No Eternal Allies, No Eternal Enemies (1)

That day, before leaving the president’s ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠office, I ended up signing what they called a side contract at her persuasion. It stipulated that any sponsorship money coming in during my streams would be split and settled at a fixed ratio. The problem was that this income couldn’t be lumped together with my salary, so I would have to file it separately when submitting my comprehensive income tax return in May. The moment I heard that, my head started pounding and I tried to refuse, but the accounting director suddenly popped in, said one thing, and I had no choice but to accept.

What exactly did they say? Something about how handing out too many bonuses would make the labor cost line item jut out too obviously, so they needed to adjust the categories, blah blah blah. They offered to help with the tax filing itself. Since it was all terminology from a completely foreign world, I just nodded and moved on.

The only part that gave me pause was the distribution ratio itself.

The president said that for the first-generation members the standard was supposed to be 70%, but because I kept stubbornly refusing to take any, they had only given me 20% as a bonus. Six-to-four was the industry standard. When I asked why they didn’t just give nothing at all, the accounting director jumped in again.

There might be other people besides me who worked at the company and occasionally appeared on stream. In those cases, they would draft side contracts based on mine. If I set the bar too low, they would have no choice but to apply similarly exploitative rates to everyone else. The accounting director’s entire job was to cut unnecessary expenses as much as possible, so my opinion as a founding member would carry serious weight.

I thought it was unlikely another situation like that would ever arise, but when I considered how similar Gong Seung-yeon was to me, I couldn’t say it was impossible. So I accepted. Pouring the money I earned back into the company was a hassle, but I didn’t want anyone else to take a financial hit just because of me.

The moment I said that, both the president and the accounting director chuckled and said, “So you admit it?” while telling me to look forward to next year’s salary. I was already worried about exactly how much more they planned to raise it. Still, the president gave me solid motivation by adding a condition: if no incidents occurred, they would reduce the rate by ten percent each month, down to a minimum of ten percent next year. The flip side—if incidents did happen, the rate would rise by ten percent each time, up to a maximum of ninety percent—left me a little unhappy, but I figured it would be fine.

I had watched hundreds of VTubers by now. I knew nearly all of their scandals and blow-ups. There was no way I would slip up. Therefore, next year’s rate would be ten percent. Dreams really do come true.

The next day was the Yeonggun team’s Teddy Bear League collab. The game supports up to 2:2:2:2, but with six of us we decided to split into three teams of two.

Of course, simply deciding wins and losses would be boring. What better way to build camaraderie between teams than with penalties? Naturally, the most important thing for this stream was what kind of punishment the last-place team would have to do.

Teddy Bear League is exactly what it sounds like: a brawl between stuffed animals. Except instead of flashy impact effects that send enemies flying and smash walls like a typical fighting game, the combat consists of grabbing hair, tripping legs, and picking people up to hurl them. In other words, you fight with extremely petty skills. There are basic moves like dash punches and guard dodges, but the highest win rate usually comes from surviving by mastering the map’s special gimmicks and then throwing fallen opponents out of bounds.

You could just swing wildly from the start and beat everyone up, of course. If an enemy takes a punch to the head they’ll get stunned and fall over, making them easy to throw. But as everyone knows, I’m a newbie at every single game (though I have plenty of viewing experience). I do have gaming talent, so I adapt quickly, but it still takes a little time. Therefore ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my opening strategy was to run away and then throw people.

“Sorry.”

Even after Serena took a punch to the head, fell, and got thrown out of bounds, I simply watched. I didn’t want to go rescue her and end up falling myself. It was a bit cowardly, but what could I do? I didn’t want to take a penalty right from the start. It wasn’t that I was bad at singing; I just had zero confidence in singing or variety content in general. If the president had ordered it, I would have practiced like I did for Find Rain, but this wasn’t an order.

Anyway, I ran like my tail was on fire. I deliberately set my escape routes so the other two teams would crash into each other. Thanks to that natural collision, I managed to snatch victory by benefiting from their fight.

The game was first to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠four round wins. From that point on I won the next three sets the exact same way. Apparently I had a real knack for dodging everyone and slipping through the cracks. As long as it wasn’t a game like Combative where a single pull could headshot you, surviving wasn’t that hard.

The late-night collab had a very similar atmosphere to the dinner we’d had together two days earlier. Back then we played drinking games while everyone got rowdy (I declined since I don’t like getting drunk), and only Bajubi and I were clueless and awkward. Today felt exactly the same.

Bajubi’s voice was tiny and hesitant as she tried to sing along. Keugaemang, on the other hand, belted out a full trot song with genuine enthusiasm while she added cute little ad-libs from the side. It was a strangely wholesome sight. Normally the smaller streamer would be the one singing their heart out while the big-name streamer helped a little, but Keugaemang’s personality was as wide as the ocean. Or maybe he was just an uncle who loved having fun.

