Memorial: The World in Red

——One day in the year 2007.

The development team was enthusiastically playtesting Akira’s game, where players were gathered at an area and made to fight each other until the last man standing. Unlike today, the battle royale was an unexplored genre of online gaming. What’s worse, Akira’s iteration had a time limit of one week, after which the players’ levels, stats, inventories, and money were all reset to zero. To compensate, he had included sidequest-esque elements like fishing, gambling, and base building, as well as survival aspects that required the players to gather food and fuel.

“Graphics are a bit dated...which won’t be too hard to fix.” One of the members began exploring his character’s spawn area, his afro bouncing. “Gotta start by exploring... Huh? I obtained a ‘?’? What does that mean...?” The developer flipped through the documentation to discover that any found item had to be analyzed, and it cost SP to do so. “Fuck, that’s annoying... Huh? A rock?! You couldn’t have analyzed that by looking at it?!”

—“Rock” was added to Jace’s Database.

The afro-haired developer stared at the system message, wide-eyed. He equipped his character with the randomly assigned weapon (an axe) and attacked a nearby tree with it. He picked up the item that was yet again labeled with a question mark.

“Ah, so that’s how... Analyze Item...”

—“Charcoal” was added to Jace’s Database.

After having been involved in so many game development cycles, he wised up to the root of the system. “The numbers get reset, but your experience and knowledge are kept...”

The developer moved through the area and opened the in-game map. The screen was all black, save for the small area his character had just traversed.

Forest Area Discovered — 0.1%

Skills Earned — 1%

Items Found — 0.1%

Cash In — 0%

The developer flipped through each screen to find these displays and knew that his assumption was correct. At the same time, he was impressed that Akira’s game knew how to tickle the collector in the players. These numbers were begging to be brought up to 100%, and filling the database would become a race among players.

“Fighting and collecting, huh? This is pretty... Wait, what the hell is going on?!”

His screen was flashing red and shaking. He made his character turn around to find a female avatar, in a bikini of all things, pointing a rifle at him. “We’re playtesting, Jenny!” He shouted into his headset.

From it returned an annoying laugh. “The weak must die! It’s the law of the jungle! Jungle justice!”

“Knock it off! You’re killing me! For real!”

He tried to run, but the shaking red screen made it difficult for him to control. Worse yet, his character was simply running in circles: an obviously bad move. Panic made people do stupid things, and that was also true in video games.

“For real...! I gotta heal! Heal!”

“You can run, but you can’t hide! The wolf lives, Jaces and pigs will die!”

“Stop! Noooooo!”

His screen turned black, accompanied by the following text:

—Game Over.

You have been shot dead by Jenny.

X days, XX hours, and XX minutes until the next Game begins...

Here’s a message from your killer:

The afro-haired developer was quietly shaking at the matter-of-fact display, but leapt out of his seat as the message from Jenny faded in.

You know, you look like this Japanese character called Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo.

“Motherfucker! You’re dead! You hear me?! You’re dead!”

The developer ran out of the room, starting an IRL scuffle.

The team began to become deeply invested in the Game, with enthusiasm at times and with savage competitiveness at others. While each member of the team was talented in their own right, many of them had personality quirks that foreshadowed troubles brewing in the future of the project.

“Are you in, Miki?” Aoki fiercely rapped the door of the director’s office and barged in before there was an answer. This executive office was complete with a kitchenette and shower, which was provided to each higher-up of 42-OMG.

A man sat at the desk, dressed like an English gentleman of the good old days. “Hello, Aoki. I’m glad to see you doing well.”

“Shut up. How long do you expect me to babysit that kid?”

“Have you any grievances with your current assignment?”

“No shit, I do. I don’t even know why I’m stuck with that snot-nose.”

“Our president has... Oh, there’s no smoking in this room, I’m afraid.”

“Fuck off, you’re flying home any day now... You never use this room anyway.”

Aoki irritably lit his cigar and slumped down onto the couch. The juxtaposition of a dignified English gentleman against a savage bandit like Aoki was comical in and of itself.

“You asked how long. Well, until the project is completed, of course.”

“Get the fuck out of here! I’ve got a shitload of other projects—”

“Those have all been delegated, per the president’s orders.”

“Goddamn it...! What the hell is...” Aoki scoffed through his nose and leaned back onto the couch. He had no idea why Akira’s project was being prioritized. “Yeah, the kid’s got talent and instinct. Maybe he’s a genius. So what? There’s plenty of talent lying around, all around the world.”

