HOUSE OF LUCK

John

Life, according to John Kutsuki, could be lived by following the rules of game design. Executed well, gamification made the world go ‘round. All the million-dollar Nintendo titles had it. They weren't memorable for a user interface or voice-acting or sweet cutscenes. Not even half-naked girls and guns could save poor design. Some real otaku might suggest otherwise, but nerds weren’t true connoisseurs. The games that topped charts followed a simple law—a keystone of Eastern philosophy that John had absorbed as a child slamming cartridges into consoles. It was simple. It was Japanese. Without work, reward was nothing. 

A player couldn’t just rock up and get the princess. He’d need to earn her. He’d need to spend hours digging for treasure, brawling with goblins, earning his armour and building his XP. He’d need to get through all of that and more before getting to the next level. And then—only then—he’d truly relish it. He’d be balls-deep in this world and its challenges. His life before would be unimaginable.

If John’s life had been a video game, it would have tanked. 

He already lived with a wealthy princess in a luxury tower. It had taken no heroism to win her. In fact, when their engagement was announced, several of their friends had been surprised that they weren’t married already. His wife had called it a fait accompli before she’d turned 19.Their upgrade to Mrs. and Mr. Kutsuki had been a quiet, natural progression, the way Summer becomes Autumn. 

In accordance with his hideously wealthy father-in-law’s wishes, it was pre-ordained that John would break with convention, revoke ‘Williams’, and take on his wife’s last name. He would be noted on the Kutsuki family register and be forever associated with a titan of industry. His wife had pressed him on it, was he sure he wanted to adopt a name that translated to “rotting tree”? Did he not see the irony? Of course he’d been sure. To be a Kutsuki was to be associated with celebrated samurai ancestors. It was like a cheat code or a glitch. At thirty years old he had all the spoils of a hero with no story to tell. At least none that he could disclose.

The truth was it took no end of heroism to love someone with depression. His battles were endless.

At nine P.M. it was dark outside and he had no appetite at all. John pushed up his glasses, squinted to double-check the sign above the restaurant. It was a chain, the sort of place that offered cheap interpretations of international dishes; rice omelettes with zigzags of ketchup, hamburg steaks and ‘True Italian’ squid spaghetti. For John, who had been born in Australia and spent his adolescence travelling Europe and the US, the options did not inspire nostalgia. The diner was an establishment where you could have anything you wanted, just not the way you wanted it. The doors swished open to the tinkling music of tense childhood parties. John entered. Why they had to try new places—places that were invariably lousy—was beyond him. 

The door chime alerted a busy little man who scooted to the front desk.

“Good evening, sir.” The man had defaulted to English. “Welcome to The House of Luck, 24 hours. Please, take a ticket. Table for one? Smoking or non-smoking?”

“No thank you,” John responded in Japanese. “I’m here to see a—my wife,” he stammered. “My wife is here...I hope.” He craned to look over the stalls and saw a telltale head of red hair towards the very back of the room.

“Your wife. Yes, of course, sir. Smoking or non-smoking?” The server gestured outwards with a laminated menu as if intending to follow. 

“I see her.” John snatched the menu and stalked off. House of Suck. 

The music jingled on. 

He passed kitchen windows behind which men were tossing listeria-ridden salad. He passed kids at the ticket machine plugging in noodle orders and tables occupied by baseball teams, businessmen, couples. He passed the yellowed noren curtains leading to the bathrooms. When he finally rounded on their table, his annoyance dissolved. Same old scene. She had out her laptop, a half-empty carafe of cheap red, and a sheaf of papers covered in violent scrawls of black ink.

“Ana,” he said softly, sitting. “Why are we here?” 

She continued to write, drawing a slash over half a page and tossing back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. “Because here it is an art.”

John folded his blazer and placed it and his briefcase into the basket beneath the table.

“I don’t understand,” he sighed.

His wife looked at him, quirking an eyebrow as though an infinity of understandings were within his grasp and simply being ignored. As though he were asking about lost keys that were in his coat pocket or glasses that were on his forehead. 

“You cannot expect me to make something there,” she continued with a tone of utmost reasonability. “It’s big. Too big. And chrome. You can’t expect anything warm, anything—nutrition bearing—to come from there.”

