Welcome to the NHK!

Part One

The exit was blocked. I could see no hope. There was nothing I could do. And because of some stupid daydream about the N.H.K. as the evil organization that controls the world, I had lost even the means to divert myself.

It was a spring of unending, depressive anxiety for me—the kind of spring that made me want to imitate Vincent Gallo in Buffalo 66. Entering the bathroom, I grasped my head and moaned, “I just can’t go on living”.

I need to die.

Today was already different from every other day, though. Something surprising had happened earlier.

After waking up at one in the afternoon, I found an unfamiliar slip of paper in the mail slot. Picking it up, I examined it.

It was the resume that I had written several days earlier for the part-time job at the manga cafe. I had written it for that particular job application, a memory that I now wanted to forget completely. Why? Why was it in my mail slot? I hurried next door to Yamazaki’s apartment. Yamazaki was taking the day off from school again. Seated at his computer, he was playing some sort of game.

I asked, “Did a religious solicitor come by today?” “Hm … they came about two hours ago. I got some of those pamphlets. I just love the word-for-word translation. Why? Didn’t they go to your apartment, too, Satou?”

I suddenly saw the frightening truth behind Yamazaki’s testimony. Apparently, I had left my resume behind in the manga cafe. I could no longer remember if it had fallen from my pocket or if I automatically had handed it to Misaki. Because of the massive shock, my memories of that moment were muddled.

Only one thing was certain: While making her religious rounds, Misaki had gone out of her way to bring me the resume. In other words, when I had asked, “Do you like bikes?” in a clumsy effort to conceal that I had, indeed, come to apply for a part-time job, I had failed utterly. Realizing this, nothing at all seemed to matter anymore. When humans run into an extremely embarrassing circumstance, it seems their emotions go numb.

“Who cares?” I whispered, heading to the trashcan to throw away the paper. As I did, the back of the resume caught my eye. A message was written there in black ballpoint pen: “You have been selected for my project. Please, come to the Mita Fourth District Park tonight at nine o’clock.”

Eh? My mouth had fallen open as I squatted in front of the trash can.

Now, objectively considering it, I saw that this was an earth-shattering situation. I had received a mysterious letter from a girl I had met twice. Really, it was so incredibly incomprehensible that I had no idea at all what was going on. So, I obediently went along with it.

The park was only a two-minute walk from my apartment. It was already night. The roadside trees grew at even intervals. There was the old jungle gym, the bench with flaking paint, and the towering streetlights in front of the swings, illuminating everything with a dim blue glow. I liked this park.

On my weekly, nocturnal supply trips to the convenience store, I always made sure to stop here. Empty, the space belonged to me alone.

I enjoyed the cool night breeze. Seated on the bench, if I looked up at the sky, I could see the faintly waving branches of the trees and, through them, the moon and the stars. It was a place to relax and release my worries.

Tonight, the park wasn’t just my personal space, though. Someone else was there.

I didn’t call out. In fact, my stomach felt hollow.

What are you trying to do? What are you thinking? Who on Earth are you? These questions accompanied a growing rage, yet my mind remained clear for some reason. I was even calm, my thoughts moving in an orderly manner, with no threat of spinning out of control.

This may have been a form of resignation. Perhaps I had finally accepted my current situation. It was wholly possible I had quietly admitted to myself that I was a hikikomori, a person with no future, someone who should just die. Yes, that had to be the explanation.

Lately, I had been living in the past. Every night, I dreamed of long ago: the hometown I yearned for, friends, family, things I hadn’t liked, things that had made me happy, other various memories— fragments of all these things. My nightly dreams were gentle and melancholy.

Indeed, the future had ceased to be a problem. It already had been decided, which was precisely why I needed to exist in the past—in my wonderful, comforting memories. While this was obviously an extreme form of backward escapism, I didn’t care anymore.

Yes, that’s right. I am a hikikomori, a worthless person with a weak spirit. Is that a problem? Just leave me alone, and I’ll disappear quietly. I’m fine! It’s all over!

“No, no, no…” I sat on the bench, head in hands.

“’No’, what?” the girl inquired. She was rocking in one of the swings near the bench. Her almost shoulder-length hair blew lightly in the wind. Tonight, too, she was dressed like an average teenage girl—no parasol, no pamphlets, and no discernible religious atmosphere.

However, I forbade myself to let down my guard. More than anything about her, the very strangeness of the situation spoke vividly of how truly odd she was. I had to deal with her calmly, but with total caution.

Right then and there, I decided to think of her as an ASIMO, the bipedal robot developed by Honda. If I did that, it would keep me on an even keel. Why not? Nowadays, robot technology is really coming along. No matter how I examine it, it looks exactly like a person.

