02 - The Seven Magic Words

"… You think you're the first person to complain about genre fatigue?" challenges the goddess. "You think you're some kinda original thinker? Huh?" She takes another drag off her cigarette, crosses her legs insouciantly.

Meanwhile, I'm still on the ground. I rise up slowly, with great effort. Because my foot with the shattered toe hurts too much when I put any weight on it, I sorta just hop around on my good foot in an attempt to balance on it.

The goddess exhales, blowing out thick plumes that swirl around her and dissipate into the black void. (I catch myself wondering if she knows how to blow smoke rings.)

I hop backwards a little, away from her, to avoid breathing in any carcinogens. (Though, I guess that doesn't really matter, given I'm already dead. … But I still can shatter my toe, so uhh … does that mean I can still get lung cancer?)

She continues. "Every week I get at least one of you smart-asses coming in, complaining about tropes like you're some kinda genius for pointing them out. Uh, yeah? We’re all very aware of the current state of the industry." She clicks her tongue at me. "Argh … You think I enjoy having to send losers like you off into parallel fantasy worlds every day?!"

"Diet Fantasy," I point out.

For that unsolicited remark, she flicks her ashes at me. Then she sighs, exactly the way I do when I receive yet another team-wide hour-long meeting invite to discuss how we can improve our overall workflow productivity. (Hey, here's an idea, for starters—how about not having so many meetings!? Why don't we start there!?)

She continues on, "Do you have any idea how many people I gotta process every day? And it's getting worse all the time. You see, the problem is one big feedback loop. People in your world are feeling more and more hopeless—"

"For various reasons we can't get into here," I needlessly interject.

"—Don't fucking interrupt me. … Like I said, people in your world are losing hope by the day, more miserable than ever. This increases demand for escapism. For more isekai titles. At the same time, people like you—"

"I don't know what you mean by that, but I resent the implication."

"Dude, I said, stop interrupting. … At the same time, people like you"—she makes a real pointed effort in re-emphasizing those two words—"are increasing by the day. Exhausted, defeated—people who've just given up. They can only fantasize about starting anew in another world. Which means ever-increasing worlds. Which in turn, means ever-increasing people to transmigrate into said worlds. It's a self-perpetuating cycle. A self-fulfilling prophecy."

"A self-heating rice bowl. … A self-cleaning oven."

She looks at me as if I've just spoken in pig Latin, backwards. "… What!?"

"Oh, I thought we were just naming random things prefixed with 'self-'."

She does a double take, and then shakes her head in disbelief. She takes a another drag. Then she says, "… You said it yourself. Twenty-four shows a year. But even that doesn't even begin to scratch the surface. Because that's just the mainstream anime series! Let's put into perspective just how many actual worlds are being churned out. Big Publisher wants more isekai. They've even gotten so hungry they're casting their net across the globe for the next big hit. Easily, another three or four hundred new worlds, right there. At least. And then what about all the non-contest worlds being created? People writing for the sake of it? The demand, the creation—they'll never wane, so long as life in your world stays unbearable."

I don't say anything, for a change.

She finishes the last of her cigarette. She flicks the butt away, banishing it into the empty void. Then, she chuckles, "'Isekai-industrial complex'. Heh. I actually kinda like the sound of that. Never heard that one before. You're an annoying little shit, but I low-key like that phrase." She looks off into space, and her smile fades. "… 'Industry'. That's just it, isn't it? I'm nothing more than another machine in one long assembly line who's gotta meet a quota that gets more and more out of reach with each passing day. No, seriously. My end-of-year evaluation, and subsequent bonus, depend on how many protags I process on a daily basis. Throughput, you get it? Through-put. Management is always trying to get us to do more, with less. It's maddening."

Wh-what's this? She's beginning to sound like me, back in the real world. Jaded cog in a machine, swamped with work demands that only ever seem to get worse. Could it be, that the two of us really aren't that different? Th-that we might actually be kindred spirits?

I mean, sure, we got off on the wrong foot, but maybe this is that oh-so-beloved romantic trope playing out, where we start off hating each other, but then we grow closer through mutual hardships—you know, like how opposites attract?

A-and plus, she even praised something I came up with; and naturally, as someone whose only romantic experiences has only ever been 2D in nature, the tiniest of positive female interactions immediately prompt a vision of the two of us, happily married. In fact, I'm picturing the two of us in old age, on our mutual deathbed, surrounded by our many children and grandchildren …

"… So the last thing I need right now," she says, "is to deal with some douchebag who thinks he's above the most popular anime genre in the world." She crosses her arms. "Pfft. Give me a break. Yeah, ignoring the assignment completely to write your own version of an anti-isekai. Come on. You're like a slightly-cleverer-than-average high-schooler, who's just discovered the concept of subverting expectations, and expects the rest of the class to clap for him because he does the opposite of what's expected." She eyes me up and down, focusing on my slight pot belly and thinning hair. (Have I mentioned that about my hair already?) With a sadistic smirk, she adds, "… And from the looks of it, high school was half a lifetime ago for you."

