Raspberry Dream

(Cultural note: Gacha-gacha / gasha-gasha machines are "capsule toy" machines.)

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He stood on the small rise of the concrete platform, mouth slightly agape, starting at the gacha-gacha machine. He could hardly believe, in either its existence or his incredible luck. What company in their right mind would put one out in the middle nowhere in the farburbs? Let alone fill it with one of the hottest collectible properties right now. There wouldn't be anyone to purchase from it. And yet there it was; every centimeter of its attention-seeking lighting and gaudy lettering flashing unabashedly, its holo-girl mascot smiling beatifically. He smiled back, his excitement growing.

Truth be told, he didn't think he was going to have the chance to collect any of the LIPSS. Work-busy the last few months, he hadn't kept a proper set of feelers out for new collectibles, and by the time he'd found out about them, a full month had passed since machines had been stocked. Now it was nothing short of a miracle to find a machine that wasn't empty in the sprawling spill of ferroconcrete and steel that he and fifty million others called home.

He'd first seen this one by chance from a train a little more than a week ago when he'd visited his auntie at his mother's request. As the train had trundled by the platform in the dark, he had been doubtful that it wasn't just another run-of-the-mill drink machine. The train hadn't even stopped. If it hadn't been for his nagging need to know, he never would've returned.

The station wasn't a proper stop, more like a blip, a legacy platform built for locals – probably students – long ago, who now no longer needed it. He had waited a full two hours just to get on a train that would allow him transfer to a second, then third train just to get here. Only belatedly did he find out he could have walked to it in just under an hour from a different station.

Only two trains stopped here every day: one at 9AM and the other at 7PM. There was no gate, no ticket counter, no rail employees, just a raised concrete platform, a wooden overhang that really wouldn't be much against the elements, and that gashapon machine. All located in the middle of verdant rice fields, watched over by a lone mountain protector in the distance.

As far as he knew, he was standing in perhaps one of the last bastions of LIPSS in or out of the Greater Kanto City metroplex. A quick count showed ten boxes in the machine; a virtual gold mine. Part of him had been afraid he would miss out on collecting them, but not now. Now he held dear to that single bare thread of loser's luck he always kept in his mental back pocket. Granted, with only ten boxes in the machine, he couldn't count on getting Raspberry Dream, but then, that wasn't the point in the pursuit of collectibles, was it?

There were twelve different collectibles in the LIPSS series, and as with most item sets, some were rarer than others. And while perhaps not that rare, Raspberry Dream had been his siren call to the collection in the first place, beckoned by the nostalgia of its namesake – a single from over 50 years ago.

He'd found it in his grandmother's digital music archive. A low bit-rate audio file encoded via lossy data-compression, the quality had been a bit sketchy, but an online acquaintance in Amsterdam had enhanced and revived it through regenerative manipulation. In its new life, it positively resounded the dreamy accolades to youthful, nascent desires of the original lyrics.

There was no way he was going to pass up this chance to obtain the LIPSS, even if it meant playing the numbers game. That was alright, sometimes it was the best game in town; even if he lost more often than not.

As he stepped closer, the machine plinked at him, momentarily giddy to have company: Hey, older brother, won't you buy something? It had sniffed him and taken on a female persona to entice him to open his e-wallet. It was the same persona he'd seen waving last week – a default-setting holo ubiquitously encountered in game arcades across the nation. The only change that set her apart from her digital clones was the manufacturing company's uniform and their logo plastered prominently across her bosom.

He stared inside the clear, hard-plastic cabinet, giving the cubed mountain of smallish boxes the once over, trying to ascertain his chances of successfully pulling Raspberry Dream. Of course, there was no way he could tell – all the boxes were "blind".

Ignoring the holo-girl, he stepped through her aereous silhouette, found the payment pad and pushed the smartstrip on the back of his hand to it, once, twice, thrice. Slowly, the machine responded, playing a little 8-bit machine diddy as it did. The holo-girl sidled up and danced as if just for him until the claw deposited three boxes into the retrieval chute.

