Agrippa
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All Right! Fine! I Will Take You! – Chapter 58
🕑 Added 2022-11-11 17:20:03 +0000 UTCThere’s a power that all shounen protagonists share, the real key behind their ability to escalate, to go beyond, to surpass any and all threats, and reach a realm above that of their fellow manly men who are sometimes women, or men who cry a lot while still remaining manly, or men who are alternatively manly and become surprisingly beloved by the audience despite their introduction involving creepily licking the main character whilst proclaiming they tasted like a liar, an affirmation that implies said Italian gangster had a long history of tasting people to cross-check their sincerity in a process that likely involved some double-blind tests and plenty of mouthwash.
That power? That shared thing that everybody covets even harder than blond hair dye?
That is the scene transition.
The scene transition! It’s what allows one to go from grievously wounded and lacking several major organs to sporting a single, aesthetically pleasant bandage over the bridge of one’s nose! It’s what allows Ranma to safely land after Akane tries to set up a Japanese competitor to SpaceX! It’s what lets one escape from certain death to the nearest, narratively convenient spot that still allows one to overhear a doomed ‘Unlimited Blade Works!’ before engaging in a plot-required and not at all gratuitous threesomes!
Truly, the power of the scene transition can’t be underestimated! The defenses it grants are instrumental to that godly, totally believable thing that is Plot Armor, and the power-ups it allows access to are often enough the only thing that makes said Plot Armor acceptable to entertainment-seeking masses!
What I would give to have some scene transitions…
“You totally deserved that,” Komachi cruelly states her unfair, biased, and objectively wrong assessment of the situation as I clutch my stomach and writhe on top of my bed.
“I… may have,” I begrudgingly assert, my survival instincts telling me this isn’t the time for honest, frank communication.
‘Hallelujah!’
Don’t you start with me—
‘Start? As soon as he appears, I’m going to fucking finish—’
OK, gross. Just for that, I’m going to clamjam you.
‘Don’t you fucking dare—’
“Dear sister of mine, if you had to come up with a way to have three gorgeous women—”
Komachi, somehow, drop kicks my shin.
I’m torn between applause and pain.
‘Funny thing, so am I…’
“We are not discussing… specifics,” she says before shuddering violently.
And hurriedly getting away from my bed before grabbing my chair and spinning it so that the backrest acts as a protective barrier between her and the emotional damage I can sling her way in retaliation as she sits astride the swiveling thing, her arms crossed over the top, her chin resting on it, and her eyes narrowing at me over the scowling mouth atop said chin.
Silly Komachi. Physical covers can’t stop sound-based attacks; that’s why shounen characters always yell so much.
“OK, OK, it’s just…” I tell her, raising my hands from my agonizing shin to wave them between the two of us in a submissive gesture of surrender that is only meant to lower her guard. “Look, I… I was worried, you know?”
Her eyes narrow, apparently, for some unfathomable reason, still wary of my conciliatory approach. Truly, Komachi, as much of a paragon of little sisterness as you usually are, this suspicious side of yours clashes with your other, more gentle and caring, character traits displayed so far. Ah, is this what they call gap moe, the one lone thing that makes everything else shine by comparison? The flaw that isn’t a flaw as it’s only meant to showcase the brightness of every single facet of the shining diamond (hopefully not crazy) that is the epitome of everything a big brother could ever yearn for?
Sasuga, Komachi-sama. Sasuga.
“You’re being gross. You’re being gross in ways nobody ever was up till this very moment in time. I’m sure you’re being grossest even than Hachiman-levels gross,” she says, utterly baseless and unfair in her accusations.
“If appreciating my little sister is gross, I don’t want to be… what is the correct antonym for this? Clean? Prudish? Somebody who the women in the train don’t glare at?”
“Normal. I think the word you’re looking for is ‘normal.’”
“Oh, that sounds about right. And dreadful.”
Komachi glares at me.
It takes her about five seconds to crack and start laughing.
Heh.
‘That you can manage this and still need to resort to it is a mystery for the ages.’
“OK, so… What was it that you were freaking out about?” Komachi asks, rudely interrupting Brain-chan and causing her follow-up dialogue to be lost forever and ever.