With their global reach, Aoki couldn’t help but wonder why 42-OMG seemed infatuated with Akira.

“Development of VR technology is our top priority.”

“No shit again, Sherlock. Why use his game?”

“I haven’t a clue. These are all orders given by the president.” Miki wore a warm smile and sipped on his tea, performing even such a mundane action with refined elegance.

“Something about using it in medicine too... Is that going to bring us any dough?”

“Oh, loads.”

Using VR, 42-OMG wanted to virtually construct 3D models of the human anatomy, as well as simulate surgery, experience surgery from the POV of the surgeon, treat PTSD, aid physical therapy, neurological therapy, and so on and so forth. All in all, they believed that VR technology would become a standard component of various industries outside of entertainment.

“We will be moving forward with various experiments and development. Please bear in mind that the project assigned to you is one of them.”

Aoki stood without answering and turned to leave.

Mikimoto called from his seat, “Depending on how this project fares, the president is considering promoting you to VP.”

Aoki turned around, astounded. It seemed more eerie than exciting, as chills ran down his spine. “What are you and the president getting at...?”

“The success of this project, of course.”

“What does this project mean...? What does that kid—?”

“Nothing a figurehead like me would know... The president will be flying in soon, so your questions may be answered then.” The English gentleman still wore his friendly smile.

Aoki left the room, scowling. Any question he asked Miki was like punching sand.

Mikimoto soon flew back to England.

A month flew by.

Without so much as a knock, Aoki barged into Akira’s office where numerous monitors lined the wall and his desk space, each of them displaying complex code, 3D renderings, or models of human body parts.

“Still haven’t gone home, huh?”

“Commuting’s a waste of time.”

Without so much as turning to look at Aoki, Akira continued strumming multiple keyboards at a breakneck speed in such a hurry that it would have unsettled anyone watching.

Aoki remarked with a sigh, “It’s like a supervillain’s lair in here. You know, like in those robot anime?”

“I don’t care about your nostalgia from, what? The turn of the century?”

“I was born in the twentieth century, you idiot.”

“Can’t this wait? What is it? I have to move the shading here...”

Akira was working on painstaking work, like animating the grass in the wind or calculating the shading based on the direction of the sun. Evidently, he couldn’t stand not getting his hands on these minute details.

“Ono, we’re going out to get dinner. Stop working for a bit.”

“Later. And why don’t you just eat in the cafeteria? It’s quick.”

“Just get ready. I’m hungry.”

“See that tank over there? Eat as much turtle feed as you want— Ow!”

Aoki slugged Akira on the head without another word, forcing his work to a halt. He was a muscular man with experience in various martial arts. “It’s on me. Just shut up and come with.”

“What’s going on...? I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu... Bird’s nest soup, matsutake, body sushi... Mostly body sushi.”

“Shut up! Let’s just go!”

They descended to the parking lot and approached Aoki’s Bentley, a luxury car from England that cost as much as a house in some regions.

Akira stared at the car and scratched his head. “I knew it... You evade taxes, don’t you...?”

“Just get in, already.”

The Bentley drove out into the city as pedestrians pointed and stared at the car.

Akira leaned back into the passenger’s seat and remarked, “Ha! Everyone’s staring.” He felt a sense of exhilaration for garnering attention by just riding in a car.

“You do a good job, you can ride fast cars...and hot chicks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Money talks. You got some growing up to do if you’re still chasing some perfect vision.”

Akira scoffed and watched the cityscape glide past the window, realizing that he hadn’t seen the outside in a while.

Eventually, they came to a large intersection and pulled into a nearby parking lot.

“Let’s go.”

“I don’t know what this place serves, but I’m ordering something worth my time.”

“Knock yourself out.” Aoki led Akira to a ramen stand set up on a wide stretch of sidewalk, with sets of tables and chairs arranged around it, many of them populated. “Hey, chief. Give me the usual,” Aoki called as he sat at the largest table there and lit his cigar. There was a ‘reserved’ card on the table; apparently, he was a regular.

Akira took his seat, undaunted, and lit his cigarette. “Is this where you get your body sushi? Looks like a ramen stand.”

“What part of it doesn’t look like a ramen stand to you?”

The owner of the stand brought a bottle of beer and two glasses to the table without saying a word.