Rocking slightly back and forth in the swing, the robot asked, “Why did you run away earlier? We’re short-staffed right now and could really use the help. We would have decided to hire you right away.”

Wow! The voice output was perfect, too. The joints moved smoothly, legs extending flexibly from its skirt. Japan's technical skill truly is the best in the world, isn’t it?

“Seeing as you’re a hikikomori, did you get scared of working in the outside world and reconsider halfway through your application?” She drove right to the heart of the matter—in the end, though, they were just a robot’s words. No matter what a machine might say, no one would get that angry.

The robot continued to say even more mysterious things. “Don’t worry. I know how to escape from being a hikikomori.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I finally reacted to her words.

“Satou, right? Well, you’re really a hikikomori, aren’t you?”

Instead of immediately answering her question, I pointed at the sign hanging over the park entrance. It warned, “Beware of perverts! Young girls have been continually targeted”, in caustic red paint.

I said, “Are you sure it’s all right to meet a shady person like me at this time of night? I could be dangerous.”

“It’s okay. My house is right over there, so I know all kinds of things. For instance, you’re always spacing out in this park on Sunday nights, right? I saw you from my window.”

Having come this far, I was pretty anxious about all this. I couldn’t figure out what she wanted. Her real motives remained a mystery, and nothing seemed normal. Could it be some sort of roundabout religious solicitation?

“No, it’s not. I’m just going along to help Auntie Kazuko.”

“Huh?”

“Because I’m always troubling her, I figured it’s the least I could do to repay her.”

I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but she continued our awkward conversation as we both stared at the streetlamps. “Anyway, none of that matters. Satou, don’t you want to know? About how to escape from being a hikikomori?”

“Don’t call me Satou. I'm older than you.”

“You know my age?”

“Well, you look about seventeen, maybe eighteen.”

“You’re absolutely right!”

Gathering momentum from the swing, she leapt off lightly. The display of energy seemed intentional. It might have been my imagination, though. After she landed, she came over to where I sat on the bench and looked straight at me. Crouching, her hands resting on her knees, she said, “You want to know how to escape, right? I’ll teach you.”

Once again, the same unnecessarily cute smile that I’d seen before floated across her face. I was unable to think of her as a successor to the ASIMO model any longer. Looking away, I whispered, “I’m not a hikikomori.”

“Liar. How can you say that even though you completely gave it away when Auntie tried talking to you the other day? Even though you ran away when you realized it was me at the manga cafe? Normal people don’t do stuff like that.”

“Hey!” I sputtered.

“You’re scared, right? Of other people?”

As I lifted my head, our eyes met. She had big eyes, with large pupils. Gazing into those eyes, I was at a loss for words.

In the end, without saying anything, I looked away again.

Suddenly, I realized that somewhere along the way, the wind had started blowing harder. Over our heads, the branches of the trees were stirring. It was a chilly night.

I decided to go back to my apartment. Standing, I turned my back on her. From behind me, she tried to stop me. “Wait!” she called, “You’ll regret this.”

“What are you talking about? For starters, who are you, anyway?”

“I’m a kind girl who helps worthless hikikomori.”

“And what’s this ‘project’ that you mentioned in your letter?”

“At the current juncture, details of the project are top secret. However, you can rest assured that I won’t do anything bad.”

I started feeling sick, so I decided to tell a suitable lie and just get away from that place. “I’m not just any regular hikikomori, you know. It’s true that I shut myself away, but it’s for my job. I have to.”

“What's your job?”

“S-SOHO…”

“What’s that?”

“It’s short for ‘someone who works from home’. I work from my apartment… or rather, my home office. I’m not a deadbeat. Although I’m definitely a shut in, it’s part of my job description, and I can’t do anything about that! Trying to get a part-time job was just a momentary miscalculation on my part….”

“Huh. Really? What kind of work do you do?”

“D-don’t be surprised when you hear this. I’m a creator!” That’s right, I thought, marvel at my job title! “Because I do creative work, I may act a bit psychologically unusual, but that only proves my incredible talent! I'm not just some good-for-nothing, jobless guy!”

Misaki grinned and casually asked, “What are you creating?”

“That is … you know, what do you call it, the latest, revolutionary information technology. I can’t really explain it in one word …”

“Well, let me know when you’ve finished what you’re currently working on, okay?”

“N-no, I can’t do that. It’s privileged information that I can’t divulge. Not to mention that we have tons of money invested in this project, so I can’t just give it away so easily …” Just as I had begun to wish for death due to the thorough stupidity of the lines I was giving her, Misaki turned away.