‘I could just—’
For. Ever.
“I… I was worried that… Shizu and Haruno? They have history. And I think… No, I believe that they are healing over it, that what they now have will become something lasting. But Iroha… I was never certain if she was really into other women or if she was… you know.”
Komachi blinks at me.
Then she buries her face in her hands, yet again failing to grasp that it does nothing against sound-based attacks.
“You were worried your girlfriend would just have lesbian sex to please you,” she says, her tone as dead as her hopes for a non-PTSD-fraught first kiss.
My job here is done.
“I mean… it does sound kind of pretentious when you put it like that,” I tell her, trying to pretend I know what that whole ‘modesty’ thing is.
“You… Do you even realize that she would undoubtedly have?” she answers, still trying to treat this whole encounter as if I’m a basilisk.
“What?”
“Iroha. She would have done it. Because of you. For you.”
“Komachi, don’t be—”
“You, stupid brother that you are, think she would’ve stopped before going all the way, maybe had a dramatic reveal. She wouldn’t. She would’ve done it, smiled all the way, and never even told you that she didn’t like it. She needs you, and you have to start acting as if you understand what that means.”
As Komachi slowly raises her face out of her hands, I meet her eyes.
She’s serious.
And, I guess, so should I.
“I… wouldn’t have let her. If I even suspected it? I would’ve stopped her.”
“Promise?”
“I won’t promise the sun will rise, Komachi.”
Her face goes from determined to that half-smile she does when not brightly grinning and flashing me her fang. When she does something that’s a bit more similar to what I do.
“And you call Mister Chuuni a chuuni,” she says, almost, but not quite, laughing.
“Takes one to know one,” I tell her without my cheeks burning in shame, remorse, and regret about a notebook filled with the story of seven gods who lifted the world out of the ocean of darkness and—damn it, Zaimokuza!
“Yeah. Yeah, it does,” she says with… Warmth. And fondness.
I think. The burning shame is still kind of noticeable.
“OK,” she says forcefully, breaking the moment. “So, you’re now sure that Iroha is… bisexual? And not just playing a part? How did you—”
“She just sent me a video of her first time with Shizu,” I say. To save time, and not just because of comedic timing.
Really.
Seeing Komachi blanch before violently blushing is just a small perk of my efficient ways. A secondary concern to my slavish devotion to not wasting a single moment of my event-packed existence.
Heh.
‘I seem to remember a certain composition she had you go over not that long ago…”
Oh, right. Then this not only achieves the twin objectives of saving time and seeing Komachi develop her own Brain-kun to unload her stress on, but is also actual revenge. Truly, that just elevates even further my own ability to optimize my action economy.
“Of course she did…” my little sister finally mutters.
“Look, Iroha will Iroha, and that is something both outside of my control and the scope of non-shinobi to deal with. At this point, I just assume every time I’m naked, she’s somewhere nearby with a camera pointed at me.”
“A camera.”
“OK, that may be untrue. At least one camera.”
Komachi, for some unfathomable reason, groans.
It pleases me.
‘Gross—’
Not like that!
“OK. OK. I won’t ask. I won’t ask, and you won’t tell me—”
“I mean—”
“You won’t tell me, or I’ll have you assist me with all my future compositions—”
“No need to get nasty!”
“Gross!”
“Not like that!”
Her arms twitch forward in the universal gesture to ask for increased physical proximity to properly display her affection, and I lean slightly back in the universal gesture of those who don’t want to be unjustly strangled.
“If you’re gonna be like that, I don’t even know why I am talking to you…” she mutters.
“Because you love me more than you do outdated notions of sanity?”
She tilts her head in a disturbingly avian gesture as her eyes narrow.
“So, you wouldn’t mind a little sister who’s gone insane out of an excessive, sick, twisted love for her elder brother who—”
“Look, as wholesome as the pure affections of a yandere can be, I’d be far more comfortable if we didn’t skirt the edges of the dreaded Oreimo—”
“Gross.”
“I mean… yes? That’s what I just said?”
She grunts in what can be vexation, agreement, or anything in between.
“What do you say we just ignore these past few minutes and focus on what’s important?” I offer as an olive branch. Which is kind of a weird thing to do when asking for peace, seeing as a branch is basically an unrefined mace.
