The Real Thing

by Jacob Prytherch

  He moved his head, feeling the pillows pressing in on his cheeks, soft but heavy as if they were the fingers of a fat man laid out, grasping him as he struggled out of their reach.

  He managed to kick off the bed clothes but felt a tension on his wrists. He soon worked out that he was handcuffed, his arms out wide and his wiry body lying naked against the undulations of the purple silk sheets that covered the water bed. The realisation of where he was struck him just as the hangover did.

  “Not again...” he hissed to himself, kicking out in a futile gesture of defiance. His body flopped back down, rocking back and forth on the bed.

  The walls of the room were swimming into focus but he knew what he would see before the details drew themselves out of the darkness. It was always the same, wherever she moved to.

  The left wall was all posters, various industrial and Goth groups in ludicrously macho poses, their make-up splashed across faces twisted in mock rage and defiance. One band was named 'Harpy's Ulcer', which brought back memories he hoped he had lost forever – of being dragged to a gig that he had no interest in and trying to maintain a genial façade whilst having his ears assaulted by chronic noise pollution.

  The right wall was dominated by a large window, with heavy velvet curtains that were almost fully drawn but still revealed the slow rotation of several lurid holographic images intermingled with the early pre-dawn light. He was definitely somewhere in down-town Techosaka. The knowledge did little to improve his situation. He was also high up, probably over twenty storeys, but again such knowledge didn't help him. Down-town was littered with skyscrapers and tower blocks, some residential, some commercial or serving any number of seedy pleasures. Some even interspersed them, with clubs and brothels half way up the buildings creating strange insular communities united by their darkest desires. Each to their own.

  The far wall was a surprise, a new addition to the usual set of décor...

  It was plastered with images, both old and new, of him. Most of them were clearly taken with a long range telephoto lens from high angles, but some were screen grabs of security footage from inside public buildings, some were CCTV images from the few well policed areas of the city that he sometimes had to walk through, and one was even a photograph of his face before his last modification, with the lines of proposed surgery drawn onto his comatose features.

  “You look like you're sleeping in that one, ready to wake up as a new person, still loving, and still loved.” said Sandrine, crossing over the room in a large nightdress that flowed onto the ground, letting her painted toes poke through occasionally as she padded over the carpet.

  “Good morning Sandrine. You look wonderful as always,” said Roman, his sense of self-preservation kicking in immediately. He had no escape route here, no way to make use of his evasive skills. Watch and wait.

  “Oh, you don't mean that,” said Sandrine, sitting down on the foot of the bed and making his body swing upwards as the balance of the mattress shifted. She looked over her shoulder at him as the dreadlocks fell about her features in less of an attempt at seduction and more in a gesture of deepest depression. The difference put Roman on edge even more so than before. She had always been a fiery mix of passion and anger, flipping between the two on a whim. Resignation was a strange new direction. “I heard the way you were talking about that woman.”

  “The bar.” sighed Roman, remembering his last moments before blacking out. “So the barman, he just let you take me?”

  “I played the hurt wife dragging her spineless husband back from the seven year itch. You fit the bill perfectly with your self-pitying rhetoric,” said Sandrine, inspecting her fingernails whilst trying to look nonchalant, though sadness still radiated from her. She looked up, reached out and gently grabbed his left hand before slowly working his wedding ring free. “You won't be needing this anymore. That puppet marriage is over.” She threw the ring into the corner of the room where it clattered against the wall. A look of triumph crawled across her features as she stared at it.

  “Sandrine, maybe we can talk about this,” said Roman, trying to move his body to hide his modesty a little, but there was no way he could manage it. Sandrine looked over and a smile flitted briefly across her features. It was a beautiful movement, one which brought back memories of the person she used to be – intelligent, moral and worthy of admiration. If he hadn't twisted her into such a maniac then she could have had her pick of men or women, or no one, whatever she had wanted. She had always been a solitary person with regards to relationships despite her wide circle of friends. Roman had known her for years before the dosing. He had killed their friendship in one fatal moment of greed and also dragged her away from everyone else. She had cut off all contact with their mutual acquaintances as soon as she had begun her quest to draw out his love.

  “Talk, talk,” she said to herself, tilting her head to the side. “Yes, let's. Why not? It can't hurt. Well, it can't hurt anymore.”

  “I'm sorry, I truly am,” said Roman. He meant it every time he said it to her, but he also knew it would do no good. Her brain was wired into obsession. It equated to trying to douse a fire with a water pistol.

  “Sorry, again. All right, maybe that's true,” said Sandrine, climbing up the bed towards him until her head was level with his. She laid her cheek against his arm and sighed, before staring into his eyes. “Does it do any good though? Is it going to heal any of the hurt?”

  “I don't know. I hope so, but I don't know,” said Roman. A shudder ran through his body. He couldn't see any weapons in the dimly lit room but that didn't really matter when he was trussed up in such a compromising position. She could have quite easily just leaned over and strangled him. He knew she was strong enough. He just hoped he could delay the moment.

  “Maybe it would help if you explained what you did, and why you were sorry. I want to know if you know exactly what you've done to me. I want to know all your motivations. Perhaps I'll forgive you.”

