Slum Online

by Hiroshi Sakurazaka

  But that wasn’t how Tetsuo played. When I was up against an opponent who could only use rock and paper, I threw caution to the wind and flashed scissors. That was the way I had always done it, and it’s the way I would always do it, whether in Versus Town or anywhere else. If I went with scissors and I lost, so be it. I couldn’t go back in time and relive my game against the bear, so I was stuck throwing scissors the rest of my life.

  Playing chase with Ricky would hand him the win. To beat him, I had to give him a taste of his own medicine. It would be risky, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  I pushed the stick once to the right. Tetsuo started walking toward Ricky. Ricky backed away in small, quick steps. Tetsuo kept walking. When he was in range of Ricky’s attacks, I didn’t block. Completely defenseless, Tetsuo advanced.

  My stomach was tied in knots. An attack could come at any moment. All of my attention was focused on the nerves in my fingertips. You gave yourself the advantage. Let’s see you use it. Bring it on. Step by step, the gap between Tetsuo and Ricky closed.

  Ricky’s toe shifted a few pixels.

  My index finger shot forward.

  Ricky attacked with a crouching punch. Tetsuo struck out with his knee. The knee won. The counterhit sound FX played.

  Ricky’s body was airborne. Tetsuo punched, canceled, and punched again. I linked a kick to the second punch, then canceled into a heel drop. Tetsuo threw a crouching punch, then speed-dashed. He canceled out of the speed dash and delivered a low spin kick. Another speed dash, and then Tetsuo hammered a fist down into Ricky’s body as it lay on the ground.

  Ricky lay motionless atop a backdrop of sand textures. The sound FX announcing a winner rang out. The match clock was exactly at zero. Turning away from Ricky, who was still lying flat on his back, Tetsuo slowly descended the arena stairs.

  Tetsuo won the second and third matches of the day without taking any damage to speak of. That his opponents had reached the second round meant they were good, but they were no match for Tetsuo. Ricky had been a far better fighter than either of them. The broad, flat floor of the arena was boring, and it bred boring competitors. Without having to worry about terrain, all you had to do was input the best countermove, and you would win.

  A character approached Tetsuo after the third match.

  > You’re good.

  He was wearing a garish gongfu outfit with a large dragon uncoiling across his back. A long braid of hair hung from his balding head. He wore neither headband nor wristband. A middleweight snake boxer, he was familiar to almost everyone in Versus Town—it was Pak.

  As the winner of the last tournament, Pak was exempt from the qualifying rounds, so he was here either on a whim or, more likely, to scout potential opponents. Being the best meant more than playing the game well. It required constant effort to gather intelligence on the competition. That was as true of virtual martial arts tournaments as it was of RL contests like the Olympics.

  > Ricky’s kicking himself right now.

  > He put up a good fight.

  > Not good enough to beat you. If you’re going to turtle, I don’t care if your opponent walks up to you without a single block in sight, you have to stick to your strat and keep running.

  > You’d have run?

  > Nah, I’m more of a rushdown kind of guy. I wouldn’t have turtled to begin with. You and I should get along well. I’m looking forward to our match.

  > We could fight now, if you want.

  > Sorry, I don’t street fight.

  Just as Ricky had said. I didn’t know when the next chance to talk to Pak would come, so I took a shot.

  > Why not?

  > There’s no point.

  > I wouldn’t say that.

  > There’s no reason to fight in the streets, and the game devs know it. That’s why they implemented forced log outs— to discourage people from engaging in pointless fights. You should’ve seen the place back in beta. Total madhouse.

  > The forced log outs have worked, though.

  > Once you get that first ding in a new car, it’s all downhill from there. I won’t be a part of that.

  > What if you ran into Jack in Sanchōme?

  > I wouldn’t even fight Jack on the streets. No exceptions.

  > Don’t you want to fight him? See which of you is better?

  > Not especially. Now if he entered the tournament, that would be another story. I really am looking forward to our match. Of course we could always play in Shinjuku on the weekends. But I hear you’re not a fan.

  He walked away before I could reply. I didn’t notice until after he had left, but the entire time we were talking he hadn’t shifted his posture or made a single gesture. I knew he wasn’t a total stranger to JTS, but compared to that bunch, talking to Pak was like talking to a wooden training dummy.

  Hashimoto approached me next.

  > Congratulations on reaching the finals.

  > Thanks.

  > I come bearing good news and bad news.

  > Let’s hear it.

  The ninja gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  > The tournament brackets have been decided. Should you emerge victorious from all of your matches, you will face Pak in the final round.

  > I was just talking to him. He said he was looking forward to the match. Is that supposed to be the good news?

  > You are to face the best player in all of Versus Town in a ring prepared specially for the purpose. Surely that qualifies as good news.

  > I guess.

  The final round of the tournament took place in its own dedicated ring. During the qualifying rounds, at any given time a number of matches might be taking place side by side, but in the finals, all of the matches took place in the same special-built ring.