Ah. It must be in case the halting of hostilities is refused. How cunning of you, Westerners.
“And what is important?” she asks with far more suspicion than is warranted.
“My incoming orgy—”
For some mysterious reason, I’m unable to finish my sentence.
That may have something to do with the young girl straddling me and doing her very best to choke me into (at the very least) unconsciousness as my chair wildly spins behind her.
Just a wild guess, you know. Totally unfounded as it may be, I have a gut feeling, though.
‘That you’d go this far just to sabotage his return…’
My love life is already complicated enough without whatever it is that you want to do inside my cranium. Also, I think maybe I should do something about my rabid little sister before I start getting dizzy.
So, with an almost nonchalant shrug, I grab her below her armpits and lift her off me, her grasp on my neck going slack out of sheer shock before I turn and sit her down to my left.
“Wha—?!” she protests.
And then I hug her.
“Thank you,” I whisper into soft, short hair that tickles my cheek.
“Bro—brother?”
“I… I love them. And I trust them. And I want to be able to talk about anything and everything with them, but it’s all still too new, and I don’t even know which lines are there that I could unwittingly cross. So… So, thank you. For this. For being here. For listening to me go on and on about my messed-up issues and outlook, and, and… And thank you. For being you, Komachi.”
She fiercely returns my hug, burying her face in my chest, grasping the back of my shirt until the fabric pulls around me.
“Always. Always, brother.”
“Heh. I guess that earned me a lot of Hachiman Points.”
“Not even a tenth of how many you lost, but your little sister will be as magnanimous as ever and overlook her gross brother’s crippling debt.”
“Ah. I guess you want a lot of Komachi Points for that?”
She… Stops for a moment.
Then she leans back to look up into my eyes and shows me a bright, shy smile.
“No. I just want you to be happy,” she says.
… Unfair.
I hug her back to me and refuse to speak as my throat keeps doing that uncomfortable thing it does when women I’m too attached to yet again punch straight through where my emotional walls should have been.
Thus, it is only natural that it’s Komachi’s turn to speak, her warm breath seeping through my shirt.
“And my brother will be far, far happier if he decides to talk about his gross sex things with absolutely anybody other than the little sister who knows where he sleeps and has access to kitchen knives.”
Ah. Sasuga, Komachi-sama. Sasuga.
***
Scene transitions.
They are a powerful device. They are what allow one to skip through grueling, often lethal training and go straight to the scene where the rewards are shown as the risk is solidified as nothing but a part of the colorful backstory, and, thus, no risk at all.
They are what allow for jokes to end on a high note and not drag the story down with minutiae that only manage to break both the pace and the light-hearted humor of someone being brained with a wooden mallet.
They are what allow somebody to stand in the middle of a love hotel’s room and suddenly start freaking out about how they got there without the audience wondering if the poor lad has some kind of brain damage that stopped them from realizing what building they were stepping into and just how long he stood there, staring at the walls of the corridor, while his most enterprising love interest rented a room, then pushed him into an elevator, and took on a parental role while guiding the gormless schmuck by his hand to the place where the comedy gods dictate he won’t lose his virginity, even if the conflicting gods of hentai deem it otherwise, thus sparking a theological debate that can only be solved by checking precisely in what kind of website are you reading the story for the articles.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you all here…” Zaimokuza says with an ominous tone.
Yeah.
Transition scenes.
They are also pretty handy for when you’re gathering your allies for an impromptu battle planning scene.
“First of all, you didn’t gather anyone. Second, Idid, so I’m perfectly knowledgeable about the reason behind this act of madness. Third… Oh, dear gods above, if this isn’t a clear sign of my desperation, I don’t know what is, so will you at least cut me a break?” I, very succinctly and reasonably state.
“Saki promised she wouldn’t say anything about you and Iroha?” Saika gently offers as a sign of the gods’ favor.
Which immediately sets Zaimokuza to vibrate as he turns to stare at me over his (quite generous) lunchbox, showing yet again that the gods’ favor is ever fickle and prone to carry as much malice as could ever fit inside the dreaded Pandora’s Box.
…
Damn it, Zaimokuza.
