Predictions Always Miss
Predictions always miss.
Time moves fast.
The easiest way to feel the relativity of time in your bones is to look back. You sit somewhere and mutter the kind of thing old people say—those were the days—and retrace what you've already lived through. The stretch of time you've spent starts to feel like something from the distant past, and you realize all over again just how quickly it runs.
But we don't treat a few days ago as the old days. Strictly speaking, even what happened a minute ago is the past. Nobody sits around reminiscing about a minute ago with a wistful those were the days.
For me, right now was like that. Even if "I" had become Lee Harin. Until just a few days ago I had lived as an utterly ordinary man—for more than twenty years, no less. In other words, it was far too soon to be looking back and saying those were the days.
Put simply, I still hadn't adapted to Lee Harin's body. Even losing something you'd always had is hard to get used to. Adapting overnight to a body that had changed completely was never going to be easy.
Which meant there was nothing strange about getting pushed around by high schoolers.
I hadn't been beaten up or anything. The moment a high school kid grabbed my wrist as a joke, I knew. The basic difference in grip strength was just too much. The wrist he'd caught still throbbed. He hadn't even held on that hard, and it was already like this.
Was the kid's grip that strong, or was Lee Harin's body weaker than I'd imagined? In this case, the latter was probably more likely.
If it came to a fight, it wasn't a level I couldn't win. But fighting in this body, outnumbered, I'd have to accept a certain amount of damage. I had plans tomorrow. Getting carted off to the hospital wasn't an option. So I'd even considered choosing a somewhat humiliating but peaceful way out. Humiliation is brief. Wounds last.
"Hey, what are you doing? Hurry up and go."
Even if I'd become a woman, my mind wasn't a woman's. I'd spent years as a veteran mercenary. Following high schoolers' orders here would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?
Still. I never thought I'd see the day I'd get threatened into buying cigarettes for high school kids. Live long enough and you really do see everything.
The tactic used most often in a fight was the ambush. The reason was simple. A soldier thrown into panic by an enemy suddenly appearing can't think straight. You extract maximum gain with minimum force. Now wasn't any different. An unexpected situation is more than enough to cause panic. Especially with high schoolers who aren't fully mature yet—they wouldn't stay calm.
I put on the most harmless expression I could and approached the high school girl. She seemed to think I was coming over to take the money she was holding, so she just stood there, completely unguarded. The two boys behind her were only snickering among themselves.
Still high schoolers, I guess. Short on life lessons. They still don't know that life is a string of unexpected crises.
"What are you— agh!"
The human body has a center of gravity. Even a muscular person can't hold themselves up with raw strength the moment they start to fall. A high school girl who'd never exercised in her life didn't need mentioning. I shoved her upper body and, in the same motion, hooked her leg, collapsing her balance. Naturally, the girl who hadn't been bracing for anything went down, and the impact must have been considerable—she didn't get up easily.
"Ah...! Fuck...! That son of a bitch!"
When people hit an unexpected situation, they panic. It takes time for the brain to understand what's happening. That went for the girl on the ground and the boys watching from behind alike.
I flipped off the high schoolers standing there frozen, then ran without looking back.
"Fuck, grab that bastard! What are you doing?!"
A dark alley at night, poorly lit by streetlamps, creates more blind spots than you'd think. Put simply, you can fail to find someone hiding right next to you.
"Fuck. I think they already got away?"
"Goddammit, you guys are useless."
I was glad I still had my mercenary memories. Honestly, running from high schoolers was humiliating from the moment I did it. But it was the best choice I could make right now.
If I ran into them again, I'd just smash their Adam's apples and leave them in bodies that couldn't smoke.
Riiing~
Riiing~
A man opened his eyes to the alarm and groped around the bed for his phone. He grabbed the source of the noise and checked the time: noon. Normally he'd still be asleep, but today he had a meeting, so that wasn't an option.
"The IRL fight with the hacker was at one..."