This was about cooking again. It was about the kitchen that was equipped with imported Italian fixtures and stocked with ingredients that would each cost more than a dish from the House of Suck. It was a beautiful, ridiculous kitchen. Perfect for its intended user. The tabletop before him had a faux wood grain. Pushed onto his side of it was the caddie holding two plastic-coated specials menus, two sets of paper-wrapped chopsticks, a selection of condiments, and the “Call Attendant” buzzer.

“You liked our kitchen last week,” said John.

“You’re very good to be so consistent,” his wife answered. She resumed attacking her paper, having noticed some detail deserving of her ire.

Across from them, a large group—a co-ed basketball team from the looks of it—were mocking each other. Their laughter spilled over and started to feel as though it were directed at John personally. Why are we here? 

John swallowed. “I think we need to talk about—"

“Welcome to The House of Luck, 24 hours!” A waiter grinned at the corner of their table, expectant as a trophy winner. The buzzer had not been pressed. Asshole.

“We just need a moment,” said John. “Ana?”

“You order,” she said without looking up. “N'importe quoi.”

The waiter’s eyes sparkled.

“I need a moment,” John corrected.

“Yes sir!” The waiter bobbed his head. “Please use the bell at your convenience.”

“Yes. Fine.”

The man left. The basketball team squawked. The music repeated. John removed and cleaned his glasses with a small towel he kept in his breast pocket. When he looked through them again, Antoinette was watching him, pen at rest.

“At the end of this month,” she said, “I will be as old as my mother ever was.”

“Ana.”

“She was fluent in three languages, lived on three continents, competed in international downhill events—”

“Got married,” John interjected. “Had you.”

His wife made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a huff and reached for the carafe. “Yes. She had me. I hope you’re not getting ideas.” She poured herself a generous measure. “You yourself said ‘One cannot raise a child on the milk of human sarcasm.’”

He had said that. And they’d laughed about it. But that had been different, after one of Ana’s exhibitions had opened and she was still coasting on a wave of happy exhaustion. The things they’d said and done had been teenagerish, in the private language of shared jokes, late nights and delirium. Back then John had believed in their peerlessness. His wife had been earnest when she claimed him as my only friend. My only friend.

“May I interest you in a glass?” His wife continued. “Australian, I think. Like you. Quite passable.”

“No.” He itched to reach and slow her hand, but he felt surveilled and clumsy. “Ana, please—”

“I was just thinking,” she poured slowly, matching the level in each glass, ignoring his objection, “perhaps that’s it. That’s what my mother knew. That it takes twenty-seven years to decide if a life is worth continuing. You know? Janis Joplin, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Curt Cobain—Amy Winehouse?”

“No. I don’t understand,” he said quietly, willing her to temper her excitement. “Are you doing your app?”

His wife sipped slowly, watching him. She smiled. “My app. Of course. TheraBot is intimately acquainted with the depths of my psyche.”

“Ana, you said you’d try.”

“Yes,” she answered, “I did say that.”

In the week that followed, his wife's movements were detectable only from crumbs on the kitchen counter. Work and study separated them. She was preparing for her exhibition; he was assisting with another redundant risk assessment. Kanto Electric, via its subsidiary KE Language Schools, was investigating an offshore expansion option. New-fucking-Zealand of all places. The worst part was, he was desperate to go. He wouldn’t, obviously. It was for execs and their favourites. But it had been a lifetime since he’d travelled. Now his only escape was gaming. It wouldn’t be right to leave Ana.

He wanted to believe his wife’s moods would level out as deadlines passed; that this was a blip. They would be close again. They would have time for fun. He was only 30. There had to be better things to come. Right? It had to be. It would be. 

But she was acting the way she had before the Episode. The nights she couldn’t bear to leave and return home; the mornings she couldn’t face. The forgotten teacups and family outings. The only reason he’d agreed to the app counselling solution was that she’d enabled him access to the transcripts.

She was not okay. It was confirmed when another Piece arrived for installation.

Although he now lived a privileged life befitting the Kutsuki name, John was still in touch with ‘the common man.’ He was aware that when his colleagues’ diminutive wives were upset, they might splurge on a purchase. Perhaps a nice dress or handbag. Nothing that broke the bank, just a little treat. By contrast, when Antoinette Kutsuki was in a state of malaise, she bought art—Pieces. Their apartment was designed to accommodate grand works. They owned a stormy oil painting spanning several metres, a triptych of women’s mouths expressing ecstasy (or agony?), and a sculpture of plasticky polka-dotted tentacles that erupted from the wall directly above an armchair. Expensive shit. It really wasn’t an issue of space. It also wasn’t an issue of finance. Extravagant purchases came with the family territory. For various birthdays, Ana’s father had gifted her luxury vehicles (she did not drive); holiday houses (she refused to enter them); and once—and most distressingly—a small island that housed a collection of galleries. 

