13 - Otherworlders Protesting Persistently Against Isekai

"That's a stupid name for our club," says Alex, looking at the chapter title. "Rejected."

Having never been particularly receptive to any kind of constructive criticism, I immediately fall to the floor, thrashing and kicking at the air while I scream profanities, like a really chill and handsome and mentally balanced cool dude. "IT'S SO GOOD THOUGH! It spells out—"

"I know what it spells out. And just before this, you suggested Critical Haters of Isekai Nonsense Personnel Office."

"I'd also accept, Knowledge in place of Personnel."

Alex looks unamused. He pushes his glasses up his nose. "You might as well just call us the Shimoneta club. All we'd do is attract perverts."

"'Shimo'—Whoa! Did you just get one past the copyright censors?"

"Huh? No, no … I wasn't talking about the show. That's an actual word."

It's been about a week since that first Kami Hand marathon, and Alex's explanation of creative entropy.

… Or maybe it's been several weeks. I don't know. I haven't been keeping track of the days at all. Honestly, time flows so weirdly here that I don't even feel like trying.

I can say one thing for certain, however—and that's that I haven't gone back to the Isekai Waiting Room at all. (… Make of that what you will.)

Right now, it's a lazy, sunny afternoon (there's literally no other kind in Point Parallax), and we're in our room, brainstorming names for our Destroy Isekai club.

"Surely you mean," says Alex, "our Resist Creative Entropy club."

Yeah, we're still splitting hairs about that. (You know, it's really hard to come up with a name when you can't agree on what your club actually does.

I shoot up off the floor, lightbulb over my head. "I got it! How about, Mandatory Action to Nullify Kingdoms—…"

He cuts me off. "No. I know where you're going with that, and we … we really can't go there. That's actually a step too far."

Okay, okay—in my defense, we've actually come up with some almost-there club names. Protagonists Against Creative Entropy, or P.A.C.E., wasn't too bad. And if you wanna get into the realm of purely-functional, straight-to-the-point names, you can't get straighter to the point than I.W.C.—Isekai Waiting Club. Boring, but practical.

"Ahh, whatever," I say, throwing my hands up. "We can workshop names later. We should focus on what's really important, like—"

"… Establishing a purpose? Recruiting actual members? A reason to exist?"

"No, silly goose—you dumb motherfucker—"

"(That escalated quickly.)"

"—I'm talking about a physical club room!"

To which end, Alex and I pay Jessica a visit later in the day.

"Ara, Odd-kun. Good day to you. I see you've finally started talking to your roommate. The two of you are getting along, I take it?"

Alex and I rub the back of our necks, embarrassed.

Jessica smiles, clipboard in hand. (What the hell does she even use it for?)

"U-fu-fu. Just don't start dressing in trenchcoats or anything like that."

(I don't know what she means by that, but I resent the implication anyway.)

"Jessica!" I declare. "We've decided to start a club. Its sole purpose is to rebel against everything you and your organization stand for, and make your life as difficult as possible." I instinctively flinch, cowering in fear, and brace myself for a German suplex, an RKO, or perhaps some kind of sick-as-fuck and totally awesome powerbomb.

… But when nothing comes, I let down my guard, and continue, resuming my (completely undeserved) arrogance and entitled demeanor without missing a beat, "As such, we demand our very own club room in the L.I.M.B.O. building!" I point a finger at Jessica. "Make it so!"

"Ara … I'd be happy to arrange that for you."

So then I stomp my feet and ball my fists, throwing away whatever dignity as a human being I have left, which isn't much, screaming, "Come on, Jessica! You never let me do the things I want! All I want is a one little club room, it's not that much to ask for, is it! You think you're so high and mighty with your dumb clipboard and stupid ponytail but I—… Hold on, did you say 'yes'?"

"U-fu-fu, you're so funny, Odd-kun. Yes, I would be happy to provide you with a club room of your own."

(Meanwhile, Alex, watching all of this play out in the background, his face scrunched up in physical pain: "… You two are seriously so fucking weird. … Do you guys have to go through this whole comedy routine every single interaction?")

Jessica leads us the two of us through the L.I.M.B.O. building, down hallways I've never seen seen before. At one point along the way, Jessica, smiling darkly, the top half of her face obscured in shadow, cranes her head back to me, Sh*ft-style, and intimates to me, "By the way, Odd-kun, don't think I'm going to let that dig about my ponytail slide … U-fu-fu."

I gulp, dreading whatever she has in store for me.

(Last time I made fun of her hair, she removed my eyelids, sat me in front of a mirror in the L.I.M.B.O. boiler room, and made me watch as she, uh … well, maybe just use your imagination for this one.)