Rather than wait half the day for the return train, he walked the hour to the other station, arriving home a couple hours after that. The little boxes begged him to open them the whole way, wiggling in his backpack, playfully trying to escape. But unlike the myriad of figures, toys, musikstiks, and edibles purchasable from the countless vending machines and gashapon around the world, LIPSS – Latex Idol Pulse Stimulation Simulation – were definitely not something you shared with the public.

For that reason alone, he was grateful for the unmarked, run-of-the-mill cardboard boxing they were packaged in. LIPSS weren't considered adult items; anyone with the funds could purchase. The reason behind the unmarked packaging was two-fold, creating both privacy and a "blind" purchase. For collectors like himself, the joy laid in the surprise of discovering what was in the box – the modern version of a pirate's chest. It also tickled the gambler in him. Money wasn't something he liked to throw away on pure games of chance like cards or slot machines, but the blind-box was akin to opening a wrapped box of souvenir cookies from a neighbor or uncle who had come back from a trip overseas – you never quite knew what you were going to get. Though you thought you might know, and sometimes you were right, usually it was a complete mystery. Hit or miss didn't figure into the picture at all. If anything, "miss" only served to further fuel the desire to rise to the challenge once more.

He placed the three boxes on the fold out table of his kitchenette and sat in the chair. He considered briefly taking photos, but, decided against it. His camera skills were sadly lacking.

He opened the box of the first. Inside, the LIPSS were posed on a tiny plastic stand inside a thick, sealed plastic bag. They were full and a soft, glossy pink-red. Through the plastic, he could make out the detailing. Curved and luscious with tiny creases. Very realistic. With scissors, he cautiously opened the package and removed the stand. They were stunning. He almost couldn't believe they weren't real. That was the test yet to come.

With great care, he picked them up. Such warmth and pliancy. Such softness. They licked themselves coquettishly as he placed them in the palm of his right hand and lifted them to kiss. The instant they touched, the lips pressed themselves to his. A jolt ran up his spine. Struck by their authenticity, he closed his eyes, took a breath and shared tongues with them.

They were the flavor of vegetables. Natural, clean, and vibrant. Juicy and succulent, yet, there was something that told him that these LIPSS were an acquired taste. They weren't the wild, yearning of what he imagined Raspberry Dream might be, yet he wasn't disappointed. They were sincere, earnest, and polite. He replaced the LIPSS on their stand, grateful for the experience, but eager to move on to the other two.

Opening the second box, he unveiled a surprising pair that nearly glowed. The light in the room created a halo effect around them even through the plastic. He quickly opened them and raised them. His mouth filled with an airy twinkling that spread from his lips to his tongue and over the entirety of his face. When finished, the LIPSS nuzzled with him, imbuing his heart with a pure, celestial joy.

And yet... these, too, were not Raspberry Dream. No, he was sure of their identities, and pleased he'd been able to experience them as they were definitely top-tier idols. However, his search would continue.

His palms grew slightly sweaty, nervous now that the third pair might be a double of one of the other two. Even though there were a total of 12 different idols, it wasn't unknown. He himself had once pulled three of the same type of gashapon toy figures as a kid. It was always a letdown. All that money saved, all that money wasted. Or so his father had angrily exclaimed. And he understood, but it was beyond his control, as was the desire for just one. more. try. There was nothing wrong with one more try. Was there?

Opening the third expectantly, he was astonished to see the LIPSS were heavily lined in black so that only a hint of the inner bottom lip was natural in color. Intrigued, he brought them to his own and, despite himself, went straight for a tentative probe with his tongue. There was nothing at first. No sensation whatsoever. He probed deeper, the LIPSS responding in kind, taking the active stance, pressing themselves to him. He was starting to wonder if he had gotten a dud pair when he was overcome by a foul taste slithering over his taste buds and aroma of something rotten. He gagged and sputtered. The idol's lips and tongue pressed on, rougher and harder. A mighty wave of vomit filled his mouth. Running for the closet commode, he ripped the LIPSS away and let loose, not quite hitting his intended target.

Only after he had brushed his teeth thrice and gargled with strong mouthwash had the aftertaste started to dissipate. He laughed despite himself. In the world of collectibles, if prize hunters weren't willing to open their minds to push their ideals of what constituted "prized", then they really couldn't call themselves sportsmen. Every collector had a tale, White Whale to Holy Grail.