So there was a new Piece, and things were bad again. It was functional art, a dining table—entirely smooth, minimalist in form, its top a puzzling pattern of blue stones. Diamonds and triangles. These all had a meaning, of course; something Jungian about stories and repetition. And it sat, beautiful and menacing, in the heart of their home like a promise of ruin. If John couldn’t rescue her from this funk...honestly, it wasn’t worth thinking about. 

So that was his mission. A rescue mission without a map.

The following morning, he waited  for the green walking man at each intersection. The pedestrian signal lit up. John crossed the street and into view of another parade of bright posters: candidate, exhibition, candidate, candidate, movie, diet tea, candidate. Men with whitened skin drinking Korean whiskey were plastered at heroic scale. The weather lady rubbed the new all-access transport pass against her cheek. A whole populace of real-life and animated characters declared the benefits of one thing or another. They reminded him of trips to China for his former job, which he’d actually enjoyed. He’d translated his way through the anarchy of airports, markets, unmapped streets, keeping his wallet and his passport where he could feel them.

He arrived at his destination with regrettable haste and slumped into his designated seat. There, in an office a good six paces wide and four deep, were positioned a waxy plant, a tense water cooler, and John Kutsuki. There were the other trappings of office life: desk, chair, obligatory out-tray, token in-tray and a computer whose dead, black screens reflected his head and shoulders. He rocked back and forth, watching his droop of fringe sway.

People—his step-mother, for instance—said that he and Ana were like a Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman combo, so he must have been handsome. As long as he wasn’t viewed head on or giving a genuine smile. And if he pushed back his shoulders, furrowed his brow, and jutted forward his lower jaw unnaturally. Unfortunately, if he forgot to do these things, he looked increasingly like a displaced middle-aged man who ate alone. Only thirty, he reminded himself. Only thirty.

 His office was kept at a temperature just cooler than was comfortable. The sounds of activity beyond were muted by a glass door. Had he been hired in the usual manner, he would have been assigned to one of those long, densely-packed tables with others of his age and experience. He would have worked amid the constant noise of negotiation and had to be mindful about keeping his space tidy. As it stood, the administrator was his most frequent visitor, a frightful Office Lady who brought him bitter cups of coffee.

Many times he had requested, “Quite weak and sweet? A little sweeter, please?”

The Office Lady did not take requests.

John was not sure whether his role had existed prior to his appointment by his father-in-law. Essentially, it was to read through pre-approved documents and rubber-stamp them with a hanko. He was also included in board meetings with senior management, who would politely raise pre-approved issues, enjoy a round of nodding, and close with cups of too-bitter, too-strong, too-hot coffee.

He hadn’t expected this. On his first day, John had turned up with a briefcase and a white shirt, stuffed with enthusiasm. His new ideas would revolutionise company relations. He would win over his colleagues with his youth, vitality, and the numerous other desirable attributes that he had read about and was sure to possess. 

He did not. His self-belief in his business prowess was snuffed out within the first nine hours. The colleagues were not collegial. The boardroom was boring. Company relations were already relating quite well, thank you very much. 

Though what a welcome relief his appointment was. How perfect to have a body to sit in this chair, in this room, fulfilling its role as the apex of the triangle formed by himself, the plant, and the water cooler. It was 7:30 am and he had a good view of the concrete-grey sky beyond the slowly-waking office. His in-tray was bare, as usual. He turned on his PC, armed himself with mouse and keyboard, and maximised the window into his other life.

Replacing his own reflection in the computer screen was the mighty back of his avatar, Fuujin, a warrior beast poised in an animated loop of deep breathing. Under John’s command, Fuujin had grown from a tawny, cowardly apprentice archer into an armoured, bearded behemoth! 

Hotkeys for weapons, spells and relics decorated the top edge of his screen. Along the bottom was a log of recent kills and completed quests. Mist rippled around his boots. He smelt the unease of the swamp, felt the hapless hidden enemies. John could imagine Fuujin’s mighty laughter, the way it emanated from his barrel chest and echoed through distant valleys.

