Borders of Fiction

Chapter 5: Reactive

The mangaka's eyes stung as he took in the sodden pages before him. His lifelong work was soaked and ruined at the hands of his manager Tatsu. As the water dropped onto the pages, so too did the mangaka's dreams. His face mapped with the highways of years lived fully and stories told, he rubbed his callused, ink-stained fingers together and noticed his muscle pain as much as he ignores when he draws. Despite biting his nails and muscle pain his head complains, and the water silently drops onto his manuscripts slowly.

Sitting across from him was the source of this destruction. Across the table is the man whom he is frustrated at, the man in his black tailored suit failing to conceal his cunning nature. Tatsu's narrow features wore a smug grin that chilled the mangaka more than any vulture's. Without warning, Tatsu struck it alight as the ink vanished swiftly and effectively with fire. With a slight whistle mockingly he puffs on his cigar.

"What can I say? I'm inspired." He glanced at the soaked manuscripts with a twisted smirk. Nagai gritted his teeth, barely containing his anger. How could Tatsu treat his lifelong work so casually? How could he say that he would abandon the work he did with passion? Now he'll never see his work again.

"Inspired, he says," Nagai hissed through a clenched jaw. "I am inspired to destroy decades of my life's work by using that damn skill of yours." Tatsu's head inclined in response, "So what if your ideas got rejected? It's only an idea. It can't hurt."

"You want me to think of something different, then what?" Nagai's temper began to boil as he readied himself for a confrontation. Tatsu was testing him. He sensed his inevitability. Tatsu shifted his weight, "Come now, it's just paper and ink," he smiled condescendingly.

"There's more than just that." Nagai spat the words with venom, "You ruined it with a fire, You could have just told it to me honestly and not burned my work-"

"You can always redo it again; this isn't going to sell," Tatsu spoke, ignoring the mangaka's protests. "I'm sure you know about Osaka Sensei's spin-off light novel in 1887. He thought he had a good idea, but he had a $200,000 debt to Professor Fuji at that time borrowing money for his living. It's as good a title as any of his works but somehow he has never been satisfied with it along with his relationship with the original manga creator, Ando. And allegedly his work contained some glimpse of their relationship with them in real life through the characters they wrote. After all, same-sex was still kind of illegal in Japan at the time, but Hiroshi Ando was a gay man who was already married. He couldn't explain himself and so he just quit the manga publishing scene all together." Tatsu shook his head, "he went mad after that."

Tatsu shrugged, "So what if it was some guy who fell in and out of love with this guy? It has nothing to do with me!" Nagai's blood boiled and he clenched his fists.

"I'm saying don't spill your heart out to your work. The readers don't care about reality. Do you think I care about reality?" Tatsu calmly glanced back and forth between the mangaka and the ripped pages of written reality. "That is the point I'm trying to make." Nagai could only just bite his lip.

"Besides, the real story is in here," he tapped the side of his head, "and here," he slipped his hand into his pocket, reaching for his wallet and pulling it out. Nagai wanted to lash out but knowing it would do no good to him and his work he should just not prod about it. Tatsu lived to provoke such reactions. Nagai thought about it one time when Tatsu did this before. I guess it will never change.

"We're doing things to live; don't be absurd and just do things on your will. Mangas don't end until I say so, and this one." He picked up one piece of paper and erased the sketches. "The higher-ups don't like this. And my, my, it seems I've upset the darling mangaka." Tatsu just sneered and left Nagai alone with the ruins of his life's dreams and passions. Nagai sank to the floor, weeping into his hands. How could he have trusted that madman, even for a moment? The crumbled pages around him seemed a fitting metaphor for his shattered heart.