Boogiepop Phantom Fan Fiction ❯ Chasing Nothing ❯ Chasing Nothing ( One-Shot )

Summary: Taking place four years after Regrets: Finding Boogiepop, Mirium, a.k.a. “Mirz,” Julia Maywin's best friend from high school, reflects on the extremely strange, yet seemingly typical events occurring in Tokyo, when she herself is inexplicably pulled into the bizarre events surrounding Boogiepop.

 

 

“Life is a fatal complaint, and an eminently contagious one.” (Oliver Wendell Holmes)

-_-_-_-

 

Rubbing her throbbing temples with tired fingers, the tall and weary-looking girl almost collapsed into the cushioned bar stool. The stress at Tokyo University was getting to her, to be more exact, to her nerves. It wasn't the fact that she had more homework than a couple of drinks of hard liquor could wash away, but her peers. Strange ramblings were aloft at T.U., something about a “celestial incarnation” choosing victims at random then vanishing. The strange thing was that no one knew anything about this strange Phantom, other than the fact that people were disappearing, and according to scientists, a `more-than-strange,' strong electromagnetic field had materialized above the city. Not only had she scoffed at the possibility of a ghost frightening the city shitless, but also the use of “victim” in every reported broadcast rubbed her the wrong way. Couldn't the “victims” be just your average, ordinary runaways? And the “phantom”? What other explanation was there besides some psycho homicidal maniac with a fetish for fugitives?

The bartender, a man nicknamed Jeb, had his own ideas. After closing time, they would both help themselves to the seemingly boundless supply of aqua vitae, and the inebriated two would giggle and chortle endlessly about the recently spiked interest in “things unknown.” They would snicker at the gullible population, so easily ready to believe all of the new bull the press served to them daily on a silver platter. Sighing at the crap the local 1 o'clock news dictated to them, the two gaijin thrown into a pot of sometimes-incomprehensible culture could do nothing but scoff at the nonsense and ignore their peers' romanticism of the subject.

The bartender, in his strong Texan accent, commented on her disheveled appearance. “Y' know, Sally, you've been lookin' miserable lately. School been tough on ya? I betcha those teachers 've been whippin' ya into shape.”

The girl sighed. “Ha ha George, real funny. I'll have the usual.” She had told him tirelessly that her name wasn't Sally, but Jeb called every girl “Sally” so she had jokingly christened him “George.”

Sighing again, the girl turned towards the sound of an instantly recognizable voice shouting over the bustle of the nightly crowd. “Oh my god! Mirz! Fathom us both here at the same time! Tell me darling it isn't true!”

“It isn't,” the girl mumbled under her breath. Jeb looked, stunned, at the extravagantly, yet gaudily, dressed figure sidling herself into a seat before him and ordering, just short of demanding, “a Cosmopolitan, kind sir.”

Glancing at the shocked expression on the bartender's face, as he turned to prepare the drink, the girl politely answered her high school friend through clenched teeth, “It is a pleasure, Marti. I'd almost thought that I'd never see you again. It's quite a shock.” Marti, a porn superstar working and selling her products through the Underground back home, had come as a student to Tokyo University, which was, as she had obligingly mentioned to me once, a front for her new Japanese line of boundless pornographic material. It was her dream to become internationally famous. Since she hardly ever appeared in class, though, most just agreed that it was her grand money stash that had bribed the higher-ups into letting her stay on campus. It was hard to ignore Marti though, with her tendency to flash her riches into a person's face. Basically, I had always known she was just simply a Royal Bitch. She'd adopted a fake British accent that made her even more of a pain.

“Oh my, the name `Marti' does indeed take me a-ways back, ah yes, to the good ol' days of high school.” `A-ways back,' meaning about four years, not a lifetime.

“So Mirz, darling, have you kept in touch with any of The Oldies?” `The Oldies' was her pet name for our old clique in high school, and as she delicately sipped her Cosmopolitan, she genuinely looked interested, complete with fake eyelash batting.

“No, I haven't.”

“Such a shame, you know, I heard from a little birdie back home that that Julia Maywin never recovered from the Incident all those years ago. They even supposedly put her into the Psychiatric Ward after she started rambling on about some phantom, or ghost, or something like that killing that poor boy, that Jonathon Lenor. Did you know that she almost committed suicide? I was thinking of making it into a nice, darker movie for my beloved fans.”