All of his metres were in the green but one: vitality. John, in control, tapped relentlessly at a key in encouragement and watched the bar creep steadily upwards—red, orange, yellow, green. 

An icon, one he hadn’t seen in years, appeared in the status bar: ‘New Friend Request’

Weird. Unexpected. Probably a spambot. John clicked through to review his would-be comrade’s credentials. 

The user, named Kokonattsu, had a coconut palm tree userpic and the by-line ‘fight for your dreams and your dreams will fight for you.’ Way too cheesy to be a bot. John ignored the request and proceeded with his plan to grind Fuujin’s stats as best he knew how—by pulping an enchanted forest. Easy work, if a little time consuming. 

Fuujin swept across the screen, slashing his way through gnarled wood until he was safely beneath the canopy, out of sight from opportunistic thieves. The light was dappled. There were pretty little toadstools and rock stacks. All a distraction. He hurried on towards the forbidding path marked ‘Keep Out.’ It wasn’t long before sharp-toothed imps with glowing eyes were pouncing on him from above, only to be impaled on his blade. Easy points. He ransacked witches' hovels, dragging the hags out by the hair and pummelling them back into the underworld. With three slashes, he turned a rare crimson panther into a prismatic power boost and a roast dinner.

Outside, the day was still dawning. John cracked his neck. The pulsing little icon was distracting him. He should just kill it. Hit Reject. That’s what you did with weirdos, right?

Right. He clicked again on the palm tree icon. ‘Your dreams will fight for you?’ What the shit did that even mean? The guy needed to be roasted by someone. Put out of his misery. John moved his cursor and clicked. 

Accepted: Alliance Formed!

The guy wasn’t online. Not a serious player, then. John opened the chat and began typing out, “If you’re going to write dumb shit about dreams, you may want to try—”

His status light turned green for ‘online.’ John froze. He had the sudden urge to use the restroom. Kokonattsu was typing something.

“Hey, Satoshi here!” What kind of an idiot used a real name? “Great to bond with a brother in arms! Your scores are off the charts!”

John deleted the sentence he had been writing. His heart pounded in the rhythm of Fuujin’s hacking sword. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, flexing minutely.

“Thanks, mate,” he typed. “Just killing time.”

“You’re a real winner,” wrote Satoshi. “I’d be proud in your shoes.”

“Boots.” John wrote, grinning to himself. “Genuine fire-proof Hydra-hyde.” 

And then he did something he thought he’d never do, something so inane he would later blame his distraction over Ana. He sent a winky-face emoji.

That was how it started.

Days passed, Antoinette remained indisponible, and work was as it had ever been—minorly baffling and generally pointless. And yet John was feeling a childish eagerness to reach the office to open new messages from Kokonattsu. His stats didn’t seem to be increasing much, but he was regularly online and messaged John daily.

His conversation starters never concerned Overlords. He’d say something like, “Do we get more rain or less with climate change?” or “If I won ¥100,000,000, how would I know which charity to give it to?” Satoshi/Kokonattsu was a farmer, originally from Sendai, but had moved to a place close to Arrowtown, in New Zealand. His wife, a former employee of the Sendai nuclear power plant, had taken an interest in wind farms. So they left. John did not divulge his connections to Kanto or nuclear power. Farmers weren’t always reasonable about such things. 

That morning, the conversation began with its usual non sequitur.

There was a bit of a delay before his response.

John began typing, “I would, but my wife doesn’t want…” and then deleted it.

He stood, cracked his back, then trod the perimeter of his office. He checked the waxy plant for signs of decay. He played with the tap on the water cooler.

When he came back, he typed out and hit return before he could second guess himself.

He just bought it?

John sat on his hands and looked out of the window. The tinted glass gave a bluish tinge to things. The sky seemed more vibrant, the neighbouring office towers more distant. Was it stupid to invent a persona for the sake of some hick? A fictional son? Social standing was the kind of thing any father would be concerned about, wasn’t it? 

John’s had been. Perhaps he still was. 

As a kid in Australia, John had been an average cricket player. In Japan, he was just plain shit at baseball. Sports day in junior high had been the defining moment. Parents had turned up for the baseball game. Thirteen-year-old John’s uniform was pristine, his gear still stiff with under-use. He was nervous about batting and prayed quietly and ashamedly that his team would suck balls. That they would be rubbish enough that he’d never get a turn. 