… Well, so much for falling in love. My octogenarian romantic vision pops like a bubble.

Ah, whatever. It never would've worked, anyway. A beautiful goddess and a mortal, overworked, doomer salaryman with delusions of creative intellectualism?

… Yeah. I'm definitely out of her league. I can do a whole lot better.

"So," she says, "back to business, then? I've already spent way too much time on you. Come on. No more jokes, no more fooling around." She waves her hand, and a small portal appears between us. … A small window into what appears to be the most generic medieval fantasy setting I've ever seen. (In other words, the average isekai setting.)

"Kingdom, elves, magic, yadda yadda yadda," she drones, without the slightest attempt at feigning enthusiasm. "I'm sure you understand what you're in for."

"You know," I say, "you're just as sick of this whole fad-that-won't-go-away, as I am. So why do you force yourself to do this?"

She looks at me with a weary, resigned expression. "… It's my job. What do you want from me?"

Smugly, I counter, "I know another group of people who were just doing their jobs. They were called—"

Her eyes narrow, as if cautioning me to choose my words very closely. (After all, we're edgy here—just count how many f-words we've used so far!—but we can't be that edgy.)

"—… the, um … the Department of Motor Vehicles," I mutter, awkwardly.

I stare into the portal, at the sight of yet another circle city. The same sterile, sanitized fantasy world I've seen a million times before. Like I'm looking at a goddamn pre-made asset set from the Un*ty Ass*t Store that every isekai creator just happens to borrow from.

"… Do I have to?" I whine.

She rolls her eyes. "Come on. You're that much of a pessimist? Even if the setting's boring, it's a new life. That's full of possibility and potential. You might as well get in, and see where it all leads. You'll get to be alive again, if nothing else. 'As long as you're alive—there always exists the possibility of happiness.'"

I sigh. "I mean … I guess. So what do I reincarnate as? What kind of overpowered skill do I start off with, that works as a one-note gag but is incredibly dull to watch play out for 13 entire episodes?"

"You're, um … Looks like you're going to be, um …" She trails off. She shifts her eyes away from me, and mumbles something that I can't quite make out.

"What? … I can't hear you."

"I said …" She repeats, but it's just as muffled.

What, is she embarrassed all of a sudden? How bad could it be? A slime? A spider? A 7-*leven Slurp*e machine???

"What are you saying? Speak clearly!"

She turns to me, and then blurts out, "… YOU'RE GONNA BE AN ARISTOCRAT NOBLE'S BIDET, OKAY!?"

Silence. The air between us thick with awkward tension.

After several eternities, I shake my head, and finally say, "… Take me back. No, seriously, I'd rather just go back to salaryman hell. Send me back to Earth."

"I can't," she says. "You're dead there." She offers a sympathetic look, to my surprise. "It's not—I mean, it's not that bad. Imagine the … water-based manipulation powers you'll have."

Even though she clearly hates me, even she seems apologetic about the absolute state of the genre, that such a concept not only exists, but feels strangely inevitable, given where current narrative trends are heading.

The portal between us continues to swirl and glow. The window grows wider, as if telling me to hurry up and jump in.

… So that I can start a new life of cleaning butts.

No, thanks.

I open my mouth, and turn to my last resort.

My secret weapon.

One which I never had the courage to utilize, in my past life.

The magic words. Yes, those magic words.

"Goddess! I want to …"

The goddess seems to know where I'm going with this. She shakes her head. "(Don't do it.)"

"… speak to …"

"(Oh, you motherfucker.)"

"… your …"

"(I will beat your ass.)"

"… MANAGER!"

There.

It's done.

… It's done.

A long silence.

The goddess glares at me, shooting daggers from her eyes. Then, at last, a loud sigh. She throws her hands in the air in resignation.

"Fine … You asked for it."

The glowing portal to Central Who-Gives-A-Shit slams shut. The goddess takes the opportunity to light another cigarette. I stand around, waiting for … something to happen. Someone to appear.

Then, after a few moments of silence, I suddenly hear another woman's voice from behind my shoulder, so close to my ear that my skin breaks out into goosebumps … A low, silky, deliberate voice, the tone calm and measured, perhaps even friendly by all quantifiable metrics—but behind which icy demeanor I feel, for some reason, the unmistakable intent of one who wishes to castrate me, arrange the removed bits on a charcuterie board, and then serve them to her guests the next time she hosts game night.

The voice says, "Ara … What seems to be the problem here?"