… You know what, whatever. I'll let future me deal with it. That guy's an asshole, anyway.

Eventually we arrive at the end of a hallway. Jessica unlocks the door, and opens it, revealing the kind of nondescript club room you might find in any kind of classroom anime.

Well—at least it would be, were it not for all the dirt, grime and mold covering the entire room from floor to ceiling.

Alex and I stand at the doorway, in shock.

"It's so … dirty," says Alex.

My nose gets a whiff of something that makes my eyes water. "… And moldy."

Jessica smiles. "U-fu-fu. Yes, we spent a lot of effort flooding the room and sealing the humidity in."

I mime slapping her stomach with the back of my hand. "YOU'RE TELLING US YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE!?"

… Aaaaanyway, after that rehashed tsukkomi, Alex and I spend the next few weeks cleaning the place up.

And let me tell you, as 1) a burnt-out office worker who barely had energy after work to brush his teeth, let alone clean his place; and 2) a NEET who couldn't even leave his room to so much as take out the trash—I gotta say, we are totally out of our element on this one.

At one point we even make the rookie mistake of mixing Volatile Cleaner A and Volatile Cleaner B, which creates a cloud of mustard gas that kills the both of us. (It's Alex's first death in Point Parallax. Achievement unlocked. Omedetou!~)

During our cleaning, we talk about this and that. Somehow the topic turns toward Alex's twelve-year effort of a novel that he never finished.

"What's it even about?" I ask. "How could you write something for twelve fucking years?"

He shrugs, leans on his mop. "It's easier if I just show you."

From behind Alex takes out a thick stack of about 200 printed sheet of paper, bound together with binder clips.

I step over all the cleaning supplies on the floor, and take the manuscript from him.

"You took this with you into Point Parallax?" I ask, amazed.

"Yeah? It's my life's work. If it's something inextricably and essentially linked to your existence, it'll come with you."

"Oh. I, uh … Huh." That's interesting. I don't have anything like that.

… But I guess that's not much of a surprise. It's like I didn't even exist, beyond my office job. (And fuck taking any spreadsheets or J*ra tickets into the afterlife.)

I riffle through the pages.

The sentences are very, very long. Some of them go on for a page or more.

"So, uh … What would have been your plan, once you finished it in—(you said it had five planned parts? Assuming each part was as long as the prologue, that's …)—in another forty-eight years?"

Alex thinks for a bit. "I guess … Write another one?"

"You never thought about publishing? Isn't that every writer's dream?"

He snorts derisively. "Publishing? Yeah, okay—sanding off every rough edge of my work so that any remaining trace of a personality has been thoroughly obliterated, all so I can impress agents and editors and other gatekeepers whose tastes I don't even respect, with the prize at the end of all that being that nobody reads my fucking book anyway, all the same. But, hey! At least I can take pride that it sits on a brick and mortar store shelf somewhere!"

"You sound like the fox with the sour grapes."

"No, actually—I think I sound more like M*rco Pi*rre Wh*te, king of the Kn*rr stock pot, giving back his Mich*lin stars."

"You have such an ego for someone nobody has ever read."

He scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. "E-he-he."

"(That's not a compliment.) … Hey, what about online serial publishing? You probably would've made more money that way than with traditional publishing. Open up a Patr*on?"

"Oh, even better," he replies, sardonically. "Chasing trends to build up an audience, and then daily updates to keep up with their monkey-level attention spans, until your work becomes something you don't even want to do anymore. Uhh yeah, there's another word for that. A job. And as a NEET, that kind of thing is antithetical to my existence."

"Yeah, but … Money is good. You can exchange it for goods and services."

Alex rolls his eyes. "Ugh, money. All you care about is money."

To my complete exasperation, Alex takes off his glasses, then pulls out a makeup kit, and starts painting his face in full-on J*ker makeup. He even dyes his hair green. He pitches his voice higher, and repeats, "All you care about is money. This zeitgeist deserves a better class of author. And I'm gonna give it to them. … Tell your followers they beta-read for me, now."

I sneer back at him, "They won't read for a freak."

"A 'freeeee-eak'," he mocks, holding a knife to my face. "How about I cut your manuscript up into 30-second Book-T*k friendly snippets and feed them to the algorithm. Then we'll see how loyal a voracious reader really is."

Then he burns a literal ceiling-high stack of money we have for some reason in our clubroom, while declaring, as several mobsters appear beside me and drag me out of the room, "… It's not about money. It's about uncompromised artistic integrity. … Everything burns!"

Anyway, the whole bit goes on for way, waaaay too long and gets totally out of hand, and by the time we get done re-enacting the rest of the entire movie, it's midnight and we've forgotten what we were even talking about in the first place.

We save the rest of the cleaning for another day.