Pengi!

Ever wonder what happens when a thousand particles accelerate towards each other? Maybe they'd create a black hole. Or birth another universe. Or both. But what do I know? Physics was never my strong suit. I dropped out before we got to the fun stuff.

Whatever the answer, it still wouldn't explain how I ended up in whatever digital hellscape this is, with nothing but-

"Peng."

…a rotund creature that looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old who only had access to black and white crayons.

Let me rewind to where this mess started.

I dragged myself out of bed at 10 AM, earlier than usual to start my Super Eats delivery grind. The morning sun stabbed through gaps in my blinds, highlighting the disaster zone of my apartment: empty cup ramen containers and those weird stains on the wall I still couldn't explain.

"Food..." I mumbled, shuffling to the kitchen. The fridge greeted me with its usual sad contents: half a bottle of soy sauce and something wet in a takeout container that I really needed to throw out.

My phone buzzed. The first Super Eats order notification of the day. Finally. Work meant food money, and food money meant I could keep ignoring how to actually cook for myself.

I stumbled to the bathroom to splash water on my face. When I looked up, my reflection glared back at me - sharp yellow eyes, the kind that made kids cross the street when they saw me coming. My sharp canines didn’t help either.

Whatever. I wasn't trying to win any beauty contests. I just needed to pick up food from point A, deliver it to point B, try not to murder customers who complain about cold rice.

I pulled on my white hoodie and oversized black jacket, the same ones I'd worn every day since... well, since that day, grabbed my phone, and headed out. Just another normal day of barely scraping by.

Or at least, that's what it was supposed to be.

***

The grease-stained glass door of Hot Chick's Flamin' Chicken stuck halfway open, forcing me to shoulder my way inside. The smell of grease and hot sauce assaulted my nose as I stood at the counter, where a teenager with more acne than face stared up at me.

"Order for Chen?"

"Ugh... lemme check." He disappeared into the back, leaving me alone with the buzzing fluorescent lights and a TV mounted in the corner playing the news.

"-today marks the second anniversary of the unexplained disappearance of the thirteen developers from Studio Cai. The team vanished while working on their highly anticipated project, Daikon, a title hailed as a potential breakthrough in gaming for its use of adaptive artificial intelligence, enabling non-playable characters to evolve alongside the players."

"Which is exactly what concerns authorities," a rough voice cut in. The live stream had panned to a police chief, his mustache twitching as he spoke. "We're still actively investigating these disappearances. Meanwhile, we urge citizens to report any Daikon-related properties. They pose a potential public safety risk and must be-"

"Aye yo." The acne kid had returned, empty-handed. "Isn't that the game that made the developers go crazy?"

"The chicken. Where's the fucking chicken?"

"Okay, okay, jeez." He scurried back to the kitchen.

On screen, the police chief droned on about public safety while they showed footage of hazmat teams incinerating game cartridges. Two years. Two years of this circus, and they still had no idea what really happened to them.

Neither did I, but at least I wasn't pretending otherwise.

The kitchen door swung open again. Still no chicken.

"Five more minutes?" the kid offered weakly.

I checked my phone. Three other orders waiting. Rent due in several days. No time for this shit.

"Make it two."

Finally, the kid came out with a greasy paper bag. I grabbed it and was already halfway to the door before he could say another word. The news report still echoed in my head as I yanked my bike free from the rack and swung onto the seat.

The delivery address was up one of those fancy hillside apartments. My bike's chain squealed in protest as I pumped the pedals, cursing whoever decided to build apartments this high up.

Blue and red lights started to paint the street ahead as I rounded the final corner. Three police cars blocked the road, officers milling around with clipboards and stern expressions.

I checked the delivery address again. Of course it had to be the exact building they were circling.

You know what? Not my problem if the customer murdered their roommate or something. I just needed to drop off this chicken and get my tip before it got cold.

Pushing through the small crowd of gossiping neighbors, I made my way to the front door. The excuses were already lined up: traffic was terrible (technically true, even if it was the police blocking my way), the restaurant was backed up (also true), my bike got a flat (might as well throw that in too)...

I raised my fist to knock, rehearsing my most apologetic expression - the one that said "sorry for the wait" while secretly meaning "sorry you live in such an inconvenient location."

My knuckles barely grazed the door before it swung open, revealing a guy who looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His hair stuck up and despite the autumn chill, he wasn't wearing shoes. Or socks for that matter. Just bare feet on hardwood floors like some kind of heathen.

He leaned forward, eyes scanning me up and down. I mean, sure, the black jacket and white hoodie hand-me-downs were gas. Inorin always did have impeccable taste, even if I'd never admit that to her face. But this guy didn't need to be so obvious about-

"Pengi!"