Sitting down at his terminal, he browsed online shops and auctions for a single box of LIPSS. Most were "once used", and despite their condition still commanded crowds of watchers. No doubt more than a third of them were connected to bid bots; pricing would be nuts. He narrowed his search to "unopened" but found that the one box he did find didn't mention that the product was "unused". The price was outrageous. He waffled over purchasing it, weighing whether or not he had the funds, and then he realized the auction title was clickbait: LIPS Idols Rasberry Dreams. Subtle. He'd been so focused on the image – probably lifted from a real auction – that he'd almost fallen for it. Further auction searches brought up nothing of interest.

In an effort to stifle his frustration, he turned to confirming the flavors he'd purchased. There were already a number of well-vetted LIPSS infodumps online – they listed names, the idols they were modeled on, drop percentages, and up-to-the-minute auction prices for both new and used. Of the current two series of latex collectibles, Raspberry Dream was a favorite and a rarity. It was one of those unexpected hits. Current predictions for the number of yet-to-be-found was dropping like a rock.

He tried not to think about it, focusing instead on the names of the other LIPSS, eyeing the list carefully, and spotted three immediately he believed matched his purchases:

Red Sweet Pea. That was probably the "vegetable" flavor. Though he personally never much cared for her music, he was convinced of it when he came across the idol's name, Holy Child. She'd been popular yesterdecade, and still sold a respectable amount of music.

The next was Heaven's Door. That would be the airy, tingly feel, he thought, and knew the idol without even looking – Southern Field. Along with Holy Child, she was one of those idols everyone loved. People lined up for blocks just to get into wayback concerts. Official fan clubs, unofficial fan clubs, unofficially official fan clubs, it was a racket, but both the idols' faces and voices were plastered across the citysphere. You couldn't escape running into one of their holograms at the music stores. They attached themselves to your arm as you walked in, giggled and talked incessantly about what you were browsing the whole time, whispering sweet possibilities if you only purchased their latest.

The last one came as no surprise – Pine Origin, famous wrestler, known for her villainous acts and bad hygiene. He laughed in spite of himself. Of course, the company would throw in a ringer. That's what the blind box was all about. This was an accepted part of the pact between company and customer – adding to the fun and the challenge.

Pulling up unboxings on U-VID, Pine Origin "reaction" videos outnumbered everything else. Friends pranking their grandmothers, LIPSS kissing parties, and viewer giveaways. The majority comprised of teens yucking it up with their friends or to themselves over a supposed hilarious comment. Ticking the Obnoxious Filter cleared a path to a smaller, yet no less questionable-quality level of influencer "make out" clips – tongue-on-tongue action, moaning, erotic body grinding, and bare-all outfits and cosplay. All was dare in love and clicks; the more popular videos would undoubtedly pull down a month's worth of tips for no more than five minutes of time.

His sigh was flat and ineffectual in claustrophobic confines of his rented rabbit hutch. The walls deadened it, stealing the righteous indignation of his frustration. He needed to get out.

Setting his agent for two tasks – searching for Raspberry Dream auctions and posting a Wanted to the LIPSS forums on Getit – he stepped out into the late evening and headed to Treasure's Hobby, a retro and novelty collector store. If Raspberry Dream was obtainable, the owner would know how. It was quite possible she had a couple in the backroom for special customers. He didn't know if he rated that high on her list, but she'd connected him with a couple items close to his heart on more than one occasion in the past. They were as friendly as friendly got in the niche circle of collecting.

The only entrance is a rickety back-alley spiral staircase crawling the side of a ferroconcrete structure hemmed in on all sides by glitz and posh. No signs adorned the otherwise nondescript pollution-stained gray wall up which it ascended five floors to a single door. The area directly outside bore the bleak outline-scars of a now-razed sister building.

Heavy, the door resists all-comers, forcing them to prove their worthiness to enter, and then tattles with a small tinkling of a cat collar bell once they've made it passed its blocky metal bulk into the redoubt of dreams.