Akira wanted to make a gripe or two, but the beer stole his attention. He had cut out drinking ever since he started at 42-OMG. “Drinking and driving crosses a line, even for a bandit like you. What are you going to do, sell the car and bribe the cop?”

“I’ll call for a driver, dumbass.”

It was customary in Japan for a subordinate to pour his superior’s drink, but Aoki sloshed Akira’s portion into his glass.

Akira pondered the golden ale for a while, as Aoki drank straight from the bottle and gulped down all the rest.

“Ahh... That’s good.”

“Damn it... I’m trying to keep sober, over here...”

“Sober? What the fuck is the point of that? Pussy.”

As if she was waiting for him to finish the drink, a young female employee brought another bottle. With an apron and a bandana around her head, she looked like the rather active type.

“Hello, Mister Aoki!”

“Hey. I’m looking forward to some good food tonight.”

“Is he one of your employees? You’ve never brought anyone here before!”

“The most annoying little brat I’ve ever had to work with.”

“Oh, haha. Sit back; we’ll get you served soon!”

“Thanks.” Aoki grabbed the bottle again, drowning the beer down his throat.

Akira’s gaze wandered to and fro until he finally grabbed the glass. “W-Well, I can’t turn down a drink my boss poured for me. The woes of a working man...”

“Don’t drink it then.”

“Shut up! Of course I’m going to drink it!” Akira bellowed, then cheered at the first taste of beer in a long time. It seemed absence made the flavor grow stronger.

“Here you are! Our specialty skewers,” the waitress announced and slid a plate of charcoal-grilled skewers onto the table: half with chicken and scallion and the other half a string of thinly sliced beef tongue. The skewers glimmered in the light, their aroma alone guaranteeing an amazing tasting experience.

“They only serve ramen and these two kinds of skewers, but you can’t go wrong with either,” Aoki said and tore into one of them.

Akira, too, took a bite from the chicken and scallion. The umami of the marinade and the tender chicken twirled in his mouth, making him groan in approval. “That’s delicious. It’s incredible.” While Akira worked his way down the skewer, a pint was placed next to him. Akira took it and began double-fisting the beer and the skewer. “This tongue is legit too...! Excuse me, can I get another one of these?!”

“Coming right up!”

“And another pint!” Akira called, chugging the one in his hand.

The waitress laughed. Her smile alone was enough to make Akira want to come back in the near future.

Skewers and beers were brought to the table and promptly devoured. Similar scenes were happening at other tables, making the ramen stand seem like a little paradise on the sidewalk.

“Nice girl, right? Cute smile. Energetic,” Aoki said.

“Hm? Guess so... Hold on. Are you coming here to go after her?”

“Does she look old enough for me, you dumbass?”

“You’re a paying customer, then. You’re a disgrace to all bearded kind... You better turn yourself in— Ow!”

“Your dumb ass made me lose all hope in the public education system.”

After Aoki had switched his drink from beer to shochu, their main course was served: ramen. It was a simple iteration with a soy sauce base, but Akira detected a hint of garlic in its aroma, which was superb enough to make one’s stomach growl just from smelling it. Akira scooped a spoonful of soup and tasted it well before gulping it down.

“That’s good... I think I’ve been saying that about everything.”

“Hmph. At least your tongue’s screwed on right,” Aoki simply said, as if he had expected nothing else.

With a twinge of inferiority, Akira snarked, “You said money talks, and you eat ramen all the time?”

“I’ve been around the world when it comes to food. Kaiseki courses worth ten or twenty grand, the best steak there is, delicacies that most people couldn’t dream of getting their hands on... But somehow, I always end up here.”

Seeing Aoki quietly drink, Akira couldn’t find his words. Aoki had traveled the world doing business; he had lived a life so drastically different from his own.

“The president’s flying in tomorrow—”

“What?”

“You’ll be called in for a meeting too.”

With that, Aoki ordered another glass of shochu and lit a cigar.

That’s all you wanted to say? Akira crooked his neck. “Why didn’t you just tell me at the office? Not that I’m complaining. The food’s amazing.”

“The president and Miki are up to something,” Aoki muttered, a thick cloud of smoke around his face.

“What do you mean, ‘up to something’?”

“I don’t know. Just keep your guard up... Miki—or anyone at the headquarters for that matter—doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the Far East branch in Japan.”

As a new hire, Akira had no grasp on the dynamic between the company’s headquarters and regional branches. Not that he cared about much else other than creating a brand new world.