After the song ended, applause and cheers erupted, starting with Yeonggun and Serena. But the cheers didn’t last long. The defeated Keugaemang shouted.

Since the last-place team got to decide the next penalty, it was fair. We also decided to reshuffle teams every round, so we drew numbers and played ladder. The resulting teams were:

Seeing what happened to the Keugaemang-Bajubi pair, it was basically guaranteed that if I lost I would have to sing. All I had to do was not lose. I had survived until the end by running away in the previous round too. I didn’t think this round would be any different. Everyone was getting used to the game, but they still wouldn’t be able to catch me.

However, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there was one fact I had overlooked. Unlike my usual members who would always let me off the hook when I stubbornly refused to do something, this was the “wild.” The teammates here had remembered how, during the karaoke session at the dinner two days ago, I never sang once and only shook a tambourine in the corner. Bajubi was also the worst at games among the six of us.

“Hmm. This is a bit much.”

The four people from the other teams surrounded me completely, blocking every escape route, then punched and threw me out in one smooth motion. Not long after the round started I was already in the water, and the remaining Bajubi didn’t last much longer either.

What was funny was that even Bajubi—who had been shy about singing just moments ago—had the exact same idea.

Because she had sung two whole songs at the dinner that day. No one had forced her. She only got extra shy on stream; when it was just the six of us, she was a lot less embarrassed.

Somehow the situation had become five against one. Even the teammate who was supposed to protect me was trying to kill me.

The viewers were probably dumbfounded. Even during the Wicker Town stream, the official channel had received two one-million-won donations besides Pino’s. I had written quite long thank-you messages compared to normal donations, but I still hadn’t sung. That was because the president had allowed me to boycott reactions. I’m the type who doesn’t do anything unless the president tells me to.

‘Still… maybe I should sing this time?’

When I was preparing for the collab, the president had told me on my way out that these joint streams might become more frequent. It would be difficult for her to give me instructions every single time. She trusted me to walk the line properly, so from now on, when I acted as a “streamer,” I could judge for myself. If I was really unsure, I could contact her. She would reply anytime she was awake. And if it really came down to it, she said I could just wing it.

Almost no one who streams avoids incidents completely, and after a few years some controversy is inevitable. But she figured someone like me wouldn’t cause any major accidents anyway.

…Well, in the end it was probably because the revenue split ratio was on the line. The president seemed to be intentionally leaving me to my own devices a little.

By my own judgment, even if I wasn’t prepared, singing was the correct choice in this situation. If I kept refusing and tried to weasel out? Sure, I could do that when it was just us. We knew each other. But this was a broadcast. If I stubbornly avoided it to the end, I would ruin the mood. Fixing a chilled atmosphere is hard, and it would damage people’s perception of Parallel. “That person keeps dodging without reading the room.”

That’s right. I’m not a VTuber, an idol, or a celebrity to begin with. Even if I mess up the song a bit, it would just feel more human and likable. Of course, that didn’t mean I was going to accept defeat quietly.

In the end, the key to Teddy Bear League was how well you could land punches on an unguarded head and how well you could trip legs. It might seem like the game becomes completely one-sided when four people surround you, but all you have to do is trip them. That creates an opening to dodge their punches and escape.

The moment the game started and everyone rushed to surround me, I immediately hurled the head of Bajubi, who had spawned next to me. Bam! Bajubi tumbled over and was thrown straight into the icy sea where icebergs drifted.

“…Eek!”

Splash!

The cotton-stuffed Bajubi quickly became soaked and sank with a glub glub.

From the perspective of the two teams facing me, there wasn’t much to regret. It wasn’t as if Bajubi had thrown the previous round just to hear me sing. I had simply removed a potential traitor in advance. Now the real fight began.

I looked at the four people charging toward me and said, “If I come in last, I’ll make the next penalty something spicy.”

I grinned. “How about the person the wheel lands on has to say ‘Baby, I love you’?”

All the male streamers except Keugaemang got hyped. Of course they did—there was no way they would pass up such a fun penalty.

But Serena was different. When a healing-type VTuber who had been carefully brewing her broth for so long said that line to male streamers—especially Yeonggun—countless unicorn horns would snap off.

Seeing the number of people in our chat who joked about unicorns even though the target wasn’t Serena, I knew this penalty would definitely land.

Just as expected, Serena’s dash punch landed perfectly on the back of Yeonggun’s head as he charged at me.

Splash. With Yeonggun becoming the second person in the water, four of us remained. Serena and I were on the side that didn’t want me to lose, while Keugaemang and Kamik were on the side that wanted to hear me sing. What now? It had become two against two.