09 - Alexander the Great

I make my way back to the dorms, from the L.I.M.B.O. building, absolutely drenched. Dripping water everywhere. Leaving a trail of water behind me as I cross the courtyard outside. Like some kind of overgrown, pathetic slug in human form.

I dunno. Maybe I should start wearing a raincoat everywhere I go, from now on. Or at least bring an umbrella when I take my lunch into the bathroom.

Ya see, chat Reader, this is why you don't stand up for the things you believe in.

Having convictions is dumb, and if you ever have any thoughts that don't conform to the majority opinion, you should stifle them, never express them, and just smile politely and agree with everyone else.

I'm suddenly reminded why I was the way I was, pre-prologue. Why I never engaged with anyone outside of compulsory office interactions, why I never spoke up about anything. Because this is where it gets you.

With each step I take, my water-logged shoes make a loud squeak.

Goddamn, I hate that wet-sock feeling so fucking much.

I wrest my feet from their moist confines, and fling shoe and sock together into some nearby bushes. (… Is it just me, or did I hear some rustling afterwards, followed by a deep inhale, after I turned back around? … Ah, it's probably nothing.)

Barefoot, I walk back to the dormitory building.

Ah. … Alex is probably there.

He's always there.

Oh, yeah, I haven't mentioned this at all yet, but the top bunk is now filled. They gave me a roommate a few months back.

Now, I don't actually know if Alex is his real name, because I've never really spoken to him before. I've just taken to calling him that, or Alexander, or Alek, or Alec, or anything variation thereof.

I do this because he's constantly shouting at the CRT TV, saying stuff like, "You're not Alexander!" whenever he plays video games on his Pl*ySt*tion2, which is an obscure retro console you've probably never heard of.

I don't know why he says it, or what it means. I've never asked him about it. I just figure it's his catchphrase or something.

Alexander and I—we're not unfriendly toward each other or anything. We sorta just acknowledge that the other exists, and then leave it at that.

I mean … Is it really that weird not to talk to someone you share a room with, for several months?

If anything, isn't it nice for a change, not to have to engage in bullshit small talk with someone just because you both occupy the same living space?

Well, whatever. He plays his video games, and I walk around Point Parallax all day, seething to myself. We don't bother each other. We live our own separate lives. It's a good arrangement.

Why change it?

(You know, now that I'm talking about it, I don't think I've ever seen Alex in the Isekai Waiting Room …)

When I finally get back to my room, sure enough, there he is, in the dark (we have windows but he prefers keeping the blackout curtains shut—I'm fine either way, honestly), still playing games, bathed in the glow of the S*ny Trin*tron he got from … somewhere. Headphones plugged in to the TV. The lens of his glasses reflecting his player character. Some action game, I dunno.

Alex looks back at me. He considers the pitiful state I'm in, for a few seconds. Then he turns back to his game.

I change into fresh clothes. Then I lie in bed for a while, staring at nothing.

I listen to the mashing of buttons on the controller. His occasional cry of, "You're not Alexander!" All of it underscored by the distinctive, persistent hum of the CRT.

I always liked that sound. It fills me now with a nostalgic sense of safety. I could always tell, as a kid, when a TV was on in another room, even if it was muted. When flat-screens took over, I had no idea just how much I'd miss that noise. Remember Saturday morning cartoons? Ah, you probably don't. They don't have those anymore. I used to wake up really early on Saturday, the rest of the house still asleep, make a bowl of cereal, plant myself in front of the tube, volume low, so as to not wake anyone. Or, sometimes, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I'd go downstairs, that tell-tale hum coming from the living room, nothing but white static on the screen, my dad asleep on the couch. I'd find the remote, turn it off. Pull up the blanket over him tighter. Go back upstairs. Back to bed. School the next day.

Parallel isekai fantasy world?

Fuck that shit. How about you take me back to those CRT days instead.

… I open my eyes.

Did I doze off?

I watch Alex from my bed for a bit.

Then I get up, walk to where he's sitting.

I stand in front of his console for a bit.

Then I pick it up, and smash it on the floor.

The Pl*ySt*tion cracks, splits into two. The game on the TV glitches, flickers, and then dies.

Alex looks up slowly at me from his chair. After a very long pause, he asks, "… Can I help you?"

I stare back for a long time. Then I say, "I'm being persecuted for my beliefs."

"… Those being?"

And I answer, copying the exact cadence and emotional register (not to mention vicious facial expression) famously utilized by the ascot-wearing leader of M*stery, Inc. giving his opinion on his hometown in the sequel to the live-action adaptation of their escapades: "… I think isekai SUCKS!"

Alex, to my surprise, just laughs. "You been causing trouble in the Waiting Room again?"

Damn. I guess my reputation precedes me. He knows all about my shenanigans, even though this is the first time we've ever talked.

I ask Alex outright, "And what do you think about that? Would you dump water on my head while I eat lunch in the bathroom, just because I hate isekai?"

"Is that what happened to you?"

"… N-no."

"I mean, you could've just not eaten in the L.I.M.B.O. building. Could've taken it back here. Or you could've not eaten at all. It's not like we need to."

"B-but it was katsu curry day. … What am I gonna do—not eat it?"

Alex shrugs. He picks up the broken console off the floor, sets it back on the desk. He waves his hands over the console, and it magically re-assembles itself back together again.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" I ask.

"The laser in the disc drive has broken a few times, so I know how to fix it by now. … Wait. You knew I could fix it before you smashed my console, right?"

"Are you not interested in reincarnating?" I ask him, changing the topic.

He stares back. "Not particularly."

"Do you hate isekai too?"

"… Not particularly."

"Do you like it then?"

"… Not really."

"Then—what's your deal?"

He scratches the side of his face. "Well, I still have a lot of games to get through."

"And you'll reincarnate after you're done?"

"I dunno," he says. "Maybe. I haven't thought that far ahead yet."

I gesture wildly, expressing my incredulity at his non-answers.

Perhaps he senses my frustration, because he explains, "Okay, look. You're not the only person fed up with the oversaturation of isekai. But you have to understand that isekai …" He wags his finger, Nuh-uh-uh. "… Isekai is not the true enemy."

"Then … What is?"

"That overwhelming sameness of characters and settings, the sheer homogeneity of storytelling that pervades not only modern anime, but nearly all media today—this trend is merely a symptom of a much larger problem. One that perhaps even transcends the domain of fiction."

Alex leans back in his gaming chair, and steeples his fingers together. His glasses glow white, opaque. He looks like he's either about to A) tell his son to get in the robot, or B) offer me a choice of a blue or red pill.

"Let me tell you why you're here, Odd-kun. You're here because you feel there's a malaise, one that you can't explain. But it's constantly there, like a splinter in your mind."

Ah. I see we're going with option B).

He continues, "The sheer vacuity and cookie-cutter template-based storytelling that you so rail against—that's all just incidental to the truth of isekai's prevalence."

I gulp.

"… So why don't I show you how far the rabbit-hole goes?"

"Oh, shit," I say. "Are we really doing M*trix references in Current Year?"

Alex grins. "Odd-kun … Are you familiar with the concept of the 'Heat Death of the Universe'?"