They didn’t suck. But he did. He struck out once. Then twice. After each fail, he turned to where his father looked on, a towering gaijin in a Yomiuri Giants cap. The peak shadowed his eyes, but not the grim line of his mouth. On the third ball, John gave up on a full swing and went in for a bunt. Leather thunked dully against wood. 

It was enough, a connection. The pitcher and second baseman scrambled. John pumped his legs, kicked up dust, and ran like his ass was on fire, skidding to first base. The second baseman already had the ball. John stayed put. He was fine. Except for the dust. And the breathing. Hot air. Murderous air. Too much dust. Not fine. 

With each increasingly-shallow breath, John’s lungs felt like they were sticking together, shrivelled and clinging. His imagination—the one his father held in deep suspicion—only served up visions that made his wheezing more panicked. The baseball diamond, the pitcher and fielders and batters started to fog. He fell.

In snatches, he remembered some other dads running over, fanning his face with towels, offering water, speaking in urgent syllables he couldn’t decipher. He couldn’t get them to understand. His voice was a faint, animal whine. They didn’t know about his asthma—maybe thought it was the heat. The stress. And then he saw his own father, who knew exactly what was happening, walking over painfully slowly. John observed the stoney expression and the hand reaching into a jacket pocket. The hairy fist hovering in the air, then opening to drop the asthma inhaler at John’s thrashing sneakers.

The computer dinged with a new message.

John smiled. Then he made a decision.

*Spending time with his father-in-law always left him feeling small. Perhaps it was the way he said “Mr. Kutsuki.” There was a joke in there somewhere. Like John was his impersonator, an undeserving benefactor. He supposed that was true.

“Mr. Kutsuki, sit down please,” said the President at precisely three-fifteen P.M.

John obliged.

He had only ever entered this office five times, and only when summoned. Fine place to call an office. The room was gaudier than John’s home lounge. It contained opulent corporate gifts betraying just the faintest scent of bribery. There was modern art from Britain and America. There were scrolls, certificates and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Of all these features, the finest was a full set of samurai armour. A grand helmet with a proud, antler crest headed the stand. The neck and chest guards were made of iron plates and leather strapping. The warrior would have had to be short but built entirely of muscle to manoeuvre effectively. John coveted it ardently. 

“You’re well regarded in your position,” said the President.

“Mm,” John nodded.

“Not an unfavourable word to your name. Very good.”

“Mm.” He suspected there had been no words of any kind.

The President folded his hands and rolled back his shoulders. His eyes did not leave John’s, a manner that Ana had inherited. The desk behind which the President sat was relatively spartan but for brushed-steel signing pens, a brass title plaque, and a small photo frame that faced away from visitors.

“Mr. Kutsuki,” the President began again. “A request has been escalated to appoint you to the assignment in New Zealand.”

John felt like a fly in a jar, scrutinised while he bashed blindly at the glass, trying to find a way out. 

“When I was younger,” the President began, “I took a holiday. Took one of those planes, DC-8s — it’s what they flew back then. I went to New Zealand, down to Queenstown. It’s a good place for thermal resorts, skiing. All that carry on. Like Hakone in a way. That was where I met Antowanetto’s mother.”

“She has said so, yes,” John nodded feverishly. He felt an unexpected wave of excitement at being party to these details. He would gather them up like gold pieces; he would arrive home and spill them over the new dinner table. There was no way his wife would ignore such precious information.

“Mr. Kutsuki, let’s say we call it an anniversary present.”

“Sir?” John swallowed. This was starting to sound like a dismissal.

“Take Antowanetto. Go on and enjoy yourselves for a few weeks. It’s a good country to visit. Good clean air. That language school is a done deal, really. Sending some of our managers to front it is just a formality. You’ll go.”

A junket. John’s palms were moist. He became concerned that his nose would bleed from the sheer pressure of inquiry. The samurai armour was no help. He imagined its shadowy face was looking sternly in his direction. 

Ana was writing a thesis. There was no way she would agree to a holiday right then. 

Nervous energy twisted a donkey’s laugh from John’s throat. Terrible. The president looked openly at his wristwatch. John managed to nod again.

“Yes. Thank you. I will ask her tonight.”

In game design, things go wrong when mission difficulty is misaligned with the hero’s ability. A player can’t beat the boss in level one. He needs incremental challenge to build his confidence and learn the territory. If he knew the full power of his enemy, if he saw the range of his reach, then looked down at his own bare feet and wooden sword, he’d know to quit before he started.