OVERLORDS

John

Time apart meant time online. He was back in the game. John had been itching to boot up Overlords from the moment that he exited security. He had been spending too much time in conversation and not enough in battle. Plus his last conversation had been a bit of a downer. He couldn’t bring himself to bring up meeting in person.

Kokonattsu had asked: “Do you ever feel like you’re waiting to start?”

John had left the question unanswered for two days, mentally crafting several possible responses. Something about a misinterpretation of game lore. Some joke or analogy about tractors or sex. But that would be disingenuous. Stupid. Wasn’t this the kind of question he had hoped for?

Then he had closed the chat.

That didn’t matter. What he had failed to appreciate about his travel was that: 

1. A) he couldn’t sit beside a colleague on a plane and game like a fiend on speed without questions being asked; but more importantly,
2. B) an in-flight internet connection was a no-go. 

Twelve-plus hours. He could have wept. 

He found solace in swiping through the entertainment options on the seat-back console. The route provided a mix of Japanese programmes and subtitled blockbusters, with a bias towards The Lord of the Rings owing to its New Zealand filming location. John had already confirmed Lake Wakatipu as the place to see Isengard, Rohan, Lothlórien, Dimrill Dale, and the River Anduin. He hadn’t discussed that with his fellow travellers; when he’d caught up with them, they’d all been gathered around Ito, who was regaling them with a list of his wife’s ludicrous suggestions

To pack more than three days’ worth of socks. To change his currency before leaving, just in case. 

‘Woman,’ he’d allegedly said, ‘I’ll need a credit card and, if I’m feeling polite, a second pair of underpants.’

John was relieved he hadn’t been trapped beside Ito for the flight. His seatmate was a thin, balding man who looked like he had waited for nothing more than the chance to sleep for five uninterrupted hours. He had nodded off before the air hostesses had even waved in the directions of the exits. 

John had an Australian beer with his lunch and found a rare documentary in which—to his joy—the creators of Overlords had deigned to make an appearance. They kept a notoriously low profile despite the game’s success. There were two of them, both men about John’s age: one shaved like a monk, and the other as shaggy as you might expect someone who had come up in dark rooms—a cave creature unaccustomed to lights, let alone cameras or action.

The interviewer was a loud young woman who covered everything from music and film to pop culture. John didn’t care much for her. He bet that what she knew about game design could fit on a postage stamp. 

 “Wow-o wow! Welcome to another episode of PopMax. Today we have Guild Dev founders and creators of one of Japan’s—and now the world’s—hottest chart-topping online games, Overlords!” She pitched her voice low like a sports announcer when she said the title.

The founders smiled vaguely, seeming unsure as to where the cameras were pointed or where they should be looking.

“Mr. Shimamoto, if I can start with you, what is it that makes Overlords different?”

“Yaa. Hmm,” Shimamoto began, unintelligibly. John cringed. Couldn’t they have coached these guys? They were geniuses. Legends! This interview was beneath them.

“When we started, huh? What annoyed me playing typical games was wasting time swatting away in-game characters to level up, you know? The concept of Overlords was that we wouldn’t have those. Killed them off. You started with a decent stash of coins and magic—depending on your subscription level—and then anyone you met, or fought, would be an actual human. To start, that was us two. From there, obviously characters die and, ya know, you can’t play 24/7—although some of our dedicated fans do—” the other man laughed at that “—so there were spectres that came from those, whose AI was based on the characters that perished. If you meet this ballistic troll charging at strangers, swinging its axe like a mad bastard, that’s probably a spectre. It’s chaotic. It gives our true fans a real challenge, because it's like real life. You don’t know when an ally is going to turn on you.”

“What I wanted to recreate,” said the monk-like developer, whom the chyron identified as Mr. Gatsu, “was this world in which you can’t say who is good or evil. We aren’t in a black-and-white world anymore. My father worked for thirty years at the same company and got laid off just before he was due for full benefits. They needed to restructure. Companies do, right? That’s what we want and what we need. Anyway, the sad [bleep] was so stressed he had a stroke. Whose fault is that? The kid that served him udon and beer five nights a week? My mother, for not being a better cook? Me, for being a shut-in? I’d say none of us. 