  On the last Saturday in June, from late afternoon into the evening, the sixteen players who advanced to the finals would face each other in a single-elimination tournament. The final match would fall into primetime if this were television. Players logged in to Versus Town would be able to watch the match from any perspective they chose, even from the point of view of one of the combatants. During the first season tournament, over 90 percent of the players online had watched the match.

  > You don’t seem very happy.

  > I can’t say I am.

  Pak and Tetsuo didn’t face each other in the brackets until the final round, which meant they both had to survive that long in order to fight. I didn’t think Pak would have any trouble making it, but I was less sure about Tetsuo. Only the top sixteen characters reached the finals, which meant whomever Tetsuo went up against would be good. I couldn’t say with 100 percent certainty that Tetsuo had what it took to make it.

  > Who else am I up against?

  > I believe you will be pleased. You face a string of worthy opponents against whom to test your mettle.

  > Who?

  > If all goes as my whisperers assure me it will, you will face 963 in the first match, Keith in the quarterfinals, and Tanaka in the semifinals.

  > The news just goes from bad to worse.

  Hashimoto shrugged his polygonal shoulders in a flagrant display of skill.

  > You have come far. I do not doubt your success.

  > You seem pretty bullish about my prospects.

  > What else can I be? If you lose before you face Jack, all my plans will be ruined.

  > So what’s the real bad news?

  It seemed an eternity before the next bubble of text rose above Hashimoto’s head.

  > Just before I arrived, I received word that Jack defeated Tanaka.

  Jack had now fought three of the top four and crushed them all. Masumi, who’d been runner-up in the first season tournament, couldn’t stand against him either.

  That left only one of the top four. Jack’s next target was obvious. His sights would be squarely set on the best snake boxer in Versus Town: Pak.

  Tonight’s score: 3 wins, 0 losses.

  CHAPTER 10

  A SOAKING RAIN POURED DOWN ON SHINJUKU.
Tendrils of water streamed across the classroom window one after another. Inside, the air was thick with a steamy, strengthsapping heat. It felt as though half the rain falling from the sky still lingered in the air. As the air conditioner labored it emitted a sound FX laden with hope, but if it was actually cooling anything, I couldn’t tell.

  2:08 PM. Half-listening as a foreign instructor spoke French, I searched desperately for a cool spot on the desk to rest my head.

  As ever, sound FX filled the room. The broken French of a random student the instructor had called on. Snickering from the seats behind me. Strange sounds emerging from the mouth of the foreign instructor. In my experience, native Japanese couldn’t understand a word a foreigner spoke in his mother tongue, so why bother trying?

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.” I felt the tap of Fumiko’s 0.7 mm mechanical pencil.

  “Cut it out.”

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Time to rise and shine.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.” I buried my head in my arm.

  “He’s gonna call on you if you don’t sit up. He knows who you are.”

  “No way. We all look the same to them.”

  “How racist of you.”

  “It’s not racist. I can’t tell the difference between our English teacher and our French teacher, either.”

  “That’s just you,” she said with a grin.

  Summer break started at the beginning of July. Exams weren’t until after the break, but half of our term papers were due in June. Fumiko’s notes were filled top to bottom with row after row of sharply printed text. Copying them was taking much longer than I had expected. During Uemura the Elder’s class I was busily copying as Fumiko took notes. The girl was faster than a cheap laser printer.

  I needed to finish one and a half papers a day to have them all in on time. Less than ideal. The hunt for Ganker Jack wasn’t going much better. Considering the final round of the tournament was tomorrow, I should have been in a better mood than I was.

  Fumiko wasn’t likely to feel starved for attention during class, so I used every minute I could to steal some much needed rest. I cradled my head in my arms and let myself drift into sleep.

  The sound FX announcing the end of class filled my ears. Heaving my bag onto my shoulder I stood, my body still sluggish with exhaustion. Between the papers and the humidity, the bag weighed a ton. I walked out of the classroom with Fumiko clinging lightly to my shirt. We had a little time before our next class, so we went to a lounge—the quiet one without a photocopier.

  The lounge was empty. I bought a can of iced coffee from the vending machine and Fumiko got a juice pack. Orange. We sat down side by side in a couple of old plastic chairs.

  “Think you can finish your papers?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “How many you have left?”

  “Five.”

  “What have you been doing with all your time?”

  “I have reports for classes you’re not in. I got those out of the way first.”

  “That’s one night.”

  “If I were you, maybe.”

  I stretched in my chair. Fumiko glared at me, a hand on her hip. The silk shirt clinging to her skin caught the light and scattered it through the dense, humid air. I pressed my iced coffee to my forehead. Beads of cold sweat had collected on the sides of the can. Fumiko looked at me with upturned eyes.

  “Want me to do them for you?”

  “Nah, it’s okay.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t.”

  “You don’t have much time left.”

  “A week without sleep never killed anybody.”

  “Didn’t do anyone any good either.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get ’em done. Besides, our professors might be shortsighted, but they’re not blind. They’d notice two reports in the same handwriting.”

