The Rules of the Party
By the time all the invited guests had arrived at the party hall, Snoop-Duck had launched into his DJ set in earnest.
I could see the crowd gathered in front of the stage, dancing.
Tiffany had been right — it was mostly young people.
Though honestly, when I'd heard that Bart had been invited here the year before last, I'd wondered if that was really accurate.
Beyond the sponsors and athletes, there were journalists, models, singers, even actors.
Not quite first-tier celebrities, but rising names whose faces popped up on TV shows now and then.
Invited to liven up the atmosphere, they worked hard to burn themselves into the sponsors' memories, dancing their hearts out to Snoop-Duck's set.
Watching them, something dawned on me anew.
So this is what it's like.
A high-society party wasn't simply a place to have fun.
Which meant I needed a plan.
Leaning against the bar table, I studied my surroundings with care.
Tiffany had stepped away for the moment, saying she wanted to have a word with Mrs. Hopkins.
I took a sip of the martini in my hand, then set off toward the journalist I'd marked as my target.
A black woman in a funky-styled dress.
What caught my eye was the way she stood at the railing, her gaze drifting back and forth between the stage and the New York skyline.
Olivia Marché.
French-American.
Currently a journalist for Strong Guys, a men's magazine, and famous for shooting her own semi-nude pictorials when she decided the hired models weren't good enough.
It was that bored expression of hers that made me choose her as my target.
First, I snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.
Then I approached Olivia, whose face was utterly blank, and spoke.
"Hello."
"...Hello."
Under normal circumstances, this would be the moment for introductions.
Instead, I handed her a glass, leaned against the railing beside her, said nothing more, and sipped my champagne.
On stage, Snoop-Duck worked the crowd, drawing them into a call-and-response.
The roar of the partygoers swept through the hall, and at that very moment fireworks shot high into the sky.
Fwoooosh~! Pop!
Pop-pop! Bang!
...Absurdly flashy.
But Snoop-Duck's DJing lived up to the man they called the King.
American hip-hop was broadly split into East Coast, West Coast, and Southern scenes.
Few among them had stayed as consistently active as Snoop-Duck.
It was the kind of groove that made your chin bob all on its own. I let myself enjoy Snoop's music for a while.
And sure enough, before long, exactly as I'd predicted, she took an interest in me and spoke first.
"Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"
"The music's good."
"You're a strange one. Everyone else who comes here for the first time seems ready to tear themselves apart trying to get their name out there."
"Is that so?"
"Look at that guy over there."
Olivia pointed toward the bar, a little ways off from the stage.
A face I knew.
Jaina White, president of the AFC.
"You see the man standing next to Jaina White? He's a fighter making his debut this time around."
"Freddy, huh."
"Hm? You know him?"
"I keep an eye on the sport."
I answered vaguely.
Truthfully, I only remembered him because he'd been a fairly famous fighter in my past life.
Freddy Helberg.
A monster who'd gone 24-0 in the feeder promotions before climbing up.
Later on, he'd grow into one of the so-called Four Pillars of the AFC.
Olivia gave me an intrigued look when I recognized Freddy.
Well, fair enough — Freddy wasn't a household name yet.
"Watch him. He keeps circling around Jaina, working the room, greeting everybody."
"Hmm."
"Judging by how he keeps glancing at his boss for approval, Jaina must've brought him for some reason — but for the life of me I can't figure out what."
"I see."
"...Getting back to it, I assumed you'd come over to introduce yourself to me, but here you are just drinking champagne."
Through that whole exchange, my confidence in my choice of Olivia only grew.
Exactly as I'd hoped — she had a precise read on everyone in this room.
"Is this part of a strategy too?"
"It is."
"What kind of strategy?"
"The plan was for you to take an interest in me, so I could pull off a smooth line like, 'You looked bored, so I came over.'"
"And why would you reveal that?"
"Because I figured that's what would make you laugh."
"Pff-hah!"
Olivia burst out laughing.
Smiling, I kept the conversation flowing at her side.
All to burn the name of Shin into her memory.
"I'm Shin."
"...I know. I'm Olivia Marché."
"You're the journalist from Strong Guys, right? I read last month's piece. It was good."
"And I've been watching your matches."
"Which matches, exactly?"
"Oh, and you?"
"Last month's hot European models special. I read it in the briefing materials I got before coming here."
"Oh my, what a coincidence. I watched all your match coverage too."
We traded light jabs back and forth, easing into a comfortable rhythm.
"I always thought the WWF was the most conservative company in America. To succeed there, you must have really had to carve away at yourself."
"More fat than bone, actually."
"Hmm..."
After a brief silence, she pulled a business card from her handbag and held it out to me.
"Give me a call sometime, won't you?"
"You can count on it."
That was the win secured.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries after that, and then I said my goodbyes to Olivia and moved on.
Not bad.
There was no guarantee she'd actually write a piece about me, of course.
Which was precisely why I had to raise the odds.
So I made the rounds, greeting the journalists gathered away from the stage.
The approach was simple: play coy at first, then reveal a little of your true self as if it were a joke — that reads as honesty, and honesty earns goodwill. Then they'd notice my appealing character and looks on their own, and the interest would follow.
By the time the party was beginning to hit its stride, I'd wrapped up friendly exchanges with more than ten journalists.
That every one of them showed me more than mere politeness was, naturally, the expected result.
Everything's moving along smoothly.
Up on stage, Snoop-Duck was in full swing — at some point he'd thrown off his shirt entirely.
Dancers poured out, and his biggest hit, "Smoke Every Day," came on.
Fireworks burst under the dazzling lights. The crowd sang along with Snoop-Duck like lunatics.