“There is a giant hole in the world where we want to have an enemy. A worthy opponent who deserves to be slayed. But that’s all of us. We are the heroes and the villains. We fight for supremacy. And, shit, do we have some players out there—”

“Elephant Man.”

“Yeah, Elephant Man. Che. And others. It used to be us two that ruled the pack, but we were outclassed within six months. But we’ve got a campaign going to take down Elephant Man, don’t we?”

“—Shhh! Private strategy.” They broke off for laughter, the interviewer belatedly so.

Then the conversation moved through the standard topics. Where did they study? Who were their influences? What could players expect in the future? And finally, any cheats?

“Fruit bowl!” Shimamoto said, beaming. “Go into a tavern, and consume the following in this order: Mead, Mead, Helm Fruit, Mead, Mead, Boar Leg, Mead, Mead. You’ll get yourself a nice fruity headdress. It gives you +50 protection and +100 health. It’s also super epic to watch a fight where there are bananas—”

“Oh my god, the exploding grapes—” Gatsu guffawed.

“Haha, yeah. That’s some sweet animation. So that’s our recommendation. Give it a try and post your clips.”

“Epic,” said Gatsu.

“Amazing.” The interviewer beamed. “We have just a moment longer for our Line live questions. First one from user KumaKuma17: ‘If you could change one thing about the real world, what would you reconfigure?’”

“We’ve actually talked about this, haven’t we?” Gatsu smiled at Shimamoto, who nodded sagely. “We’ve got those nations with nuclear arms. Get them ‘round a table. We’d say, ‘We’ll hand over our company to the first person who [bleep]ing levels Tokyo!’” He made a whistle-and-explosion sound. “We could start over then, couldn’t we? Wipe out all the awful concrete towers, re-introduce forests and streams. Live like true Overlords. What do you think?” He directed the question to the interviewer, who looked nakedly shocked.

“What a pair of jokers!” She gave a strangled laugh. “I think that’s about all we have time for. Thank you for joining us—”

John tapped back to the home screen. They really didn’t interview well. And, to be frank, they didn’t treat their loyal fans well, either. Their reckless experiments on the in-game world—for instance, allotting resources on the basis of flawed user surveys—had resulted in one of the worst glitches in the history of MMOs of all time. Remembering it still made John uneasy.

The pestilence had been an in-game virus that spread between players, a nasty spell that ate away at life points by the minute. Newcomers had no hope of survival, and even mid-level players had to play around the clock to keep their avatars intact. It was a foul thing, easy to catch, near-impossible to shake. To look at a map of the realm was to behold a pulsing cloud of red crosses, each one a new spectre field. Some areas were entirely contaminated, others slightly less so. There was a planned campaign by high-level magic users to stand along the borders of contaminated villages and cast forcefield spells, quarantining those who had no hope of escaping the disease. .  

A system glitch? Or a hack? The rumours spread even faster than the disease. Message board speculation favoured a likely code error, but nevertheless, outraged players flooded Guild Dev’s message boards and inboxes. There were physical threats. Suicide threats.

Even back then, John's late nights at work were not scrutinised by Ana. Other men in the office, ties and tongues loosened by Friday-night drinks, complained about the cold shoulders and jealous looks they would receive from their wives when they came home late. John smiled mutely at such troubles, which  were not his at all. His were digital. He actually did stay late at work, his office illuminated only by the light of his monitors. His avatar moved sluggishly. Poor Fuujin. Fellow players, with whom you would normally trade or group up for a quest —had become desperate. Raiding parties would ambush other players to steal items in sad little PvP battles. To ignore a battle was to lose points; to lose points was to develop weaknesses and be susceptible to future attacks. Mysteriously, a high-level boss began occasionally dropping an item that, when equipped, served as an antidote; anyone lucky enough to grab it was unceasingly hounded by raiders.