  “In that case,” Fumiko brushed the hair out of her eyes, “maybe you’ll be free tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow’s no good.”

  “I told you you’d never finish without my help.”

  “It’s not the reports. I already have plans.”

  “What sort of plans?”

  “Plans.”

  “Are you seeing her?”

  “No, these are solo plans.”

  “Solo? What are you doing?”

  “Can we drop it already?” I pulled at my hair. A soft ripping sound FX echoed through the empty lounge. Fumiko’s hands were trembling. A growing bead of orange-colored fluid bulged at the tip of the straw thrust into her juice box. Finally the weight was too much for the surface tension and the liquid came spilling out, perfuming the air with a faint citrus aroma.

  “Birthdays don’t mean anything to you?”

  I opened my eyes wide. I knew I hadn’t forgotten her birthday. Fumiko was born on December 24. She told me she felt cheated having her birthday so close to Christmas. I had even promised that we’d celebrate Christmas and her birthday separately this year. We were already making plans months in advance.

  “Whose birthday?”

  “Yours,” she squeaked.

  “Right.”

  “What do you mean, ‘right’?”

  “Guess I forgot.”

  I had felt something rattling around at the back of my head for a while now. Something that was supposed to happen the last Saturday in June. Mystery solved. Up until now, the only thing I had connected with that Saturday was the Versus Town tournament.

  Not a lot of guys I knew celebrated their birthdays after they got out of elementary school. By the time you were in junior high, you were lucky if anyone even noticed. Since my birthday fell during finals, it got lost in the noise more than most. My girlfriend in high school never gave me a single birthday present. Not that that stopped her from flying into a rage if I forgot to get her something.

  I didn’t remember telling Fumiko my birthday. I was turning twenty, but I don’t think my parents were even paying attention. Not celebrating my birthday was exactly how we had always celebrated it.

  I looked into Fumiko’s eyes. “How did you know it was my birthday?”

  “It’s on your student ID.”

  “Those glasses must work. Thanks for remembering.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” She let out a short, nasal laugh. “And the least you can do is spend it with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you, I’ve got plans.”

  “Can’t you get out of them? I already made reservations at a restaurant in Ebisu.”

  “These plans won’t change.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Just what is it you’re doing?”

  I’d never enjoyed lying or telling half-truths. That was probably why I said whatever popped into my head. I hadn’t deliberately tried to hide the tournament from Fumiko. I just didn’t see any point in telling her. But since she’d asked pointblank, I had to be straight with her. Not that this honesty policy had served me all that well in the past, but I wasn’t about to change it up now.

  So I explained the Versus Town tournament to Fumiko. She stared back at me as though I were an alien explaining the propulsion system of my spacecraft.

  “You said I was wearing a Naples yellow blouse the day we met, right?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “You must have had me confused with someone else.”

  “What?”

  “I was wearing blue the day we met. The first time we sat by each other. The first time we talked. Guess you forgot that too.”

  Sound FX of a juice pack landing on the floor. The lounge door being flung open. Fumiko’s footsteps as she walked away.

  I opened my eyes. Air rich with the smell of rain streamed in through the open door, caressing the back of my neck. Fumiko’s footsteps had already faded to silence. I picked up the juice box she’d thrown to the ground. The straw had come out, and a sticky flu
id oozed from the opening.

  I always thought this was when a girl slapped a guy. My ex had slapped me plenty of times, hard enough to leave a mark. But Fumiko hadn’t done a thing. A flash of sadness swept across her face, and then she was gone.

  Fumiko wasn’t at our next class. I ducked out and headed for the streets of Shinjuku.

  Gray light shimmered in the darkness inside the arcade. A mix of blaring music and digital sound FX shook the building. The air conditioning was on overdrive. Still soaking from the rain, I was an ice cube the moment I stepped in.

  I had been wandering the streets like I always did, but the relentless rain made a persuasive argument, so finally I fled to the nearest dry spot I could think of. That spot just happened to be the arcade on Kokusai-dōri. Maybe it was because it was Friday, but the place seemed a lot more crowded than the arcade over by Shinjuku Koma Theater.

  A snake boxer and a jujutsuka were fighting on a screen at the back of the darkened arena floor. A student on the near side of the machine was playing the jujutsuka. Peering closely at the screen, I saw that the game had just started.

  As soon as the round began the snake boxer launched the jujutsuka into the air with a counter and unleashed an E-rank combo on him. The snake boxer timed another counter to land as the jujutsuka regained his feet. The jujutsuka had suffered a perfect defeat in five seconds flat. The snake boxer was good.

  A man standing next to me mumbled in a hoarse voice, “Get in line.” Apparently there were a lot of people waiting their turn to face the snake boxer.

  “My bad,” I replied.

  I stepped around to the other side of the machine. In front of the screen sat a man with a sharp look in his eye. Not sharp-as-a-tack sharp. This was a look that could cut through a tin can. He wore a threadbare denim jacket and a pair of sandals that hung loosely on his feet.