These Insolent Little Shits
These insolent little shits.
Life is shit.
That was an iron law of mine, one that held true no matter the situation. The world never moves the way you want it to. Misfortune arriving is no guarantee that fortune will follow, and putting in the work is no guarantee you'll ever be paid back.
If you treated life like a game, it would be a gacha that never publishes its rates. Some people can pull forever and never see a five-star. Others snatch one like it's nothing.
Of course, there were people who looked at that and said the world was absurdity all the way down. That fairness and equality were stories that only existed in fairy tales. I wasn't about to argue with them. There are things decided the moment you're born; you don't get to talk about fairness or equality after that. Things like Lee Harin's talent — something the old me would never have felt in a thousand years.
And then there were the people who said that what comes easy goes easy. That only what you earn through hardship and adversity stays with you, even after years have passed. I think that's just the mental victory of people who never had it.
We weren't the protagonists of a web novel. Trials always came, sure — but there was never a massive reward waiting on the other side if you overcame them. You'd take down the monster you thought was the final boss, crack open the chest, and find a cheap dagger sitting inside. It happened more often than you'd think.
If all you got after killing yourself with effort was a pat on the back and a few words of encouragement, who'd want to try? And yet we still do, because you never know until you open the box. You run a hopeful little circuit in your head, telling yourself the reward you're hoping for is sitting in there.
...Anyway. The reason I was going on about all this was simple. Hardship and adversity had come looking for me.
By the nature of matchmaking, you run into a lot of players in a single game. There were one-on-one titles out there, but Last of Quantum was a 6v6 at its core, which meant I was sharing a match with eleven other people besides myself. Naturally, the people I got matched with were complete strangers. I'd never seen any of them before.
In the high tiers, where the player pool was thin, running into someone you knew wasn't strange at all. An enemy player greeting you with a "we meet again," or matching into a big name — none of that would be surprising. Low tier was a different story. Once the player count climbed into five digits, even if something specific had gone down, most people still wouldn't know who you were.
So how, exactly, had the current situation come about?
Most of the players in the match knew who I was. There were people who didn't have the context, but after skimming the chat rolling in, the mood had settled on me being the bad guy.
I tried pushing back, in my own way.
It only made me the punchline.
With the atmosphere like that, there was no way the game was going to function. Some people dumped their weapons because they didn't want to play with a hacker. Some suicided with grenades. Some started tapping out beats with their guns. The cherry on top was the idiots loading a single round into a revolver and playing Russian roulette.
It wasn't a match. It was a circus. Who was supposed to enjoy a game in that state? Killing enemies who weren't doing anything didn't get you a thing. Victory was only worth something when you'd clawed for it.
I watched it for a bit, then quit. I queued a few more times on the off chance it would be different, but if even one person recognized me, the game wouldn't run properly. I'd logged on to soothe a restless mind. The irony was that it only made me more restless.
I sat up out of the Connector. I grabbed the phone I'd left beside me and checked the time. I'd been feeling hungry, and no wonder — evening had come and gone a while ago. Not that it was surprising. I hadn't eaten a thing since I'd woken up.
"I should... eat something, at least."
I trudged toward the fridge, feet dragging. Wondering if I'd bought anything, I pulled the door open — and let out a short sigh at the empty shelves, as if I should have expected it.
"I've never gone grocery shopping... so I guess that tracks."
Was I going to have to hit the convenience store today? The moment I thought about going outside, the laziness hit. Even if the store wasn't far, the act of stepping out the door itself cost stamina. Especially in a body as frail as Lee Harin's...
My stomach growled.
Fine. I got it. My gut was loudly demanding food. I didn't have a choice. What was I supposed to do, when the body wanted what it wanted? I had to eat something. The convenience store wasn't that far. I'd just go and come right back.
People have said humans are animals of adaptation so many times it's gone stale, but whatever the case, it seemed you did adapt to just about any environment. Not that there was another option. It wasn't like you could just die if you didn't.
That said, whether you adapted or not, adaptation itself didn't happen naturally. To adapt was to accept change. The methods might differ, but that was the essence of it. How was that supposed to happen on its own? Every process of adaptation necessarily included the anguish and effort of existing. And the bigger the change, the more so.
I probably didn't need to spell out just how enormous the change I'd gone through had been. The point was this: my process of adaptation had involved enough anguish and effort to make my hair fall out. And I was still in the middle of it. Dead in the center, even.
Beep.
"Would you like a bag?"
"Ah. Yes."
A person's gaze is a lot more blatant than you'd think. All that talk from your elders about looking someone in the eye when you speak isn't just the rambling of some fossilized old grouch. Especially when someone is looking you in the eye, you have to answer that gaze. Not for the sake of manners. If you're looking at their eyes, you can see it — where their gaze is actually going.
I wasn't matching anyone's eyes in conversation myself, but I could still feel where theirs were pointed. They didn't stare outright, of course. But I could see it perfectly well: unfocused pupils wandering this way and that, then landing, in the end, on my chest.
As a former member of the same species called men, it wasn't as if I couldn't understand. Still... that unfamiliar look was not something you adapted to easily.
I knew my face stood out. And then there was what I was wearing. I'd thrown on whatever I'd had on at home, so it wasn't exactly a put-together look. People staring was probably inevitable. Inevitable or not, I didn't care for it. If my personality ran a little hotter, I probably would've said something like, The hell are you looking at?
Jingle.
The bag in my hand was heavy. I'd swept food into it without thinking. Still, I'd gotten what I came for, so the walk home felt lighter. I was about to start moving, soothing a hollow stomach, when—
"Hey, lady! C'mere."
I turned my head. A cluster of what looked like high schoolers. Judging by the vibe, they weren't calling me over for anything good. And who was calling whom "lady"? On looks alone, the girl who'd shouted at me seemed older. If she hadn't been in a uniform, I wouldn't have taken her for a high schooler at all.
"Don't just stand there. Yeah, I'm talking to you, lady. Get over here."
"...If you tell me to come, am I supposed to hop to it? You kids still have milk on your breath."
The boys behind her shot me a sharp glare.
"When we say come, you fucking come."
"She's got a nasty temper. You'd better come while we're asking nicely."
"Ah... I'm busy."
The moment I stepped closer, a thick, acrid smell of cigarettes punched me in the nose. Kids these days... what exactly were they proud of, puffing away out in the open like this? And they had no sense of shame besides, wearing pants so tight they were trampling public decency into the dirt. The world was going to hell. If it'd been my time, they'd have been beaten half to death.
And the most lamentable part of all...
"Just grab me two Marlboro Blast."
...was being sent on a cigarette run for high schoolers.
These insolent little shits.