“So you’ve even checked with the manufacturer. Quite a lot of legwork you’ve put into a conclusion provided by coincidence and rumors, isn’t it, Mr. Kikuoka?”
I stared at the narrow eyes beyond the glasses. For an instant, his face went blank, then he chuckled.
“Being stuck in a dead-end position leaves you with plenty of time on your hands.”
“You should help us advance the front line in Aincrad sometime, then. Eugene says you’ve got a lot of talent as a mage.”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t take this man for the bumbling paper pusher he appeared to be. The reason he’d made his own character in ALO was not out of interest in playing the game, but as a means of gathering information and experience on the virtual world for the sake of his job. The business card he gave me on our first meeting said Ministry of Internal Affairs, sure enough, but even that was suspicious to me. He seemed like he could belong to some other department—more secret, aligned with national safety.
But regardless of that, back when the Virtual Division was still the SAO Incident Rescue Task Force, it was through his efforts that the government was able to enact a system to hospitalize all the players afflicted. Because of that, and his help with Asuna, I usually treated him with 60 percent respect and 40 percent suspicion.
Kikuoka scratched the back of his head and smiled shyly.
“Memorizing those spell words isn’t the hard part—it’s actually saying them. I’ve never been good with tongue twisters. But at any rate, I think this whole thing is 90 percent coincidence or hearsay, like you. So this is all just theoretical. Kirito, do you think it’s possible? Could someone stop another player’s heart by shooting them in the game?”
His words caused a scene to play out inside my head. I frowned.
A shooter…dressed in black, face unseen, pulling the trigger while pointing into empty space. A black, illusionary bullet leaving the barrel, tearing through the virtual wall and into the actual network, as packets of information fly in every direction. From router to router, server to server, the bullet makes hard right angles and charges on its way. Eventually it reaches an apartment, where it emerges from the LAN router on the wall as a real bullet, and into the heart of the man lying on the bed…
I shook my head to clear the image and raised a finger.
“I don’t think it’s completely impossible…but let’s say this Death Gun fellow was able to send some kind of signal to the AmuSpheres of Zexceed and Usujio Tarako…”
“Well, let’s start with that. Is it even possible?”
“Hmm…First of all, it would have to be just a normal signal, not some kind of mysterious, fatality-causing power. Do you remember the panic around the Imagenerator virus?”
Imagenerator was a privately developed mail program from the AmuSphere. The user dove into a virtual space generated by the software and delivered a message into a camera, which the program compressed into a mailable format. When the other party accepted the e-mail, the sender’s virtual body appeared before them to speak the message. As new features like video, sound, and even texture were added, the program turned into a huge hit.
But soon security holes in the program were discovered, and virus mails began to take advantage of them. The moment the mail arrived, if the user was already middive, the program started a forced preview, startling the user with shocking images and sound, usually something sexual and/or grotesque.
They patched it immediately and prevented further damage, naturally, but…
“Nearly every person with an AmuSphere has installed Imagenerator by now. If there was some undiscovered back door, and you knew your target’s mail or IP address…”
“I see…Then you could set the send timer ahead of time, thus enabling you to have the desired signal arrive at the same time you shoot them in the game,” Kikuoka replied, folding his bony fingers and resting his chin on top. “Let’s assume that hurdle has been cleared. But you can’t send some kind of fatal cursed bullet, only an ordinary stimulation signal within the bounds of the device.”
“Meaning a sensation powerful enough to stop the heart…or a flavor, scent…sight, sound…Let’s think about the senses in order. First is touch—the sense of the skin.”
I traced my left palm with my index finger. I recalled the shock I felt earlier, when I found out the chocolate cake was actually ice cream.
“What if you sent a full-body chill, as cold as it can go? Like jumping into a giant ice bath. Could that cause the heart to stop?”
“Hmm…I thought that jumping into freezing water and causing the heart to stop was because the temperature difference makes all the veins contract, placing extra strain on the heart…right?”
“Okay, then that means this idea is out. The brain registering virtual cold wouldn’t have an effect on the capillaries in your limbs, after all…”
“Then how about this?” Kikuoka asked, rubbing his hands together. He almost seemed to be gleeful. “You’ve got tiny insects…not beetles, more of the wormy kind, like caterpillars and millipedes. Someone creates the sensation of being packed into a hole squirming with these things. With visual, to boot. Brr, just imagining it is giving me goose bumps.”
“…”
Against my will, I imagined the sensation.
Walking across a textured terrain, when suddenly the ground beneath my feet disappears, and I fall into a deep hole. Countless long, thin creatures squirm and wriggle, crawling against my skin and into the openings of my sleeves and collars…
“Yeah…that’s pretty gross,” I said, rubbing my arms, “but that’s the kind of prank that happened during the Imagenerator virus. People got giant caterpillars and jellyfish dumped on their heads. But nobody’s heart stopped…I think. Besides, when you’re in a VRMMO, your subconscious is prepared for sudden events. Depending on your location, you can get surprised by a boss at any time. You can’t play the game if your heart stops because of that stuff.”