“It was a waste, huh? I did offer to show you how to escape, after all.” She really seemed to think this lost opportunity was unfortunate. In a low whisper, she said, “Even though you’ll never have this chance again …”

Only her outline was faintly visible against the backlighting provided by the streetlamps.

I was a little … no, fairly excited.

My bad habit prompted me to keep gushing. “It seems you doubt what I’m saying; I am actually a really amazing creator, though. A young girl like you probably wouldn’t be aware of this, but I’m sort of well known within the industry. Yeah, when I see you next time, I’ll tell you all about it. About my work. You’ll be really surprised! You’ll respect me!”

Why did I say, “When I see you next time”? What did I mean by “my work”? Why did I always broadcast these lies, all of which easily could be disproved? I could just be honest and say, “I’m a jobless hikikomori!” Why was I indulging in this strange pride over such weird things?

Whatever. It didn't matter. I should just run. I should just get out of there fast before I dug myself in any deeper. “W-well then, see you!”

Uncertainly, I headed toward the park exit. Behind me, she might have muttered something, but I couldn’t hear the words.

Part Two

Back at my apartment building, I interrogated my neighbor. “Yamazaki, how can one become a creator?”

“Huh? What’s this, all of a sudden?”

“I have to become a creator right away. You’re a student at the Yoyogi Animation Institute, aren’t you? Don’t you know a lot about that kind of stuff?”

“No. Well, I guess I do. Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. I’m completely serious. Anything will do. Just tell me how I can become a creator right away! Please?”

“I’m hanging up. Come over.”

The shock of the situation had been enough to force me into calling my next door neighbor. It was the first phone call I’d made in months.

“When I see you next time, I’ll tell you all about my work.” Only a few minutes earlier, I actually had said this. I had inflated my chest with pride and preposterously said this aloud. When I see you next…

I suspected that this would not be far in the future. Misaki seemed to live nearby. I might even run across her in town, completely by chance. By that time, I had to change my huge, incredibly stupid lie into reality. I needed to become a true creator. What was a creator, anyway? What is it?

Yamazaki, seated at his computer as usual, condensed my situation. “In short, Satou, you told a horrible lie because you were trying to look good in front of a cute girl. And now you're flustered and trying to conceal the fact that you lied. Does that about sum it up?”

Blushing, I nodded. I don’t care if you scorn me, Yamazaki. You already know my real identity as an unemployed, hikikomori dropout. There’s no secret more embarrassing that you could possibly discover. Help me, Yamazaki!

“Oh, don’t worry. I won't make fun of you or anything. Hm …”

Yamazaki folded his arms and groaned, deep in thought. I sat on the floor and meekly waited for him to speak. However, his next words made no sense whatsoever. “To begin with, no matter how much a real girl looks down on you, does it really matter?”

“Eh?”

“Listen to me, Satou. Women … they aren’t people. No, they’re not normal humans. In fact, it might not be an exaggeration to say that they’re unbelievably close to being inhuman monsters. Therefore, there’s no need to go out of your way like this. What does it matter if you’re scorned by some female?”

His expression was as calm as usual.

I abruptly became very uncomfortable.

He continued, “Those things don’t have proper human hearts. They look human, but they’re different creatures. Satou, it’s best if you first understand this fact.”

“Ya-Yamazaki…”

“Ha ha ha! Well, anyway, it’s not really that big of a deal. No matter what the reason for your decision to become a creator, the idea’s probably not half bad. It’s fine. Let’s think about this together.”

Rising from his computer desk, he sat down before me. His actions were infused with a bizarre confidence. Apparently, a four-year span radically could change someone’s personality. Yamazaki now seemed to be twisting in a dangerous emotional direction. However, at this point, that didn’t matter at all. If it would help solve my problem, I’d bowed down to a demon.

“No, no. There’s no need to bow to me. Let’s start. Briefly, there are all different kinds of creators, Satou—what would you like to do?”

“What? Like I said, I want to be a creator….”

“There’s no job called ‘creator’!” Yamazaki’s voice grew rough. “It's just a general term for jobs like writing or drawing comics. Basically, a ‘creator’ is simply someone who makes something. So, what would you like to make, Satou? That's what I’m asking.”

“Anything, as long as I can be called a creator.”

“Argh.” Yamazaki tightened his right hand into a fist. Then, as if he had regained control of himself, he let out a heavy sigh. ”Well, let’s just go with that. Okay then, Satou, what kind of skills do you have?”

“What do you mean, ‘skills’?”

“Like, can you draw, or write songs, or write amazing computer programs? There are all sorts of possibilities.”

