51 - Isekai Waiting Blues (3)

It takes us the next two weeks to finish up the codex.

The two of us collaborating. Building upon the other's ideas. Shooting them down, when they don't work. Or trying to talk through the plot. ("… So what's the eyepatch guy's deal, then? Why is he erasing characters?")

We stay in the dorm room this entire time. Our room becoming our own private atelier, or writing studio.

We don't sleep, we don't eat. (Not that we need to do either.)

"Okay, how about this. There's two parallel worlds, you see … That's why MC is stuck in the time loop. Worlds are colliding."

"Oh. Oh! What if MC isn't even from this world initially. Maybe she's really from a post-apocalyptic future, some barren wasteland, where aliens have invaded …"

"Okay. Okay, and maybe they stumble upon a portal that leads them into our world …"

"Yes. Yes, the eyepatch man—he's part of the MC's old world. Maybe they were even comrades. He's there, to pull her back, into the post-apocalyptic alien reality …"

"Wait, so is the current world a construct? Or a reality?"

… And so on.

We work non-stop. 'Writing'.

"Are we even writing, at this point?" I ask Alex, at one point.

Alex looks up at me, from his work. He shrugs. "Yeah, of course."

"Even though this must be completely different from what you were doing back in the real world? Hunched over your keyboard, at your desk?"

"It's really not that different. The keyboard, the typing, the words on the screen—that's just the mechanical process of our approximation of the transmutation process. Here in Point Parallax, it's much more 'pure'. Keyboards, pen on paper—that's all just a physical limitation. Real-world writing merely approaches, asymptotically, Point Parallax codex-literature. Both involve thought organization. Which, when it comes down to it—is all writing really is. Organizing thoughts."

"Big words."

Alex laughs. "… Yes. In short … We're writing right now."

Eventually we finish our codex.

We give it a title.

We come up with an ending.

It's a pretty good one.

… Or at least, I think so.

*

Alex and I show up to the club room the following day. Our exhaustion clearly visible on our faces.

Sunny and Moeka cheer at our appearance.

"And just where have you two been!?" exclaims Valerie.

"… Long story," Alex and I say. (… We realize there's a joke to be made there, but we're too tired to point it out. And plus, puns and the lowest form of humor, and all that, yadda yadda …)

I hold up our finished codex to Valerie.

She takes it from me. Examines it with a puzzled expression. "… What the hell is this thing supposed to be? Looks like a—"

"NO!" "STOP!"

"…? What's your guys' problem?"

So we give her the same QRD that Alex gave me.

"So I just," she says, skeptically, eyebrow raised. "… 'consume' it."

"Yep."

So then she does.

In between this line and previous line, she has effectively consumed our story.

Our thoughts, our story about the time loop, the man in the eyepatch—they're a part of her now.

She's 'read' it all.

She has stepped into the shoes of our temporally-challenged MC. Experienced all her inner turmoil as she watches each route's heroine get erased out of existence. An automaton, who retains memories for the MC's friends via world checksums.

… And in the end, agreeing to go with the man with the eyepatch, back to the post-apocalyptic parallel world—not out of surrender, but to protect her friends. … And vowing that she'll kill the man, once they get to the other side. ("See, I don't think you will," says the man in the eyepatch. "I think once you remember what lies on the other side, we're gonna be friends again.") Ambiguous ending. Cut before we get to the other side. Room for sequels.

"… Huh," she says. "Alright."

"What'd you think?"

"It was … fine."

Sunny and Moeka seem eager to try it out too, so we let them 'read' it next.

Sunny really enjoys it, and raves about how good the story is. (… But given that he also has a positive view on ticks, his opinion doesn't really mean all that much to us. We thank him regardless.)

Moeka doesn't like it at all. Says it's too confusing. And she doesn't like the man with the eyepatch. She does like the robot doll, though.

… Very wide range of opinions.

Alex shrugs. "Well, it do be what it be. It's done. On to the next one."

I look to our collection of artifacts.

"Hey," I say, nudging Alex with my elbow.

"What?"

I nod to the artifacts. "… The silver key."

"Yeah?"

"… It's gone."

*

We work our way through the rest of the artifacts.

Witch's hat. Guitar pick. A music box.

Using them as inspiration for each new codex. Coming up with a story behind each one.

And with each new completed story, its influencing artifact disappears.

We even go back and adapt the foxgirl picture-book story into a codex. Expanding on the original concept, adding more plot threads.

The office badge disappears.

We take Valerie's manga about the mech, and adapt it into its own codex.

The twin diplomas disappear.

And we don't stop.

We keep working.

Valerie helps out with some of the visualization work, but most of the so-called 'writing', or thought transmutation, is done by Alex and me.

Sunny and Moeka act as our readers. Consuming. Giving us their thoughts.

*

I feel like I'm underselling it quite a bit, but all this is a lot of work.

… Actually, I'm pretty sure this is the hardest I've ever worked in my life—the previous one, as well as this one.

