Session 0 Establishing a Good Character and Backstory Includes?

The dim buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights is practically a lullaby compared to your professor's grating, condescending lecture. He keeps circling the same point about the Hero's Journey, tapping the board as if rhythm could make it sink in. Structure, fundamentals, legends—he drones, and drones, and drones.

"Suppose I should be grateful", you think, stretching over your notes. "Anyone else's voice might let me fall asleep. He never stays quiet long enough to give me the chance."

You wonder again why this class is required for "foreign" students. Can you even be called a foreigner? Your father took your birth certificate to the embassy in Tokyo the day you were born, so you've been a U.S. citizen all your life. He made sure you learned American history with the same care your teachers drilled Japanese history into you. You've even been to Guam with him half a dozen times. Still, the mainland hasn't matched your expectations.

The shrill buzz of the professor's phone alarm snaps the whole room awake. In an instant, the gloomy, half-asleep class sparks with more energy than it had in the last ninety minutes.

"Don't forget the reading," he calls over the stampede for the door. "Adaptations won't save you—read the actual book."

You cut a quick line to the cafeteria, trying to beat the crowd through the glassy skywalks. Snow frosts the campus into white, and your reflection in the windows turns you into a dark silhouette against it. The lines are already forming when you arrive, and you hover, weighing your options. Months ago, you were paralyzed by the choices—so many new stalls and a few familiar ones. None tasted like home. Eventually, you gave up on novelty and picked the shortest line: A generic burger joint.

You look over the cafeteria, spotting a table with a few of your classmates. They greet you casually as you set down your tray. At first, back in September, a burger and fries sparked joy—each time you'd try something new, keeping a mental tier list of toppings. Now all you can think about is your mother's homemade bentos and how the rice always tasted faintly sweet when it steamed the lid. You drown the fries in ketchup until you can stomach them, listening as the others swap references from the cartoons they grew up on.

"Sorry, never heard of that one," you say when they ask your opinion. Groans erupt from everyone.

"Do they even have TV where you come from?" your roommate asks. Every conversation reminds you how different your upbringings are—and how that difference widens the rift between you.

After dinner, you decline an invitation to go out and party, choosing instead to bury yourself in the library until closing, then trudge back to the dorm. You barely get the door closed before you launch yourself onto the mattress; the old springs give you a bounce like a tired parent's lullaby. Your eyelids grow heavy. Sleep is right there—and then your phone rings with an all too familiar tone.

For a moment, you consider letting it go to voicemail, thinking "what harm could one missed call do?" until you remember who's on the other end of the line.

"Hello," you say, hoping that making an exhausted tone will help him take the hint and keep this short.

"Well, somebody sounds way too tired for a Saturday morning," your father says with a chuckle.

"Might I remind you it's Friday night here? Or did you forget how time zones work?"

"That's even worse," he says, with sarcastic shock. "Shouldn't you be out partying? Meeting the boys at the local hangout to talk about how you absolutely do not need recreational drugs or one-night stands to have fun? Isn't that what college freshmen do these days?"

"Dad, I have no idea what you did in college, and the more I learn, the less I want to know."

"What, you're telling me you don't spend weekends engaging in underage drinking and other tomfoolery?"

"Sometimes I wish I were the monster you think I am."

"As long as you keep your grades up, don't get a tattoo, avoid a DUI, and don't get some girl pregnant, I can't complain. Lord knows I barely maintained that standard."

"Again: I don't need to know what you did."

"Sure you don't." He pauses. "But you should consider it, it could be the way to prove you don't need to take that 'America 101' class. What a waste of time. As if I didn't teach you more than most Americans about our history and culture."

"Oh, I don't know. If I weren't in there, the professor would probably tear her hair out. I'm the only student whose English he can understand."

"See? I knew you'd do well," he says, satisfied.

And just like that, the weekly call settles into its usual rhythm: Thanksgiving plans, your latest culture shocks, the old army buddy he ran into at the hospital, your gripes about mandatory classes, the strange perks of being labeled a foreign student. It only takes half an hour for you two to run the well dry.

"Well, I'll let you go," he says. "Gotta prep the dungeon for tonight's session. If anything happens, call me, okay?"

"Yeah. I will."

"And give your mother and your sister a call. They both miss you."

"I will," you promise.

"Alright, son. I love you."

"Love you too, Dad," you say, ending the call and dropping the phone on the nightstand. A heavy sigh leaves you. It's only been a few months since you left, but home already feels like a distant memory.

"How much stranger can this adventure get?" You wonder as you sink back into sleep, unaware of just how strange tomorrow would be.