By that point, Fuujin had a high kill count. His axe obliterated determined bodies, which dissolved into pixelated clouds, then nothing. Then a list of the items he had acquired by such cruelty. A healing elixir. Low-level armour. Invitation scrolls to challenges he had long since bested. Crap.

It was depressing. These mighty warriors all became plainly human in response to an inconvenient glitch. The thought troubled him; he felt vulnerable, too. Could they see through his armour? Did they know that on the other side of the screen was a scrawny, level-zero nobody? 

John sleepwalked through most of the trip. He followed his colleagues through the motions of airport arrival to hotel arrival to and group briefing. A wine-tasting excursion was planned;  John did not drink wine or enjoy work excursions. He glued himself to the Health and Safety Lady, who doubled as the trip co-ordinator and also tended to excuse herself from male-bonding activities. John had another mission. It wasn’t Satoshi he needed; it was the theory of him—his philosophy. 

Queenstown was the place Ana’s parents had met.

“I need to get up to a ski field,” he said to the Health and Safety Lady confidentially. “Do you think you could help me with transport?”

“I didn’t take you for an athlete, Kutsuki. Or shall I book in lessons?”

“No skiing, just access. While they’re on the wine tour?”

“I can. Is there something you’re after? Evidence of a yeti?” He thought she meant it kindly.

“The Queen of the Slopes.”

The Health and Safety Lady eyed him warily. It didn’t matter. He could blame jetlag.

A mission, he thought, on a snowy mountain.

The sky, an arc of stunning blue, was reflected in the snow. It was surreal. Ana would have loved it. It threw the vivid colours of gondola lifts and the jackets of winter sports enthusiasts into stark relief.

“What you trying with shoes like that, fulla? Trying to sell me a car? C’mon. Come. Before you wet your nice socks there.”

John startled at the address and glanced at his feet. He hadn’t considered packing leisure wear. The large man ahead was already trudging on in the knowledge that he would follow. On the back of his anorak was printed ‘INSTRUCTOR Jeff’.

“Nice jacket. You part of the Korean group up there? They’re already in. Getting fitted for skis. You the coach driver or something? My auntie’s a bus driver. Done it thirty-something years. Hates it.”

John took a moment to piece together the wind-obscured monologue.

“No,” he called.

“Eh?” Instructor Jeff stopped in his deep tracks.

“From Japan,” John expanded. “No group.” Then added “Sorry about your aunt.”

Instructor Jeff had a smoker’s laugh: a sort of whistle at the start and a rumbling finish. “Don’t be sorry for her. Be sorry for the kids she chucks out ten k’s from home. What you up here for, then? Photographer? Afraid the best shots are probably ‘round the other side, my bro. Where you got off the gondola back there.”

“A building.” He took the folded printout from his suit jacket pocket. “Please. How do I get to the clubhouse?”

Instructor Jeff laughed a little longer, frowned, then raised his eyebrows. “Best get some boots.”

The hire centre was writhing with international visitors pulling on outerwear, re-stuffing packs, and all sharing the same language of anxiety particular to the Family Holiday. Had John’s wife been there, she would have given him a look that said ‘Thank God we didn’t procreate,’ or ‘Kill me if we ever own matching tracksuits.’

Instructor Jeff bypassed the lines and returned with a pair of boots befitting an astronaut. 

“You’re about a nine, I reckon.”

John accepted this reckoning.

“Put ‘em on and I’ll get you over there before I take these fullas out.” Instructor Jeff nodded towards The Koreans.

Outside, like an astronaut, John found his walk became slow and exaggerated. Instructor Jeff had a stride that seemed to get faster as the incline steepened. John patted his breast pocket every half-minute to reconfirm the shape of his asthma pump. In his mind was looped: 

 

Gi-ant. 

Steps are. 

What you. 

Take. (Breathe.) 

Wal-king. 

On the. 

Moon. (Breathe.)

(Breathe.) (Breathe.)

 

Only when he collided with his guide’s back did John realise that they had arrived. He also realised then how hard his breath was coming. The clubhouse was smaller than he’d expected and covered in snow.