“I can’t do anything. If I had to say something, I suppose I have a talent for solitude. I've been able to live for an entire year without meeting anyone-“

“That won’t do at all!” Yamazaki slammed the floor with both hands.

“Like I said, I’m worthless!” I screamed back.

Yamazaki stood and grilled me with greater force. “There’s no way someone with no skills easily could become a creator, is there?! It's not right just to say whatever’s easy for you, all the time. Listen to me, you laughed when I told you that I was going to the Yoyogi Animation Institute, didn’t you, Satou? Oh, it’s fine, no need to hide it… Still, it’s clear that in terms of creative issues, I’m more accomplished than you are. Please understand this.”

As he’d been pretty convincing during his long diatribe, I nodded automatically several times.

Suddenly, Yamazaki’s body went limp. “No, thinking of the idiots in my class, I got overexcited. People like them make me the maddest—people who are all talk, huddling privately together, even though they can’t do anything themselves.”

It appeared I’d somehow irritated his issues with school life. I decided to make him drink some coffee to calm him down. Salvaging an unused paper cup from the litter strewn across the floor, I poured water from the hot pot set up in the cabinet. Then, fishing farther under the bed, I discovered an economy-sized pack of rice crackers.

Eating the crackers, we drank coffee.

Calmer, Yamazaki returned to the main topic. “Well then, let’s think about it more concretely this time. Music takes a lot of skill and discriminating taste, so that’s out of the question for you, Satou. As for programming, you’re no good at math, right? So, that’s out. Art also would be impossible, wouldn’t it? I once saw a picture you drew. So, illustrating manga won’t work. Then …”

Yamazaki suddenly slapped his knee. “Satou, you were a member of the literary club, weren’t you?!”

“So … ?”

“Novels! It’s novels!”

I twisted my face into a frown. “No, I don’t want to do that! I haven’t written any long compositions since they made me do it in middle school. For starters, novels are too boring. They won’t work—“

Yamazaki scowled at me again. Breathing violently through his nose, he muttered quietly, “Just get over it, won’t you?”

I felt a light touch of fear and decided to change the subject.

“B-by the way, Yamazaki, what are you studying at school? Is it anime, after all? Are you painting cels and stuff?”

Yamazaki shook his head. “Even though the school is called the Yoyogi Animation Institute, there are many different departments. I’m in the Game Creation department.”

Game Creation? The second I heard that phrase, it excited me. “Game creator.” That had resonance; the title sounded so cutting-edge. The glamor industry of the modern age. The number one job that elementary students wanted. I pictured an industry giant driving around in a Lamborghini, being entertained at a high-class club in Ginza. He had wads of cash flying around as he was wooed by headhunters, hanging out amid the huge, long lines for his latest super-popular game. Then, some dreadful high school student would steal one of these in-demand games from an elementary school kid, and the story would be picked up by the six o’clock news. The game creator would be filthy rich.

It was high-salaried, with a yearly pay of one hundred million yen! It was so cool! It was perfect!

Finishing off my coffee in one gulp, I grabbed Yamazaki’s hand. “Let’s try to become game creators together!”

It was already past eleven o’clock at night. Yamazaki was sipping his tenth cup of instant coffee, and I was so hungry that I made some instant ramen.

Yamazaki grew angry. “Don’t just take food from someone’s stockpile without asking!”

I bowed my head in apology and put some pepper on the noodles. While I was slurping at the ramen, Yamazaki stammered, “I-It would be impossible for beginners to make games.”

“You have to help me with that.”

“Modern games are a comprehensive art. A decent game can be created only by mixing various specialized skills. Someone like you couldn’t do it, Satou.”

“After not seeing you for a short while, you’ve started speaking really insolently, haven’t you?” was what I felt like saying to give him a hard time. After thinking about it, however, I realized he’d actually been insolent for a long time. Yeah, that was true. Even though he’d been a weakling, he was the kind of guy who said whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted. He’d openly call his classmates idiots or tell them to go away. That’s why he was picked on. It was totally his own fault.

He’d spoken politely to me; but once he found out that I’d become an unemployed, dropout hikikomori, it was only a matter of time before he started making fun of me, calling me “worthless” to my face. All that didn’t matter, though. For now, I had to do whatever it took to become a game creator. I had to become an industry insider. Please, Yamazaki…

“I can see it’s difficult for you to ask me for help. However, there are things that can’t be done, no matter how much you beg, Satou.”

“Please, do something to help me!”

“For one thing, there’s no way that something you started to earn a girl’s respect could last for long. It’s obvious that you’ll lose your motivation soon.”

“That’s not true! I’m serious! I’m passionate!”

“I have school tomorrow. I’m tired already.”