"Sorry?"

Before I could process what was happening, the bag vanished from my hands.

"Thanks~!" he chirped.

Heavy footsteps approached from behind me, and a police officer materialized in the doorway. "Young man, I trust you're not doing anything suspicious here."

The guy's eyes went wide with mock innocence. "Me? Suspicious? Officer, I would never!"

The officer's gaze shifted to me. "Did this young man do anything strange to you?"

"No. Just took his food." I held up my empty hands as proof.

"Then leave. Now."

I didn't need to be told twice. Whatever was going on in that house wasn't my business. My life was already a dumpster fire without adding "person of interest in a police investigation" to the mix. Besides, my phone was buzzing with new orders.

The rest of my day blurred into a stream of doorbell rings and fake smiles. By sunset, sweat had soaked through my hoodie. Autumn my ass - the sun beat down like it was still the heat of summer. I wheeled my bike through the front gate of my apartment, only to freeze at the scene unfolding by apartment 103.

"Matsuda-san, this is the third time this week!" My landlady's voice carried across the building. Her floral apron and neat grey bun gave her the appearance of everyone's favorite grandmother, but right now her face was redder than the tomatoes growing in her window box.

Matsuda's door remained firmly shut while he argued through the gap. I'd never spoken more than two words to the guy in the six months I'd lived here. All I knew was that he worked as a butcher at the market downtown at weird hours. The occasional whiff of raw meat from his unit told me he probably brought his work home sometimes.

The landlady's arm shot up, brandishing a clear plastic bag that made my stomach lurch. Inside, strips of what looked like steak floated in murky red liquid.

"And what do you call THIS?" She thrust the bag at Matsuda's door.

Matsuda muffled something through the gap.

"Marinade doesn't smell like THAT! You've got 24 hours to move out! Not one minute more!"

The door slammed with enough force to rattle the nearby windows. The landlady spun around, her eyes now locking onto me.

"Kuroha-chan!" She marched over, the bag of meat swinging. "Does this look like steak to you?"

She thrust the bag into my face. The smell hit me - metallic and wrong, nothing like the beef bowls I delivered.

"I mean..." I leaned back, trying not to breathe too deeply. "Are you saying it's... human?"

"Well? Is it?"

"I... don't think so?" The meat looked too pale, too stringy. Not that I was an expert on human flesh, but still.

The landlady's shoulders slumped. "You think so? Hmph." She shuffled over to the courtyard trash bins, muttering under her breath. "Maybe I overreacted... eh, better safe than sorry."

The bag made a wet splat as it hit the bottom of the trash bin.

I quickly turned toward the stairs to escape the lingering smell of whatever was in that bag. My foot had barely touched the first step when-

"Kuroha-chan, wait!"

The landlady rummaged through her cloth bag, the one she always carried to the convenience store down the street. Her hand emerged clutching something slim and black.

"Here, sweetheart."

An eyeliner pencil. Still wrapped in plastic, security tag dangling off the side.

Ever since she disappeared, the landlady kept doing this - dropping off random "gifts." Last week it was a dented can of coffee. Before that, a pack of hair ties.

The landlady beamed at me, waiting.

I took the eyeliner and muttered thanks. If she actually gave a shit, she'd cut my rent. Hell, waive it entirely. But no - just bargain bin makeup I'd never use and that same pitying smile.

"Oh, and don't forget! Rent's due early this month."

"Yeah, I know."

I trudged up the stairs, each step a battle against exhaustion. The key stuck in the lock (it always did) forcing me to jiggle it while pressing my shoulder against the door. The hinges creaked as I stumbled inside, kicking off my shoes.

A stench hit my nose the moment I dropped my backpack. I lifted it up to my face and- oh good lord. The fabric must've absorbed every molecule of that hell spawn they called sauce while I waited for them to finish that order.

I unzipped the bag and made my way to the balcony. The evening air would hopefully kill whatever unholy mix of grease had invaded my stuff.

Turning it upside down, I shook out the contents onto my floor: phone charger, wallet, half-eaten protein bar, and-

Something solid thudded last, wrapped messily in brown paper. The wrapping job looked like it had been done in a hurry, tape slapped on randomly and all.

I picked up the package, turning it over in my hands. The shape felt familiar, like those old game cartridges from when I was a kid. But I hadn't bought any games. Hell, I didn't even own a console anymore.

My fingers found the edge of the paper and pulled. The wrapping fell away, revealing a black cartridge with a single word printed across its surface in stark white letters:

DAIKON