And just as the song wound down, Tiffany returned to my side.
"How'd it go?"
"About ten of them?"
"Ooh, that's way better than I expected."
Tiffany poked me in the ribs, marveling.
She'd evidently had a drink or two — both her cheeks were flushed a warm red.
"My talk went well too."
"With Mrs. Hopkins? What on earth did the two of you talk about?"
"I bought her a few drinks and asked if there was anything she had up her sleeve for tonight's party."
"...Is that something we need to worry about?"
"Yes. Mrs. Hopkins is famous for handpicking athletes every year and making them face off in all kinds of contests."
"...What?"
"Nothing too serious. Ordinary games — capture the flag, arm wrestling, that sort of thing. It's just that when pros go at it, the intensity is no joke."
"Why does she even do that?"
"It's Mrs. Hopkins's hobby. That woman has a nastier temper than you'd think."
"...Don't tell me that's why Bart and Jaina got into it the year before last?"
"Their game got out of hand, yes."
"Hmm."
"Anyway, good news — apparently we're not on the list of matchups tonight."
"Is that a good thing?"
"Yes. No need to humor her. You lose far too much when you lose."
I felt the same way.
Winning would earn us a favorable reaction, sure, but we had no particular need for that.
The journalists would be watching the athletes' contests with the eyes of hawks.
If we entered one and lost, we'd be humiliated outright.
Not that I lacked confidence — but our purpose here was, above all else, to let my name spread slowly and steadily.
And that was already off to a respectable start.
Which was exactly when it happened.
"You see, I did get a little hopeful watching you tonight. I was even thinking of putting you in a contest."
When had she arrived? Mrs. Hopkins was suddenly speaking to us.
"But if it's the owner's strategy, then I suppose I should respect it. Wouldn't you agree?"
"..."
"Then again, it's not as if a pro wrestler has ever won one of my contests."
Muttering that last part under her breath, she brushed past us and climbed onto the stage.
Tiffany spat out a vicious curse, then turned to me with a face of pure composure.
"Don't take the bait."
"...She feels different from the woman I met at the elevator."
"Subtly looking down on people like that is her true nature. She's got main-character syndrome too, so keep your eyes open."
Tiffany gave a small, dry laugh.
Snoop-Duck's music ended, and Mrs. Hopkins, now up on the stage, took hold of the microphone and began her greetings.
"If she wants to be the star that badly, someone should tell her to stop charging people to attend her party."
Tiffany sneered at the speech.
Because, you see, that's how sports themselves stay young... blah, blah, blah. Yadda yadda yadda.
One stream of self-important drivel after another.
Tiffany let out a sigh.
"God, I'm dying."
Couldn't have agreed more.
After droning on for ages, Mrs. Hopkins worked herself up further, shouting with relish.
She carried on as if she were running a pro wrestling show.
And an abysmally bad one at that.
But the crowd gathered in front of the stage sent up their cheers all the same.
The spotlights blazed to life on two black men standing across from us.
The two of them laughed for a moment as if to say, you've got to be kidding me, then made their way onto the stage.
So none of them saw it coming.
That was how it went.
With a single word from Mrs. Hopkins, sports stars were turned into court jesters.
The games themselves were simple.
But they were so inexplicably tailored to probe the physical abilities of athletes that they left a sour taste.
Starting with 'Capture the Flag,' where the athletes were told to face away before grabbing the flags — nearly all of them were
dumb games that nonetheless, and rather cunningly, toyed with a person's pride.
So I stated it flatly.
"Mrs. Hopkins must have quite a lot of influence around here, huh?"
"She does. Her late husband left her a frankly monstrous inheritance, after all."
That figured.
Otherwise, there'd be no reason on earth for everyone to play along with these idiotic games while smiling.
She's got her fingers in a lot of pies beyond just business, hasn't she?
That thought had barely formed when
after a few of the games had come and gone, I felt a strange current of unease.
Mrs. Hopkins smiled sweetly in our direction and called the next names herself.
"What?!"
Tiffany whipped around in shock.
Up on the stage, Mrs. Hopkins simply went on smiling.
"Shin..."
"Well, I should have seen it coming — she's got a rotten personality."
"Ugh, I'm sorry. I really thought we'd talked our way out of it."
"What can you do."
I smiled.
Dumb games, sure — but if this was the rule of this party, then we'd play by it.
I was gazing at the stage with that thought in mind when a huge groan went up from the crowd.
"Hm?"
Their eyes were fixed on the spot right beside me. I turned to see what was going on — and felt my brain go ice-cold.
Jaina White.
He had stepped up behind Tiffany and poured champagne over her head.
The tilted glass was still dripping its pale, cloudy liquid in slow, fat drops.
Tiffany stood frozen, the color drained completely from her face.
A cigar clamped in his mouth, Jaina shook out the empty glass.
"Oops. Hand slipped."
"..."
"By all means, keep scheming your way out of this — but first, let's go up. It's all just a 'show,' after all, isn't it?"
With that, he gave Tiffany's shoulder a light smack and walked on past.
The villain boss of the AFC.
It was a performance that used that infamous reputation to bare his true intentions for all to see.
I held out a handkerchief toward the drenched Tiffany.
"Tiffany."
"No, it's fine. Soaking like this makes me look much more like an 'underdog,' doesn't it?"
She shook her head.
Her gaze was fixed on Jaina White, who was riding a wave of fire, drawing boos from the crowd.
"Hahaha! Give me more of those boos!"
"...I share the sentiment."
"So do I."
I nodded.
I'd planned to take what we came for and slip out quietly, but that wasn't happening now.
Fine. Then I'd just have to show this room who could put on the best show of all.