“That’s a good point,” Kikuoka said, shoulders drooping. He picked up his cup and swirled it.
“Next would be taste and smell. Let’s say that your mouth was suddenly full of a terrible stench…like the taste of kiviak. Anyone who suffers that is going to try to vomit it out. Perhaps that gag reflex will affect their physical body…”
“Wouldn’t that mean they died suffocating on vomit, rather than from cardiac arrest? And what’s kiviak?”
I immediately regretted asking when I saw the sparkle in his eye. He loved talking about tasteless subjects. I suspected this was why he didn’t have a girlfriend, despite his prestigious position.
“Oh, you’ve never heard of kiviak? It’s an Inuit food. In early summer they catch these little birds called auks and stuff them inside of a hollowed-out seal. They leave the seal in a freezing location for several months. Eventually the seal’s fat seeps into the auks and helps them ripen—well, rot. Once it’s good and ready, they take the birds out and eat their innards, which have melted into a chocolaty substance. Apparently it’s even smellier than the infamous surströmming, but once you get used to the taste, it’s addictive…”
Thump! Our eyes were drawn to the side, where the two madams were on their feet, rushing away with their hands over their mouths. I sighed and interrupted Kikuoka.
“I’ll be sure to try it the next time I’m in Greenland. Oh, and I don’t need an explanation of what that sur-something is.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“Don’t look so disappointed. And I don’t think even the smelliest food is going to cause someone’s heart to stop. Let’s go to the next sense: sight.”
I took a hearty whiff of the coffee’s fragrance to cleanse Kikuoka’s tale of stench before continuing.
“Same as with the insect idea, I think stopping the heart with a meaningful image won’t cut it, no matter how frightening or cruel the imagery is. Maybe if you dredged up some terrible trauma of the target’s past, but I don’t see how they could figure out what that would be.”
“Hmm. You said ‘meaningful.’”
“Yes. I remember reading about some incident that happened long before I was born, where a bunch of kids who were watching a cartoon on TV all passed out at the same time around the nation.”
“Oh, that. I was in kindergarten at the time, so I saw it all happen,” he said, thinking back fondly. “It was a scene where they alternated flashing blue and red lights, and it caused seizures.”
“That’s probably what I’m thinking of. You send a similar video with all kinds of extreme, exploding lights. Most people will shut their eyes on instinct, but you can’t do that if the imagery is being pumped straight into the brain. Maybe that could cause some kind of shock to the system.”
“Yes, you’ve got a point.” Kikuoka nodded, then shook his head. “But that very problem was raised during the development of the AmuSphere. In the end, as a safety measure, they limited the output of the device. The AmuSphere can’t generate visual output over a certain amplitude.”
“All right, pal.”
I glared directly at Kikuoka, my suspicion leveled up to a pure 100 percent.
“Are you really telling me you didn’t already go over all of these possibilities before this? Why would you come to little old me after all the elite big shots in the Ministry of Internal Affairs put their heads together? What the hell is going on here?”
“No, no, it’s not like that at all. Your ideas are very stimulating; they’ll be a huge help to the process. Besides, I enjoy these conversations.”
“Well, I don’t. As for hearing, I’m guessing they have hardcoded limits on that, too. So that ends our talk. In conclusion: causing a player’s heart to stop through in-game means is impossible. Death Gun’s shooting and the two heart attacks are a simple coincidence. Now I’m leaving. Thanks for the food.”
I had a feeling that allowing this conversation to continue would only lead to bad things, so I made to stand up and leave. But as I suspected, Kikuoka panicked and stopped me.
“Whoa, whoa, wait! I’m getting to the important part. You can order another slice of cake, just hang on for another minute.”
“…”
“Anyway, I’m relieved that you arrived at that conclusion. I agree with you. Their deaths are not related to the in-game shooting. So here’s my request…”
I knew I shouldn’t have come, I told myself, waiting for what came next.
“Can you log in to Gun Gale Online and make contact with this Death Gun fellow?”
He grinned, as innocently and benignly as possible. I gave him my very coldest tone of voice in response.
“‘Make contact’? Let’s be honest, Mr. Kikuoka. You want me to go and get shot by this Death Gun.”
“Ha-ha-ha, well, when you put it that way…”
“No! What if something happens to me? Why don’t you get shot? See how you like having your heart stopped.”
I tried to stand up again, but his arm shot out and caught my sleeve.
“Didn’t we just come to the logical conclusion that it was impossible for that to happen? Besides, it seems that this Death Gun has an extremely rigid process in choosing his targets.”
“…Process?” I asked, sitting down.
“Yes. Death Gun’s two targets in the game, Zexceed and Usujio Tarako, were both well-known for their skills. In other words, I don’t think he’ll shoot you unless you’re one of the best. I could spend years and never get to that point. But the man that even Akihiko Kayaba admitted was the best…”
“I can’t do it, either! GGO isn’t that easy of a game. There are tons of pros playing it.”
“And what do you mean by that? You mentioned pros earlier, too.”
I knew that I was falling right into his trap, but I explained anyway.