The interior is a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling record of ages gone by, plastered with posters and handmade cardboard signs that have seen better days, and marked by the smell of old books and used dreams ready to love again. Figures of all shapes, sizes, and eras stretch their necks, observing his movement through the maze of floor eager for him to cast a glance in their direction. Yellowing vehicles of flight zoom around the room, engaged in a neverending battle against the dust that threatens their engines. Puzzles, like children with missing teeth, grin from box corner to box corner, just excited to see someone, anyone.

The owner was away at figure show, leaving her cosplaying husband to man the counter. Often dressed as a certain beloved villainess, his earnest effort was sincere enough to draw enthusiastic customer admiration and photos. His bearish frame forced him to duck, twist, and weave as he led the way through the bulging shelves to the gashapon section. The shelves balked and threatened to angrily spill their wares atop the pair at the slightest bump. While not overly familiar with the LIPSS, the scoundrel would-be offered up that Raspberry Dream hadn't been produced in particularly large numbers, but in general, wasn't significantly sought after either. This in lieu of actually having any product to sell. A fancy, roundabout way of apology. The shop would call if they were able to obtain any.

Back in his hutch, he pushed the shower head into the wall and flopped onto his foldaway futon-tub. He turned down the lights in the room and called to the stereo to put on "Raspberry Dream", the single for which the LIPSS were named. The graphics emitter wrapped him in holographic melodic bubblegum pop slick.

The city beyond his 23rd floor window was an inescapable neon crush of wanton commercial fatalism. Nor did he want to escape, so why wouldn't it grant his dreams now and then? Was it so wrong to experience the taste now and then? Was this the pipedream of loser's luck narrowing?

Despite the late hour, sleep evaded him, restlessness wrestling him for control of his consciousness. The room was an entanglement of deconstructed music. Pitch, melody, harmony, and rhythm tumbled passively, expanding in every direction until nothing but cold embers remained. The player was three hours into a ten-hour ultra-slo version of the single when a holochat popup window germinated around the music dust, vectoring until it reached his visual cortex.

wbloop

GOEN CHAT DAEMON: Accept/Deny

His brow furrowed. Goen was a five-minute chat system that charged both users a flat five yen for use. It was untraceable, kept no record of the conversation, and was generally only used by spies, lies and surprises.

He skimmed the invite. Not that he expected anything; everything on Goen was fleeting. It was as cryptic as expected – I have, you want. Let's Dream.

Skeptical, his finger reached for Deny, but stopped when he realized that the both of them would be charged the five yen the moment he accepted. It was highly unlikely the sender was spambot, griefer or troll. Unlikely, but still possible. He held his finger there in the air, mere pixels from either decision.

The Daemon blinked impatiently at him, chiding him for his indecision.

He fingered Accept.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. This was the best summation he could give for emotionally investing himself in this venture. If he hadn't bothered to return to Saitama, his journey would have never begun, he placated himself. In for a penny, in for a pound, he concluded. Cliché much?

The message that followed was accompanied by the photo of a vacuum-sealed bag: This is Raspberry Dream. It can be yours. I have one only question. Your answer will determine if it will be yours or not.

He bounced the statement off the wall to see if it would change. It did not, but morphed into the question, instead.

What color are your dreams when you're awake?

What? What color what when what? It brought him to a full stop, troubling him for three precious minutes. Unable to process what was expected of him, he sent a blank reply, figuring the other user for a crank. The reply to his un-answer was even more puzzling: Meet me at Coffee Crossing at 2am. No show, bye-buy.

He knew not a name or face, not even the color of a jacket or the pattern of a sweater; nothing to define the user who had contacted him. But there was the box. It was unmistakable; practically glowing in its drabbery.

It sat in the middle of a table, unopened, unattended, and he was uncertain if it even belonged to the person he sought. He looked around; there were several patrons in the coffee giant at this time of night, however they didn't seem to be paying him or the box any mind. They mostly sat along the bay window counter bathed in the blinding lambent glory of the holograms that occupied the night city.

She stepped up before him from where he did not know. Alarmed at being approached out of nowhere, he stepped back.

She smiled and asked him to sit. Taking in his surrounding once more, he contemplated leaving if anything seemed amiss. Everything remained as before; no one seemed even aware of his presence. He took her up on her offer.

