Episode 21: Ideal Type World Cup

The duo with Mia was a success on every front.

There was no penalty for the excessive swearing, the viewer count cleared three thousand without a hitch, and the mission was done. Those lucrative Water Balloon missions had become a regular on the point-farming menu—and the single best earner of the lot. The only real burden was that the numbers themselves kept climbing, and there was nothing to be done about that.

Unless something special came along, it now took about three days to clear. The points handed out as a reward had grown along with the target, so I couldn't complain too loudly... In any case, my broadcast had settled into a stable stretch.

For roughly a month I had carried the stream without incident or controversy, and the viewer count now held steady at around two hundred. That was still a long way from Mia's or Lac's thousand-plus, but measuring myself against streamers who had been on the air for three years or more was absurd. I was doing plenty well as it was.

Right. Grow a little at a time, with that mindset.

Impatience was forbidden.

After that, about two weeks of the same routine followed. I woke in the morning, checked the day's plan, and from around nine, when the market opened, spent an hour managing the stocks I held. Then it was practice upon practice until broadcast time—voice impressions, singing, makeup, even digging up new content. Spend the hours that thriftily, and somehow it was already five in the afternoon.

Then the broadcast began. I laughed and chattered with the viewers, cracked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠jokes, and now and then pretended to be angry. Before I knew it, it was past nine, time to wrap up. An exhausting day, but a rewarding one. A quick wash, then I turned over the points I'd earned and the various things that had happened on stream. And then sleep.

In my dreams, the man I used to be appeared. There I was, wrung out on the hellish rush-hour subway of the morning commute; bowing my head to slip past the nagging of a boss plagued by an M-shaped bald spot; dragging myself home on strengthless feet once the overtime was done; and, back at the apartment, forcing a little comfort on myself—I survived another day. And then I woke.

It was a strange feeling. I still prided myself on being a man, but with more than a month gone by, I had adapted, a little, to a woman's body. And to this way of life, which had changed just as thoroughly.

"Shut up!"

The question drove straight into the sore spot, and I snapped before I could think. What on earth was I turning over in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my head, first thing in the morning? I let out a short sigh and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠checked the harvest I had gathered, ant-like, over the past two weeks.

1,130 points.

It was about time to take the next step. Even so, I was still a little short. A rough pricing of the abilities put the cost at around 1,200 points, so today's broadcast had a single goal: fill that gap.

"Come on in, come on in. Sorry to keep you waiting."

The viewers raised a noisy clamor, already guessing at what today's content might be. Unfortunately for them, I had something prepared.

"Ta-da! The Ideal Type World Cup that every one of you loves!"

"Huh? I think you're mistaken. What we did then was the military-food Ideal Type World Cup. Today's a different topic."

A few viewers grumbled that it was more of the same, but there was nothing to be done. In a little over a month I had already run through every piece of content I was capable of, once each. You can't show them a fresh face every single time. I decided to swallow the criticism in silence and carry on with today's broadcast.

"So, the truth is, I worked a part-time job in my early twenties. You've all tried it at least once, right? To ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bring those memories back, I'll be running a Convenience Store Nightmare-Customer World Cup."

Once the topic was set, the viewers fortunately began to focus. Complaints about each convenience-store brand, reviews, their own part-time horror stories... Leave them to it and there would be no end, so I started the Ideal Type World Cup at once.

"We're keeping it short today, so it's the round of sixteen. Here we go!"

Two photos appeared on the screen, split left and right. On the left, an employee crouched to stock the shelves. On the right, a minor with no ID in sight was brazenly demanding to be sold cigarettes.

"Hmm. This one's not even a contest. Obviously the right. But before that, let me tell a quick story."

I remembered it. Eight years ago, just after I turned twenty, I had started a weekend-afternoon shift at the GE convenience store near home. I was working hard when a young customer came in and ordered Marlboros. One look at the face, though, and there was no way this wasn't a minor, so I asked for ID—and was told it had been left at home. Naturally, I said I couldn't sell the cigarettes. The young customer scowled hard.

"Ugh, you just have to nitpick. Just sell me some."

And with that, they tried to swagger straight out of the store. At first I froze for about a second, thrown by a line I hadn't seen coming. Then I reacted. I chased them out and shouted.

"Hey! What's your problem? Get over here!"

"I don't have any tattoos. And I don't smoke! Spread weird rumors and you're blacklisted. Anyway, that kid took off without even looking back."

"Hey now! No fighting. Straight on to the next round."

I picked the right, and the pictures changed. On the left, a customer who didn't know the name of the cigarettes they smoked. On the right, a customer who left without closing the door.

"Hmm. This one's a little ambiguous. Neither of them really gets on my nerves, but if I'm honest, the left feels like more of a problem."

"No. That's not the issue. There actually aren't customers who leave the door open on purpose. Usually they thought they'd closed it, and it just didn't have enough force, started to shut, and stopped halfway. That sort of thing."

I offered another case as well. Several customers come and go at once, the door is left standing open, and everyone who arrives after assumes it was meant to be that way, so it simply stays open.

"Anyway, not closing the door can be called a mistake. Cigarettes are different. Smokers usually stick to just one kind, don't they? That's how I've always understood it."

"Ah, seriously! I don't smoke. Anyway—you don't know the name of the cigarettes you smoke, so you wander in front of the counter for minutes on end? That is a genuine nuisance. Honestly, the tiniest bit of effort would do it. It's not some alien language no one can parse. Dunhill, Marlboro such-and-such—five or six letters at most."

"All right, on to the next."

Just as the viewers said, both sides were heavyweights. On the left, a customer making unreasonable demands because they knew the owner. On the right, a customer throwing merchandise—or money—at the register.

I tried to picture it. No, not a picture. I'd had something close to the experience: not quite the owner's personal acquaintances, but the creeps who, announcing they were regulars, piled on demand after demand.

"Oh, there are plenty. People who say they're regulars and know the owner, then treat the place like a storage locker and leave their stuff. People who think the front of the store is a parking lot..."

There were plenty more. People asking to put it on a tab. People who bought cigarettes by the carton and then demanded a lighter on the house. Even shameless idiots who straight-up asked to borrow money.

"Weird comments get cut on the spot."

Next up was the creep who hurled money or merchandise at the register. Creatures like that came with a default option already equipped: talking down to you. The moment I saw it, the PTSD hit.

"It was a cold winter. That day the snow was especially heavy, and I spent the entire shift sweeping, so it was already a day when my mood was shot."

Snow was falling.