  The edge in her voice gave him little hope that her words were true but he had to give it a try. He shifted his weight to try and force some distance between their bodies. He could feel the warmth of her skin radiating from beneath the nightdress, a situation which under other circumstances might have excited him but in his current state simply served to put him in mind of how close he was to the fires of Hell.

  “It was the Daichi international bank, Akibahara branch. I was given details of an imminent transfer to be made from Kenyon Inc. to one of its subsidiaries and was advised that with the right help I'd be able to change the money's destination.”

  “Oh come on!” said Sandrine, rolling onto her back in exasperation. Her dreadlocks ran across his skin causing it to itch. “That's so plain, so dull... the excitement, that was why I helped you. The thrill of it all. Give it a bit of a dramatic edge.”

  She slowly raked her nails across the trembling skin of his bony chest, drawing thin lines that trailed beading blood.

  “... or I might get angry.”

  He tried not to let the pain show in his voice as he continued.

  “So I got in touch with the one person I knew who had the know-how to get into the Network, who'd know the layout inside and out and would be able to make sure that the money wasn't traced once it had left Daichi. A master of data who I had known since ParCorp...”

  “Flattery. My my, Mr. Rasnic, that's a beautiful set of compliments,” said Sandrine, turning back towards him with a playful glint in her eyes. “Don't let me stop you.”

  Roman's voice faltered. Here was where the guilt welled up, overflowing and choking his words. He swallowed.

  “I invited her... you... out for a meal under pretence of simply catching up. The night went well, we exchanged stories as I tried to test the waters with regards to criminal activity. I knew you hadn't done anything like this before.”

  “You thought I hadn't,” said Sandrine. “In reality I'd been channelling loose fractions of Yen from ParCorp transactions for years into an account t
hat I regularly emptied for a charity of choice.”

  The words hung in the air. Roman was so shocked that he forgot the danger he was in.

  “You never told me that before,” he said somewhat accusingly. Sandrine gave him a few playful pats on the cheek, smiling widely.

  “I keep my cards close to my chest, honey. You can't know everything about everyone using that sixth sense of yours. Life doesn't work that way.”

  Roman frowned, feeling on even shakier ground. What else was she hiding? No time to think about that. Keep going.

  “As soon as I was confident that the job would be no problem for you I got the formula ready.”

  “So you've said before. I still don't believe it. I know you think you created this fantastical element in your lab, but there is no way that you could do this.”

  “You don't have to believe me then, just let me go!” yelled Roman, feeling a sudden flash of anger. Sandrine looked shocked for a moment before slapping him hard across the face, her nails raking two lines beneath his left eye. Furious words fought in his mind for escape but he managed to hold his tongue before it got him into more trouble.

  “Watch your tone, this is my apartment, my home. I'm in control. I won't have guests stepping out of line.”

  She had been so intelligent, perhaps a little too much. So sharp she could cut herself. She had been a master of finding a hitherto unseen negative in any situation. Perhaps she had been self-medicating and that was why the Cupid had exhibited such a drastically wild effect. There had to be a reason. Maybe if I can work it out, then I can see what was different about the situation. You can't always see the threads...

  “Focus!” hissed Sandrine in his ear. “Keep going.”

  “When you left momentarily to answer a call I put a vial into your wine. When you had drunk it all, I began to flirt. You reciprocated as the drug kicked in. I knew that you'd do whatever I asked of you.”

  “Wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong.” shouted Sandrine in a sing song voice. She pushed herself out of the bed and started to pace in front of him. “You think you can flick a switch and just turn on my feelings?”

  “That's what it does, that's what Cupid was designed for,” said Roman through gritted teeth. He could see she was working herself up again. He was expecting violence, but what he got were words, seven strange, unlikely, unforeseen words that shattered his view of the past.

  “And what if someone already loved you?”

  Chapter 4

  Ozawa Yosuke rubbed a hand against the dressing on his neck, feeling the tenderness of the wound and using the pain to fuel his anger. My daughter, lost into a criminal underworld with Jun, that waste of inked skin. The boy had thought himself such a master of psychology when he had given that fabulous antique as a gift to curry favour, but all Ozawa had seen was a thug who had stolen something rare and beautiful, just as he had stolen Ozawa's daughter.

  He looked out across the grounds of his house, watching the form of Takahashi Haruba picking his way up the winding gravel between his beds of bonsai and rare plants. Not many could boast of a garden as well kept or vibrant as Ozawa's but the rich businessman didn't seem to notice, simply trying to make his way to the house as quickly as possible.

  He fears me, thought Ozawa with a mixture of pride and mild annoyance. It was good that Haruba would be an obedient son in law when he finally managed to return Kuri to his household. He was the perfect choice, especially as he had no living parents and had agreed to be adopted into Ozawa's family. He could ensure his family name continued.

  The way it had played out still troubled Ozawa, not least in the way that Kuri had left without looking back. His own daughter, who he still saw as a child no matter how mature she became. How could she think so little of our family's heritage?