"Thank you for coming." She said politely, nodding her head in bow.

He stumbled for a moment, but returned the greeting. "I didn't expect..."

"It's alright. It's a funny thing."

He nodded in agreement despite his lack of comprehension in the statement. A silence feel between them. She smiled. He gawked. And he remembered why they were there.

"Is this...?" He locked eyes on it.

"Yes. You may open the box if you like."

He treated it with great deference.

Of course, it looked like all the others, and there was no way to prove it was Raspberry Dream without actually kissing it. He didn't expect to be able to differentiate it, and yet, he tried to find something, anything that would give him the confidence to purchase it.

"How do you know this is Raspberry Dream?" he asked.

"I don't."

A complex emotion stirred in him. "Then how–"

"It's a feeling. It's one of a kind. It couldn't be any other. When I look at it, I know." She looked outside the window at the holograms, "Like when you hear the single it's based on. The refrain. It grabs your heart in a tense, desperate grasp, and everything stops; you sink into the moment, unable to stop it from swallowing you whole. And when you come out, a small piece of you has changed."

He stared at her. Silent. Unsure of how to reply. But she was right. The song was timeless, was imbued with that feel of a different era, yet wasn't out of place. The lyrics coursed through him like the water in its intimate knowledge of the course of the riverbed. They knew his hopes and dreams, like they had confiscated his DNA and read it.

"I can see it there." She leaned in. "In your eyes. That desperate longing for it." Her voice became a hard whisper. "That fear that if you are unable to drown in the refrain... just one more time that you might as well not get out of bed."

He nodded, unable to look away from her eyes. Her voice was so mesmerizing, so full of passion.

Wordlessly, she pressed the box forward toward him.

He looked down at it and then back up at her, intent on asking her price. He would pay anything she asked. She stopped him before he could.

"I won't sell it." And then gently restrained him when he nearly leaped out of his chair. "It's too precious to sell. And too precious to keep to oneself."

This was true. Suddenly he felt wrong in wanting it so badly. He realized he'd been foolish; allowed himself to grasp at strings too thin for reality.

"I will share it with you," she offered.

Confusion crossed his brow. "I don't understand."

She gently lifted it out of the box. "Together, you and me. Kiss it."

Without a word more, she ripped opened the package, took out the LIPSS, and pressed them from the backside to her own so that they faced him.

Shock, grief, anxiety, loneliness, and anger rose in him like bile. He wanted to stand and scream at her to stop, but the faint odor of fruity promise rose from between the two as the LIPSS warmed against hers.

"Why me?"

"Your answer."

"But I didn't reply at all."

"Yes, you did. You replied with open potential."

Had he? He opened his mouth to explain that he hadn't had a damn clue what she had wanted him to say, and stopped. Mentally, he quieted himself. Physically, he took several deep breaths and smiled. She returned it. Out in the night, the lucky cats of urban myth and suburban storefronts joined in, and somewhere the president of a large multinational conglomerate restlessly turned over in his sleep as the universe balanced the books.

The decision made, he leaned in over the small table and not unexpectedly, the air between them blossomed with the sweet aroma and underlying tang of raspberries. It was a luscious, plump, undeniable saturation.

Not without initial trepidation did the pair part their lips, the tips of their tongues quivering in uncertainty before diving into a slick, fleshy copulation. They were immediately hammered by a weighty, chest-crushing remembrance of youthful expectations and willing intent tainted by confused, giggling fear of misunderstanding and rejection. Yet, there was no pulling away from each other now, nor was there any such desire. Raspberry Dream was infecting their blood with unbridled lust that hyper-accelerated their interpersonal awareness and bombarded their libidos.

They quivered, slaving under dogged desire; their faces flushed, bodies screaming for release. They touched and pawed each other until they all but melted under awkward, hopeful groping, but went no further. This was the promise of Raspberry Dream – an open but fully untraversed door... forever potential and unspoiled fantasy at their fingertips.

They remained there for a second, a minute, an hour, and a day, and they also never left – eternally LIPSS-locked, never wavering in their honest, brazen, electric potential.