He scratched the back of his head and slowly sat up. The computer set up for streaming, right across from the bed, was still on. On the monitor, along with the nickname Jump, a message said the live stream had ended.
He must have forgotten to shut it off after last night's broadcast. Jump moved the mouse, powered down the computer, and dragged a body heavy as lead toward the bathroom.
"Should've gone to bed earlier last night..."
Staying up broadcasting until late had become a habit. Even knowing he had to get up early, he'd streamed late anyway. Regret is supposed to arrive after everything's over, they say—but looking at a body that felt like it had been packed with sandbags, it was impossible not to regret it. If he could, he'd knock yesterday's self out cold just to make him sleep.
"I'll just wash up quick and head out."
The person he'd agreed to meet was nothing more than some hacker bastard. Not even an acquaintance, so he felt no need to dress up. After a light wash, the clock already read 12:20.
No need to agonize over clothes. In whispers, he'd said he'd go out in a gray sweatshirt. He pulled a gray sweatshirt and plain black pants from the closet and put them on. While he stood in front of the mirror thinking useless thoughts like maybe he was above average looking, the time had already slipped past 12:30. Considering the trip to the meeting place, he needed to leave soon.
When he arrived, it was about 12:50. The weather was so clear and cloudless that people out for a stroll were easy to spot.
Then, in the distance, a sloppily dressed man came walking over. Just as Jump was about to convince himself that the man walking straight toward him was the hacker who used the nickname Unknown—the man walked right past him as if nothing had happened.
Not that guy, then.
I should be thinking about what I'll say when we meet.
Yesterday on stream, he'd talked with viewers about how to teach the guy a lesson. So many ideas had come up that he needed to sort his thoughts.
The simplest thing would be to reveal I'm a streamer and get an apology.
The atmosphere already had plenty of people saying he'd used hacks. No matter how shameless a hacker he was, he'd want to avoid getting permanently screenshotted for life. A little pressure and he could probably get an apology easier than expected.
But it feels weak.
From a streaming perspective, it was too cliché an ending. Just as he was thinking he needed something more stimulating, something viewers would cheer for—once again, someone in the distance was walking toward Jump.
With the meeting time almost here, Jump thought this time it really might be Unknown. He couldn't help but lower his gaze. The man walking toward him had an overwhelming physique—muscular, well over six-foot-three. If things went that way, it wouldn't be a streamer teaching a hacker a lesson. It'd be a streamer getting taught one.
"Jump?"
"Y-yes!"
Startled by his nickname suddenly being called, Jump whipped his head toward the voice. Instead of the overwhelming physique from a moment ago, a woman stood there—pretty enough that the word beauty came unbidden. He even found himself staring, dazed, without meaning to.
"I asked if you're Jump."
Her voice again snapped him back.
"I am Jump, but... who are you...?"
"The person you agreed to meet for an IRL fight today."
"...What? Then... that hacker?"
"I'm not a hacker."
Jump couldn't make sense of the situation. The hacker he'd assumed was a man had turned out to be a woman. Sure, you can't really predict someone's gender online. But there's an image that forms from a user's playstyle and chat.
The Unknown Jump had pictured was a scrawny guy. Or a pig who'd gotten as fat as he could get. Swearing as a baseline, chat that looked down on and dismissed others, aggressive play with zero hesitation. Using hacks brazenly while claiming he didn't—no other image came to mind.
Of course, an image is only imagination. But this was too... too big a twist, wasn't it?
"Uh... so, Unknown?"
"Yes."
Jump had no idea what to do now. Among the conversations with viewers, there had even been people telling him to actually fight IRL. If they threw down on the condition neither would report it, it'd be great stream content. Jump had somewhat agreed. So he'd even been considering it as one option.
But if the other person was a woman, that was off the table. If he asked for an IRL fight here, he could get branded as trash who hits women.
Jump's brain, which didn't even work well during games, started spinning at full speed. The result of firing up a head he didn't usually use, trying to think of a way out of this situation:
"Uh... do you like coffee?"
A pickup line that had no business coming out of his mouth slipped free.