  The thought of that gaijin, this 'Black Cat' still angered him. He had been reluctant to choose such a strange route for solving the issue of his daughter's reticence but it had been the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. The man had been using various methods to plunder their labs for years, changing his location and face and always evading capture whilst simultaneously entrapping employees into his sordid web. If this man had used his formula to persuade Kuri of the right path then he could have used that as verification of his identity and captured him. Killing the Black Cat had never been on the agenda. He hadn't wanted to waste the talent. Such a formula could be put to many uses with regards to espionage and control, two areas within which ParCorp was trying to increase its scope.

  With the loss of his daughter, everything had changed. Ozawa no longer had any wish to work with the man. Presuming that I am one of those bloodthirsty Yakuza... such disrespect cannot go unpunished. He would not be killed, for that was not Ozawa's way, though he had burned with such rage when the Black Cat had destroyed his plans that if they had managed to stop him escaping, then he may well have lost control and wounded the man fatally. As it was, his guards were instructed to hand him over to the authorities, so that Ozawa could claim the bounty and at least gain something from the mess.

  He turned away from the window as he heard Haruba on the stairs and turned to see the man shuffle in respectfully, smoothing down the hair that had been whipped out of place as he had hurried in. He bowed low, showing the respect that Ozawa had earned.

  “Haruba-san, thank you for coming. I'm sorry I had such bad news for you. I know you are eager to join my family,” said Ozawa, bowing back as the man settled into a seated position on the tatami mats.

  Haruba shook his head, his eyes cast downwards respectfully. “It would have been an honour to become a part of this house, I am simply sorry that I was not the man that Kuri desired,” he said calmly. Ozawa grunted at the understatement of the situation.

  “It may yet come to pass. I have plans in motion. I am still a part of ParCorp and there are resources available that I have yet to make full use of. Even now there is an espionage operative searching for an... accomplice of the Yakuza boy,” said Ozawa, refusing to refer to Jun as a man, whilst also omitting the details of the Black Cat's name or unique service, which Haruba had no idea of and would be best served never knowing, “and as soon as they have made confirmation of the target's identity, we can make an arrest and use it to bring my daughter home.”

  Roman breathed deeply, a number of passing thoughts fluttering wild and indistinct through his head, before a realisation drove roughshod through the centre of it and demanded full attention.

  He had created the obsession due to the intensity of her existing feelings. He had magnified her love to such an extent that it had driven her insane.

  He'd had no idea that she had any sort of feelings like that for him. She had been so good at hiding her true self behind a cool veneer of professionalism. How many years had she felt like that? How many meetings, meals, drinks... she had never flirted, never shown an attraction, but then neither had he. They had both retained a respectable distance and whereas he had been satisfied with it, she had been yearning for him secretly.

  The drug worked by amplifying the release of serotonin at key moments with a desired counterpart, which was imprinted using details of the proposed target of affection, usually himself. She must have felt such a serotonin high when he had begun his romantic advances that when he withdrew from her it would have been like going cold turkey from a heroin addiction.

  Was that why the reversal drug hadn't worked? He was trying to change a part of her that was already concentrated on him... there was nothing to reverse. With that knowledge, if I can get access to my lab, I might be able to simply create a serotonin dampener that would negate the extra high and just leave her with her previous feelings (if she still feels any after the way she has been treated) and hopefully remove this mania that threatens to...

  The bullwhip cracked through the air, raking the skin of his chest. He screamed in agony as a weal opened up across his ribs. Sandrine's hand shook as she held the weapon, staring at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

&nb
sp; “I can't feel anything now, except for you!” she screamed, cracking the bull whip against his skin again. Roman bucked and writhed in pain, wrenching against the handcuffs. His body was not built for brute strength and it was a futile gesture. All he did was rattle them against the frame of the bed.

  “Everything else is black and white, cold, dead... you are the only light, and then you went out, leaving me in the dark. I don't...”

  Crack.

  “... even...”

  Crack.

  “... know...”

  Crack.

  “... why I still love you!”

  The pain was so raw that Roman could feel consciousness starting to slip away. If he went under and she continued her assault, he might never wake up again. He had to make this worse to make it better. Lie to survive. You're used to that.

  “Please,” he hissed through bloody lips, tasting the rank thickness of blood from where he had bitten his own tongue, “don't make me hate you.”

  Her hand froze, her eyes still wide beneath the mass of dreadlocks as she processed the words. It was all he could think of, to let her add the layers herself, to dig for a truth that wasn't there as she always did, and hope it would be one that saved him.

  She slowly lowered her hand to her side. She was breathing deeply, watching his face for any tell-tale signs of lies. It would be hard to turn this situation around but luckily for him all that he could register at the moment was pain, a very real pain that would have pulled him into in the foetal position, if he could move.

  “Hate is a strong word.” she said quietly.

  Roman gritted his teeth, forcing words out as he tried not to think of the open wounds across his chest.

  “It's a strong feeling,” he managed to say, feeling himself slipping away again. He kicked his legs instinctively as if trying to keep his head above water.

  “It's hard to hate people,” she said, circling around the bed and bending over him. She still wore the same perfume as all those years ago, a heady scent that was far too strong and made his head swim even more.