I'm Not a Hacker
Jump, currently making his living as a streamer—no, Baek Dojun—was doing everything he could to get a grip on his emotions. He drew a careful breath and started sorting through his thoughts at speed.
He'd shown up certain the other party was a man, which was why he hadn't planned on turning down a real-life fight, either. He'd learned boxing once. He had the confidence to match. The plan had been simple: thrash the cheater at the meeting spot, then, once they apologized, magnanimously tell them not to use hacks next time—and walk away with a reputation as a generous guy.
Instead, the person waiting for him was a woman who looked like she had nothing whatsoever to do with Last of Quantum. If the cheater had gotten cold feet and sent his older sister in his place, that would have been a blessing. But the moment he looked at a face identical to the in-game character, that hope vanished in an instant.
He'd figured there had been at least some customization involved. He never imagined it was her actual face. Dojun knew instinctively that if he revealed this on stream, it would explode.
His chat lost their minds at the mere sight of a female NPC in LoQ, never mind an actual woman as a guest. The person they'd been condemning as a cheater turned out to be a woman—and a strikingly beautiful one at that? He didn't need to watch to know what kind of reaction that would get. Of course, Dojun had no intention of outing her. Obsessed with streaming or not, there were lines you simply didn't cross. Just because viewers wanted something fun or provocative didn't mean you were supposed to hurt people or go too far. Leaking someone else's personal information was so far over that line it wasn't even close.
"Ahem..."
He set his coffee down carefully and snuck a glance across the table. He wished she'd say something—anything—but she'd been staring straight through him without a word. Under ordinary circumstances, a man would have been thrilled to have that kind of attention from a beauty. Dojun didn't have the luxury. He felt like he was sitting on a bed of nails.
In the end, it was Dojun whose patience ran out.
"Um... Unknown?"
"Lee Harin."
"Sorry?"
"My name is Lee Harin. You can't keep calling me by my handle."
"Ah... right. I'm Baek Dojun."
They ended up exchanging names before he knew what was happening. He thought, briefly, that it was a pretty name—then realized the introduction had been all wrong, and opened his mouth again.
"Sorry. Let me start over. Hello. I'm Baek Dojun. I stream on Trisch under the name Jump."
At the very least, he figured he ought to mention that he was a streamer.
The unexpected introduction stopped my brain cold. No wonder it had blown up so strangely on the community boards. How much attention would users even pay to a post some random player or two had dumped? It wasn't as if Last of Quantum was short on people suspected of hacking. But if the person on the other team had been a streamer, it all made sense. And if that streamer had any kind of following, it would have been weirder for the whole thing to quietly die.
There was such a thing as herd mentality: when a lot of people did the same thing, individuals went along with it so they wouldn't be isolated or humiliated by the group. Clapping along even if you didn't like the performance, once everyone else started. Refusing to go against a formed public opinion without even checking whether it was true. On a tiny stream it might not have mattered, but this was a broadcast with hundreds, even thousands of viewers. Herd mentality kicking in wasn't strange at all.
Especially when the streamer—the ringleader of the whole smear—had branded me a cheater. How many people would have the guts to type, I don't think that person's hacking, right in that chat? Most of them would have followed the crowd and stamped me as a hacker. The communities wouldn't have been much different. Setting aside the pathetic creeps who just wanted to sexually harass someone, most of it would have been herd mentality at work.
Even so, plenty of people had already labeled me a cheater. If I tried to explain myself now, almost no one would believe me. Even in a crime, you needed an alibi to prove you were innocent. I didn't have evidence, let alone a lawyer who'd stand up and say I wasn't hacking.
So how was I supposed to fix this? The answer was surprisingly simple. What was the fastest way to prove innocence in a crime? Having the victim themselves testify, It wasn't that person. My situation wasn't much different. If Jump—the one who'd branded me a cheater—cleared my name, the stigma would come off surprisingly easily. Of course, first I had to get Jump—no, Baek Dojun—to admit I wasn't hacking.
But how was I supposed to prove that? A few words weren't going to cut it.
"I know this is a weird thing to say when we came here to fight in real life, but maybe you should just apologize. If you do, I'll do my best to make this die down. I can't help you with a game ban, though..."
"Let's fight."
"Sorry?"
"One match. In-game."
I didn't like the way he kept talking like he was sure I was a cheater. Besides, seeing once was better than hearing a hundred times. Showing him would be more convincing than talking. If I dodged bullets right in front of his eyes, he wouldn't be able to call it hacks anymore.
"You can't just say that out of nowhere... I don't even have a Connector on me."
I did a quick search on my phone and found several PC cafes nearby. Some only had ordinary computers, but most, following the trend, had Connectors available. Given how things stood, Baek Dojun couldn't exactly refuse.
"...Fine. But if you lose, you apologize. No complaints."
There was a faintly condescending edge to the way he said it. I couldn't blame him. Nobody who was actually good used hacks. Most cheaters were people with no skill who still wanted to be good at the game. Naturally, a cheater's real play—without the hacks—would be so pathetic you couldn't watch with your eyes open. People who didn't understand the game, who didn't even know the basic controls, winning on hacks and then swaggering around. Just like the idiots who sometimes mistook their gear's performance for their own skill, it wouldn't be strange for a cheater to mistake hack-boosted play for actual ability. That was probably why Jump—no, Baek Dojun—was looking at me like I was nothing. Just putting on a tough act. The second we loaded in, the skill gap would show.
But that only applied to people who were actually using hacks. What I did wasn't the product of some external program. It was just the result of Lee Harin's talent, the memories I carried, and the game's systems all coming together. To people who didn't know that, it could only look like hacks.
When humans saw something beyond their common sense, suspicion came first. Inside their understanding of the world, it simply couldn't happen—so they assumed some trick or cheat had been used. Say someone was flying through the sky. We wouldn't naively believe it. We'd assume they were using some device to stay airborne. Common sense said humans couldn't fly. Dodging bullets wasn't any different. Last of Quantum might have been a game, but it was one built around realism. Even with traits and builds, dodging bullets was, by any reasonable standard, impossible. So people settled on a conclusion they could live with: that I'd used an unauthorized program. Hacks. And with herd mentality piled on top, plenty of people had stamped me a cheater without even bothering to check.
While I was turning all that over, we'd already arrived at the PC cafe. The last one I'd been to had seemed pretty high-end—ground floor of a high-rise in a busy district, with dozens of Connectors that each easily ran into the thousands. The place we'd found now didn't even compare. A clean black-and-white interior, computers on the first floor and Connectors on the second. The walls were lined with photos of food and price tags. If I'd come alone, I might have settled in and played at my leisure.
"Would it be all right if I used our match on stream?"
"I don't mind."
Even better. Hard video evidence, and people wouldn't be able to call me a cheater anymore. Right now, I needed to show them what real skill looked like. An overwhelming, brute-force stomp would just make them suspect hacks all over again. So I had to show them technique—the real weapon. I needed to show them how a fight was actually done.