“I guess it’s a good view from here,” Jeff announced. “Don’t know why you’d be so keen on it.”

“Nostalgia,” John answered. 

Instructor Jeff seemed to like that. He waved and began work on companion tracks to the footsteps they had just left. 

The door had a ‘NO ENTRY’ sign that fell off when John tried the handle. Locked. He kicked the base with his sizable boot. The door held firm. Instructor Jeff was already a pinprick in the distance. John stalked around the side. The interior was masked by curtains that looked as though they might have grown there. He couldn’t bring himself to break a window. A photo? He pulled off his glove to the aching cold and took out his phone. His phone did not like the temperature. No photo. All this way and he couldn’t find the resolve to— 

There was an inconsistency, a corner of a back window not flush with the wall. It was small, but big enough, and just about shoulder-height. It took a tug, an inelegant jump, and the remainder of his upper-body strength to haul half of himself onto the ledge, seesaw a moment, then fall into the room. It was a kitchenette. His knee caught the tap and his palm mashed a shard of—what? Coffee cup? But it was fine. He was fine. 

 

I—. 

Hope my. 

Neck don’t. 

Break. (Breathe.)

 

When he went to put on his glove, he found that his hand was wet. Dripping. Heroically bloody. His breathing started to hitch. There was no way back if he lost blood too fast, or if he needed stitches and couldn’t explain in English, or if his colleagues found out that he was breaking and entering, or…

Giant steps, though. Giant steps.

Between the kitchen and clubroom was another door which was, of course, locked. He gave it a half-hearted boot in confirmation. He removed the gloves, mindful that they were on loan. The kitchen had a servery with a roller cover masking the opening. It was protected by a bolt, beside which hung a washed-out blackboard. For NZ$4 you could purchase a Cheese Burger, a Vege Deluxe, or a Pizza (Small). Beer was $3. If he could find any, John thought, he may well have taken a swig.  

He unbolted and pulled up the roller window,  and the dark of the clubhouse proper gaped back. Another vault for freedom, then. Gods knew how he would make his way out again. His dismount was no more graceful than the first. He staggered into the dark and, fumbling against a curtain, edged a crack of daylight into the room. His hand throbbed. His mind throbbed. The room seemed to have more sides than usual. He dizzily slammed his arm against a wall for purchase and watched the red of his blood marked his intrusion. Funny. He held his hands behind his back and teetered. The red. Theredtheredthered…

And then it happened: the sign he had been waiting for. The call of the horn echoing across the moor. The red became bolder and issued forth from the wall. First just his handprint, but then, dot by dot, patch by patch, a series of constellations, a whole new galaxy of red. Red sang to him that yes, he was exactly where he should be. 

The mother of his wife, a redhead, captured in her youth in photos on every wall. There she was, in woollen hats, her curls revealing themselves in protest. She was there! There, among teams of men in snowsuits, business suits, and technicoloured 80’s activewear. In front of a helicopter. In front of the banner that said ‘Future Champions: Nagano ‘98.’ She was there, looking at the camera with a knowing quirk to her lips that made his heart sore.

John dared to twitch the curtain further to let in a larger chink of cold light. He upturned and sat on a wobbling bar stool and looked from frame to frame for the story of why. 

Did her smile reach her eyes? She was rarely smiling outright. Was she distanced from the party? No, no more than was suitable for a woman amongst men. Was there anything that spoke of sadness? No. Nothing, only...Only she looked like his wife. 

But here he was. He had everything: a treasure trove of images, but no functioning phone to document them. John thought again of the beer, then of the broken mug and his smeared blood and whether it would connect him to a crime—either this one or someone else’s—and the need to leave became undeniable. He scanned the walls one last time and made his decision.

Alone in his hotel room at the end of the day, faced with a room service menu of over-seasoned food and English cable television, John found it difficult to stay awake. Their video call had been scheduled, but his wife didn’t like to be religious about schedules outside of coursework. Eventually she signed on. At least, it should have been her; the face on the screen was broken up and responding in a robotic language that he didn’t speak.

