness as Magical Girl Black. Although her previous, spectacular battle had dealt a very satisfying, and hopefully very painful, heavy blow to the magnificent Darkmoon Queen, Black personally, and probably quite correctly believed that it wouldn’t truly, significantly affect the Queen’s long-term combat capabilities. After all, the Queen was positioned more as a powerful, long-range, mage-type opponent; losing an arm, while certainly inconvenient, was probably not a deal-breaker for someone of her caliber. Besides, who knew if the ridiculously well-resourced Darkmoon Coven had Espers with advanced healing abilities? After fighting the formidable Strawberry Sweetheart for so many long, brutal years, had the Queen never been seriously injured before? And yet, when Black had seen her up close, there hadn’t been a single, solitary scar on her perfect, alabaster body. So, one had to logically, prudently assume that they possessed some kind of advanced, probably illegal, and highly effective healing technology.

Black’s current level of strength, as she had so frustratingly discovered, was not yet nearly enough to completely, decisively, and with absolute finality kill the Darkmoon Queen. And that, she knew, was a problem. A big problem.

So, she was, in reality, dedicating her newfound free time to rigorously, and with a certain amount of grim determination, training to improve her own strength. And to explore the true, underlying nature of her strange, almost magical girl power, one should naturally remain in their magical girl state at all times, to maintain a constant connection to that power. After changing back into the weak, pathetic Kenji Tanaka, she had absolutely no sense of her magical girl power at all. That couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be called effective training.

So, how to achieve a controlled Inversion? How to master that terrifying power? Or, alternatively, how to obtain something similar to Strawberry Sweetheart’s incredibly useful, almost cheat-like Sparkling Form? Black, for now, couldn’t do it. She had no idea where to even begin. So, her only remaining, practical option was to simply, brutally, strengthen her current default state. More power. More speed. More durability. Simple.

She had, after all, come into direct contact with Strawberry Sweetheart’s power, that ridiculously potent, almost tangible power called "justice" and "love." But for Black—for Kenji—that kind of power, that kind of fuel source, was incredibly, laughably difficult for him to borrow or replicate. She couldn’t use people’s abstract concepts of justice and love, or even their flimsy, fickle hope, to fight in the same way she had so easily, so instinctively absorbed and commanded their raw, potent fear. She was, after all, a jaded, cynical middle-aged man, long past the age of believing in such sentimental, idealistic things.

So, she was actually, surprisingly, quite looking forward to eventually meeting this new Magical Girl Red. If that angsty rookie could somehow learn to master the power of pure, unadulterated anger, could she perhaps, try to master it as well? The "Flames of Anger" sounded much more her speed than the "Flames of Hope." Although they called Red’s ultimate power the "Flames of Hope," well… what if? The possibilities were intriguing.

But for now, for today, it was time to just… enjoy herself. Relax. Have a vacation.

Perhaps, just perhaps, from a genuinely pleasant, carefree mood, she could find some kind of new, unexpected, and hopefully not too embarrassing power? It was worth a shot, right?

So, where should I take Ren to play tomorrow? she thought, a rare, genuine smile gracing her lips. Today was… today was actually a lot of fun.