“They finished clearing the debris of that building. Looks like they’re building a memorial in its place.”

“Which building...?”

“You were pretty dazed when it happened... Something about a dog from hell.”

After the bombing, those in the vicinity were interviewed by the police and media who aired specials for days on end about the incident. Akira kept repeating that he saw a massive, three-headed dog with a vacant expression, so the police determined him to be in shock and sent him to a hospital.

“Guess you wouldn’t want to remember... Forget about it. Just remember. Tomorrow.”

Aoki drained the soup portion of his ramen and called for a driver.

Akira quietly slurped his ramen and finished off the last of his beer.

Upon returning to his office, Akira laid down on his couch and closed his eyes. A buzz he hadn’t felt in a while seemed to make Aoki’s words twirl in his mind, taking his thoughts on an unexpected journey. Headquarters, huh...? Whatever they’re up to, I’m just going to finish my world. Akira soon resigned himself to the sandman, abandoning his thoughts.

By the time he woke up, it was already late in the afternoon.

Akira drowsily answered the ringing phone. “Uh-huh...?”

“Get your ass up! The president’s going to be here soon! Be ready!” Aoki shouted through the phone.

Akira jumped to his feet and took a quick shower. As he finished getting dressed, his office phone rang again.

“The president’s waiting for you on the rooftop. Mind your manners.”

“Rooftop? Why?”

“How should I know? I’m telling you again: mind your manners. It could come back to bite me.”

Hanging up the phone, Akira left his office. Since the elevator did not reach all the way to the rooftop, he was forced to walk up the stairs.

“Why...the hell...are we meeting...on the roof?!” Out of breath, Akira made his way up the stairs and opened the door.

Neverending redness sprawled before him. The sunset engulfed the sky, turning everything a particular shade, from the buildings below to the ground they stood on. Akira even felt a bizarre sensation that the air itself had turned red.

A girl stood before the fencing that outlined the rooftop, her skirt fluttering in the wind. A strange thought came to Akira in the sea of red. Why do I feel like...I’ve been here before? He wondered whether the girl was a part of the redness or if she was the one creating it. It was as if time itself had stopped moving.

Finally, she turned around. “Akira...Ono...” She wore her perfect blonde hair in pigtails, had sapphire eyes, and was a slender stature without much height. She certainly didn’t look like the president of a company, but nonetheless an assertive girl with a perfectly refined beauty about her.

Akira stared at the girl for some time, stunned, before rushing over to her.

“Nice to meet you, President—”

“Stop.” The girl hushed Akira with the point of a finger, much to his confusion. She approached him quietly and gazed up at him with her deep, blue eyes. “Don’t move,” she said.

“O-Okay...”

The girl walked laps around Akira, observing him as if he was a newly discovered species of insect. Akira could only stand there, nonplussed.

“Give me your hand, Ono.”

“Um, like...this?”

“Good boy.”

The girl softly placed her hand on his, looking nostalgic for a moment before staring daggers at Akira, much to his dismay. He had never met anyone so bewildering.

Is this a British greeting or something?! Or can someone like the president of a major company see something in people’s hands? Like palm reading? Am I even sure she’s the president in the first place?!

The girl looked no older than a ninth grader, which was completely incongruent with Akira’s expectation for the ruler of a global corporation.

“Stretch your arm out, Ono.”

“Y-Yes...”

“A little higher. Go to the right. A little bit back. Stop there.”

What the hell am I doing...? My shoulder’s getting tired. Akira moved his arm as if it was the arm of a claw machine. Before he knew it, his hand was placed on top of the girl’s head.

“I-I’m terribly sorry! Excuse me!” Akira ripped his hand away, bowing to show his mortification.

The girl gave Akira murderous glares for a moment before letting out a sigh of resignation.

Crap, I already screwed up... Old Blue Beard Aoki might sock me in the face for that one! But if this girl made even a little bit of sense...! Akira took a step back, awkwardly avoiding the girl’s eyes. Knowing that touching someone’s hair was more taboo in many foreign countries than it was in Japan, he nervously awaited his verdict.

“You may go now. I’m counting on you,” the girl said.

“Th-Thank you.” With one last bow, Akira left the rooftop.

Once he was gone, the girl reached her hand out to the sky, as if to dissolve into the vast redness. Whatever her blue eyes were beholding, the girl stood there without moving an inch before quietly uttering, “We finally meet again, after tens of thousands of years... I’m never letting you go, my dear Lucifer.”