“Try the lounge,” he spoke over her. “There’s no connection in the bedroom.”

“I'm sorry...I...on…”

“I'm losing you.”

When they had both been studying, they had simply called each other. All audio. Now, how he longed for the unseen reverberations of his lover’s voice. He could feel the ache in his forehead, the receiver pressed into it, his eyes closed, his sense of being closer, speaking directly into the ear of the girl who he’d let melt away his time. He felt desirous of the natural pause, the anticipating click in her throat, her voice close in the dark. Not this. Not this intrusion of snowstorm senselessness. This fool's language. The answers in her breath obscured, his focus hooked and dragged towards broken sentences.

But that was long ago and far away, and a business trip demanded a businesslike approach to communication with one’s spouse: a meeting scheduled, a time zone and technological jurisdictions agreed upon. 

 

“I...you,” she said, face unreadable. Fill in the blank. Miss? Need? Hate?

He nodded without agreement and looked down at the mercifully static image in his hands. He didn’t care anymore about interpreting a dialect that neither of them used. The photo was faded, the burnt colours rusted and free of the cyan hues of a true winter’s sky. There she was, depicted in the midst of a cluster of men, hair and ski jackets alike in a uniquely Eighties puff. There were teeth in her smile, and there was confidence; she was a prize winner, after all. 

Connection lost.

At the hotel bar, John was pleased to be waved over by Instructor Jeff, giving him an excuse not to join the table of his colleagues who, were already drunk and semi-focussed on the sports game—rugby?—that was playing on the large television over the fireplace.

“Hey, fulla! You find what you were looking for? Thanks for bringing the boots back.”

“Thank you for your help,” John answered. “I will get you another—“ he looked questioningly at the glass in front of Jeff.

“Sugar-free coke,” Jeff answered. “Promised myself to take a day off the drink this morning. Been promising it for the last six hundred and forty three mornings. Usually don’t break my promise.”

John smiled and made arrangements with the bartender. 

 “So?” Jeff said. “How’d it go with the nostalgia?”

“Good.” John nodded, biting into a generous chip covered in a perfectly sticky, sugary, cheap tomato sauce. “I was searching for something for my wife. She isn’t well—in a mental way?”

“Black dog?”

“Black—?” Damn Kiwis. He was out of practice with the New Zealand accent.

“Depression, my bro.”

“Yes, I think so. She’s on her own mission, but it won’t help her.”

“What’s that?”

“She wants to know how her mother died. Maybe she wants to know because she wants to—maybe to—copy her? I’m just not sure.”

“So that’s what you’re looking for? You found out what happened?”

“Mm? No. Not how she died, how she lived. Showing her that—I think it might help her. My wife.”

“Fair point. Fair point.” Instructor Jeff shoved five chips into his mouth, sucking each finger clean with a popping sound.

“Anyhow,” John decided it was worth telling someone, “I already know how she died.”

“Shit.” Jeff dropped the latest fistful of potatoes that had been approaching his mouth. “Did you do it?”

“Did I—? No!” John shook his head violently, then noticed one of his colleagues looking over at him and continued less passionately. “Actually we both knew. Once. But my wife can’t remember. When she found out, she had a kind of—episode. A breakdown. It was terrible. They had to call in helicopters with doctors. Really terrible. But the shock blanked her memory. Whited it out like snow. My father-in-law made me keep it a secret because he didn’t want the trauma for her. Guess I agree with that, so I promised not to. The whole thing terrifies me. My wife thinks she was never told how her mother died, but it’s her own mind that refused to tell her.”

Instructor Jeff was uncharacteristically quiet for a while after the admission. He ate chips and nodded along to a song that John hadn’t noticed was playing. 

“Hard road trying to protect someone from themselves,” Instructor Jeff said. He was less impressive away from the snow and in the warmth of the hotel bar. His spine appeared to have melted. John’s glasses were smudged, but it seemed Jeff’s eyes watered slightly as he surveyed the bottles of spirits lined up against a silver mirror.