Poor Julia. I never really liked Jonny, but I got the inkling once that she was devoted to him in gradeschool. The night of the Incident, Julia and I were heading for the local shopping mall, when I happened to find a beer can. It was my first time drunk, and whatever happened during that time is hazy and unclear, but I do remember hearing it in the news afterwards. Julia turned inward. She never really liked attention before the Incident, but she was pulled from high school and instead was tutored at home. Because of her many suicide attempts, she was placed in the hospital, and the last time I ever saw her, she kept on mumbling something about a balloon; how she wanted a lead one, or a red one, or something.

I changed the subject. “Any more, uh, productions lately?”

Waving away the question, she responded that she could “hardly talk about it in a place like this. My fans mean too much to me, and I won't spoil it for them.” Grinning like a Cheshire Cat and putting her hand on the bartender's arm, she ordered another drink. “Have you heard?”

“Heard about what?”

“Darling, it's everywhere! The Being that's capturing poor young souls like ourselves and keeping them tied up somewhere, oh it's too painful to bear! What if it happens to me?” I didn't think she would have to worry, since even I couldn't stand her. “And you too, of course,” she added as an afterthought.

I didn't care at that particular moment, since my attention was diverted elsewhere. A young adolescent girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, had just passed the bar. It was not the girl that had caught my eye, but what she was holding. A red balloon.

“Mirz, are you sure you're all right? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, Sally, that's enough drinks for you. You should go home.”

My heart had stopped. Nothing else mattered except that balloon.

“Mirz, are you all right?”

 

Flushed and with difficulty even breathing, I commanded my legs to take me outside. Once out of the bar, I followed in the direction of the girl, which led me to a dark alleyway. As I ran, I swore that I saw a cloaked figure with a strange top hat staring at me from the shadows.

“You there! Stop!” The girl, obviously startled, had spun around with a look of horror upon her face, and didn't see the raised pavement in front of her. When she fell, she didn't even bother to let go of the balloon, and used both of her hands to keep it safe rather than to break her fall. I searched the darkness for the caped figure, but the darkness was as empty as ever.

The girl, already on her feet, had turned to leave, and I grabbed her by her shoulders. I screeched at her in Japanese, “Where did you get that balloon? Tell me, godammit!” The girl was shaking. Was I going mad?

“I—I don--I don't know what you're talking about!” Crying, she tried to shuffle away under my grip, “Don't take away my balloon! Please!” When I begged her to tell me more, she screamed.

I felt a strong hand grab my arm. “That's enough, Miss! Little girl, you should be glad that my patrol had brought me to this alleyway, since you might've been dead by now. Run along home now, that's a good girl.” I let go, and she stumbled away into the night, still crying. I faced the police officer, who questioned me and deduced I was drunk and delusional. For harassing the girl, however, I had to pay a hefty fine; the money had taken me three weeks of work to earn. I was taken into custody for some time, but realizing that I was at the University, they postponed any “counseling,” as they put it, until later. What they didn't realize was that Julia needed the balloon. No, I needed it.

---

 

In my dorm, helpless, I could do nothing but drink anything I could get my hands on. Crying, I realized that he thought I was a homicidal maniac. A homicidal maniac chasing after a lost girl, a runaway. Lifting the glass to my lips for another drink, I comprehended that I needed air to help the pounding and steady beat in my head. After two bus rides and three hours to nowhere, through my drunken stupor I realized that I didn't know where I was. Wandering through a wheat field, I discovered a river on the other side. Running to the middle of the old-fashioned bridge, I couldn't help but stare at the dark rushing water below, calling for me, “Mirz! MIRZ!” It kept on repeating. Gasping, I saw it. The red balloon. I tried to reach for the string, but my attempts were futile. It wasn't rising towards the heavens, but falling towards the gushing rapids below. “NOOOO!” I screamed. I needed that balloon. It was mine, not the girl's, not the water's, not anybody else's! I had to have it.

I jumped. I don't remember anything else before I hit the water. Except that I caught the balloon. My red balloon.

 

 

-_-_-_-

 

 

The host continued, “Channel Seven Breaking News: We are sad to inform you that the body of a foreign student from the prestigious Tokyo University has been found early this morning in the Tone River in Kanto. No evidence has been found to relate the case to any of the recent disappearances, and an investigation into the deemed suicide is now taking place. In other news, the disappearances continue…”

 

Jeb slowly got up from his chair and grabbed the remote. Pointing the remote at the television above the bar, he pushed the “OFF” button.

---

 

 

“ Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.”

(Truman Capote)

(Truman Capote)

 

 

 

(Inspired by Kouhei Kadono's “Boogiepop Phantom”)