“It means exactly what it sounds like: people who earn a living playing the game. Of all the VRMMOs out there, Gun Gale Online is the only one with a game coin conversion system.”
“…Oh?”
Even elite agent Kikuoka was not up on the full breadth of gaming lingo, and I could tell his confusion was not feigned this time.
“Basically, it’s set up so that the cash you earn within the game can be withdrawn as actual money. It’s an electronic currency, not actual yen, but it might as well be, since you can use it to buy anything you want already.”
“But…how do they function as a business? I mean, I assume they’re turning a profit on the game.”
“Of course. Not all the players are actually earning money. It’s like slots or horse racing. The monthly fee to play is three thousand yen, which is very high for a VRMMO. And the amount that an average player earns is maybe 10 percent of that…just a few hundred yen. But there’s a high similarity to gambling in the game’s system—every once in a while, someone gets a rare drop that’s worth a ton of money. They sell that in the auction house and convert the earnings to electronic money—it can fetch them tens, even hundreds of thousands of yen. Anyone who hears that thinks…Hey, that could be me. There’s even a giant casino inside the game.”
“Ahh, I see…”
“The pros in GGO are the ones who earn a constant amount every month. The best players earn around two to three hundred thousand a month, which isn’t that much in real-life terms…but it’s enough for a frugal living. Basically, they’re earning a kind of salary from the membership fees of the majority of the player base. That’s what I meant when I said that the best in GGO get more hate and jealousy than in other games. They’re like government employees scarfing down expensive cakes on the taxpayers’ dime.”
“Heh, you do have a way with words, Kirito. But that’s what I like about you.”
I ignored him and tried to steer the conversation to a conclusion.
“For that reason, high-level players in GGO put way more time and enthusiasm into the game than those in other MMOs. If I waltz in there without any knowledge of the game, I’m not going to get anywhere. Besides, as the name says, it’s a gun-based game…and I’m not good at shooting systems. You’ll need to find someone else.”
“Hang on, hang on! I don’t have any other options. In all honesty, you’re the only VRMMO player I can actually contact in real life. Plus…if it’s too difficult for you to take on the pros, why don’t you turn it into a job as well?”
“…Huh?”
“I can pay you a stipend for research assistance. Let’s say…the same amount one of those GGO pros makes in a month. This much.”
He held up three fingers. I felt a lurch in my gut. That was enough to put together a new machine with a twenty-four-core CPU and have change to spare. But it also raised more questions.
“Something’s not right, Mr. Kikuoka. Why are you so fixated on this case? First of all, I’m positive that this is just one of those weird occult stories that takes on a life of its own. Two people suffered heart failure and stopped showing up in-game, so the rest of the community made up a legend to explain it,” I said flatly.
Kikuoka straightened his glasses with slender fingers, hiding his expression from me. He was clearly considering how much of the truth to reveal, and how much to keep hidden. A shrewd man, exactly as I thought.
“As a matter of fact, the bosses are worried about it.” The bureaucrat was back to his usual smile. “The real-world influences of full-dive technology are under more scrutiny from a variety of fields than anything else. The social and cultural impact is undeniable, but the biological impact is hotly debated as well. They want to know how the human condition is changed by the virtual world. If it’s determined that there is proper danger, it’s possible that a move to regulate will be in the works again. As a matter of fact, there was almost proposed legislation on the matter right after the SAO Incident. But I, and the rest of the Virtual Division, feel that it would be wrong to hold back the tide now—for the sake of your generation, the ones enjoying these VRMMOs. I want to find the truth behind this odd series of events before it gets used for political purposes by those who want
to crack down on the technology. If it turns out to be total nonsense, that’s the best outcome. I want to be sure of that. What do you think?”
“Given your understanding of young people playing VR games, I’ll choose to interpret your position as being altruistic. But if you’re really that worried about it, why not go through the actual companies involved? Consulting their logs should tell you who shot Zexceed and Tarako. Even if the registration data within the game is nonsense, you could get an IP address and contact the provider to learn the real name and address.”
“I’ve got a long reach, but not long enough to cross the Pacific.”
Kikuoka’s bitter expression didn’t look feigned this time.
“The developer of Gun Gale Online is a company called Zaskar…Actually, I don’t even know if they’re a proper company, but at any rate, the servers are based in America. They’ve got excellent customer support in-game, but their actual office location, phone number, and e-mail address are all private. I swear, ever since The Seed was unveiled, these VR worlds pop up like bamboo shoots.”
“…Oh, really.”
I looked disappointed, but kept my cards close to my chest—only Agil and I knew the origin of the VRMMO development suite known as The Seed. As far as the rest of the world knew, the replica of Aincrad that appeared in the new ALfheim Online was simply left behind on the old SAO server that the late RCT Progress inherited.
“So basically, if we want to get down to the truth of the matter, we’ve got to make direct contact in-game. Of course, we’ll take every precaution we can in the name of safety. You’ll dive from a room we’ve prepared for you, with a full-time monitor that will automatically disconnect the AmuSphere if its output does anything funny. I’m not asking you to get shot; I just want you to react based on what you see and how you feel. So…are you in?”
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