“It’s not just wanting Misaki’s respect. If I could become a game creator, I'd be able to escape my life as a hikikomori, wouldn’t I?!”

“It’s impossible.”

“No, it can’t be!” I insisted.

“It won’t work.”

“Yes, it will.”

I spent another hour pleading with him. I tried appeasing him, coaxing him, yelling at him—and finally, I tried wheedling to get on his good side. “While you’re at school, I could tape the anime on TV. I’d even cut out the commercials for you.”

At last, Yamazaki gave in. “Well, Satou, you seem to be really committed.” His voice was serious.

“Yeah. I do mean it. I’m totally committed.”

“If so, there’s one way that even you, Satou, could become a game creator. But…”

“But?”

“It may actually be the bloodiest path, an unendingly severe and painful method that would make anyone want to abandon the course, not to mention someone like you, Satou.”

Yamazaki’s face was grave, and I gulped reflexively. My determination had already taken shape, though. I’ll do it, no matter what. “I’ll do anything”, I said.

“Is that really true?”

I nodded.

“Absolutely true? You can’t just say, ‘I’m done’, in the middle, okay?”

I made a show of nodding deeply again.

Yamazaki made his eleventh cup of coffee, and I started slurping my second bowl of ramen. “I understand, Satou. Let’s talk. I’ll tell you about my plan.” Leaning forward, Yamazaki spoke conspiratorially. “Today’s games are made on an incredibly large scale. A huge amount of data and precision programming are necessary, so novices like us can’t do anything. Even making a game around the level of the outdated Super Nintendo would be a trial, at best. And even if you managed something like that, you still couldn’t possibly call yourself a game creator.”

“Then—“

Yamazaki quickly cut me off. “Just listen to me, all right? We have no budget, no friends in the industry, and nothing beyond the most limited resources. Even in our humble situation, there’s still a way. Even without being able to write a decent program or prepare more than crappy music, as long as we have about fifty CG—or computer graphic—illustrations and one book’s worth of scenarios, there’s a game genre that should work for us!”

Yamazaki’s voice now was unmistakably suffused with passion.

“S-so what’s the genre?” My own voice sounded hollow.

“As far as the programming goes, as long as we get a free-use game engine, we’ll be fine. Let’s just take the soundtrack off a copyright-free music CD, too. I’ll draw the CG, Satou, and you write the scenarios.”

Scenarios? Oh, that should be easy as long as I just had to write something appropriate. Like, say, “the hero has to rescue a princess who was kidnapped by villains.”

“Okay”, I said. “I’ll write as many game scenarios as you want! What’s the genre?”

“You’ll do it, Satou?!” Yamazaki patted me on the shoulders.

“Yeah, let’s do it, Yamazaki. Let’s make a game together! So, like I was asking, what’s the genre?”

“As long as the CG and scenarios are good, we can become totally famous. It might not even be that hard to become pros in the future. If we make some money with a self-published project, we even could start a company!”

“A company! That would be amazing, Yamazaki. You could be the president, and I’ll be the vice president! What’s the genre?”

“You’ll do it, right, Satou?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it.”

“If we go this far, there’s no turning back.”

“How many times do I have to say it?”

“Well then, let’s shake on it. Together, we can run toward tomorrow!” Yamazaki took my hand and grasped it firmly. “We’re kindred spirits.”

“Like I asked, what’s the genre of the game?”

“We’re friends!”

“What’s the genre?”

“We’re creators!”

“Like I keep asking, what the hell is the genre of the game?!”

Yamazaki finally proudly answered the question that I had asked repeatedly. “Erotic games.”

Someone, please save me.

I shakily tried to return to my own room, but Yamazaki pulled me back.

“Here are the materials. Please, look through them as soon as you get a chance. If you play all these games, you should be able to understand the industry trends.” Saying this, he handed me about thirty game boxes. These were the packages slathered with words like “torture”, “wet”, “abuse”, “lewd”, “tie”, “academy”, “confinement”, “rape”, “savage”, “pure love”, “training” and “adventure”.

I wanted to cry. But Yamazaki was grinning.

“These games aren’t for sale to minors because they’re erotic games. Well, these are really, really erotic games—but they’re the only path open to us, so let’s become erotic game creators. Let’s get back at all the people in my class with our erotic games! Let’s become billionaires with our erotic games! Let’s become famous around the world for our erotic games! We’ll go on to Hollywood with our erotic games! Let’s get accepted into the Order of Culture with our erotic games.[17] Let’s get a Nobel Prize for our erotic …”

His smile was ceaselessly bright, and any feeling that I could quit and run off had evaporated completely.