(And remember, you're talking to someone who died at his desk in the real world.)

My mind is beyond fried at this point.

Every waking hour is spent on either thought transmutation, or breaking plots.

Sometimes Alex and I gather the IWC together and try to talk through plot points, whenever we write ourselves into a corner.

I go for long walks, where I do nothing but think about outlining.

And when I'm done circling the island ten or twenty times, I'm ready to write some more with Alex.

*

Having never truly 'written' in my life before this, I ask Alex, who's sitting across the table: "… Is it supposed to feel like this?"

Alex blinks. "Like what?"

"Like I'm the greatest living (dead) writer who's ever put thought to codex one minute, and then feeling like I wanna just bash my own face in the table for not being able to express myself the way I want to, because I'm a fucking stupid hack and I need to be put out of my misery?"

"… Yeah, pretty much."

"Does it ever get better?"

"Not really, no."

A long silence.

Then I say: "You know, on a purely rational level—it really doesn't seem like it's worth it. We're pouring our blood and soul into this, killing ourselves. And the only people who'll read it are Sunny and Moeka."

Another long silence.

Alex smiles, wearily.

He takes a drag off an imaginary cigarette.

… And doesn't say anything else.

We get back to work.

*

"Literature," says Alex, "is still in its infancy."

I look up.

I let him ramble. We've been working for a while now—he's earned it.

"… It sounds weird because it's been going on for so long but it evolves so much more slowly than other mediums.

"Compare that with video games. Born in the fuckin' 70s or 80s, and seeing fundamental evolutions every year. (I mean it's slowed down a lot now but that's beside the point.) … My point is that, look how much the medium has evolved, and it hasn't even been a century. We went from Pong-looking ass games to, I dunno—whatever people call the Cit*zen K*ne of video games these days. (Which accolade changes every few years.)"

I offer, "The L*st of—"

"No. No, that's just a movie. (… Man, everything just wants to become a fuckin' movie, doesn't it? Books, video games. … Movies are the crabs of artistic mediums. What's that word, 'carcinization'? Well this is the same principle. Cinematization.) … No, no—the true mark of a work that exemplifies its own medium is one which cannot be translated into another."

Me, yawning: "Yeah, that's really interesting."

"A work should play to the strengths of its own medium. Video games can be its own autonomous art form. But only if what it has to offer leans toward its identity as a game. … Here's my own yardstick. Strip away the music, the voice lines, and even the visuals themselves—is the game still fun to play?"

I tilt my head, demanding he explicate further.

"I mean, let's take Kami Hand. What if instead of the visuals, instead of Gene, you controlled a white piece of tofu. No textures, no sounds, no nothing. You are a white block. The enemies are white blocks. You can still control everything as if it were the full game. You can punch, dodge, kick, etc. The core gameplay is intact. You've effetively boiled down what you're interacting with.

"So from a purely aesthetic (not talking visuals, but art) perspective—you have to ask, is the gameplay still good? The gameplay is the form. Anything else is just superfluous. Window dressing. Kami Hand: yes, true art. On the basis of the interactivity and gameplay alone. … That walking simulator about depression where all you do is hold up on the joystick? Well, strip it down, remove all the dialogue, voice lines, and visuals—you're just holding up on the joystick. … That gameplay doesn't 'hold up'. No pun intended."

Me: "Don't lie, it was clearly very fucking intended."

"… On the basis of interactivity, it's a complete failure. It has no chance of touching the sublime. The form is the form. There's nothing other than the form. It's the same for literature. True literature, Odd-kun—in addition to its unadaptability to other mediums, can be defined by its irreducibility.

"No, literature has barely moved at all in the last century. Movies came and fucked the whole thing up. People don't write novels anymore, they write what are effectively screenplays for aspiring N*tfl*x series. They write something they'd rather see get adapted into a work in a completely different medium. Nobody plays to the strengths of the form anymore. … I mean, for fuck's sake, it's called story-telling. Not story-showing.

"… I want to be surprised, Odd-kun.

"I want to read something I've never read before.

"I want to read something that makes me say, 'Oh, yeah—fiction can do that'.

"And no gimmicks, either. Just open up notepad.exe, and start typing. You get 26 letters, plus punctuation. Nothing fancier than an em-dash."

Me: "(You know, some would argue em-dashes are already pretty fancy.)"

"… Fuck, man," says Alex. "A blank page, a cursor blinking with infinite possibilties—and everyone chooses to write more isekai."

*

"Why are there so many fucking ellipses …" mutters Valerie, reading our latest draft.

Alex, defensively: "Well, I can't use em-dashes anymore!!! People are going to think we auto-slopped this shit! … When we died, em-dashes were basically becoming the textual equivalent of 'Look at the hands'."

Me: "I guess we kinda have to talk about the elephant in the room, huh? … What do you think about AI writing?"

Alex shrugs. (A little angrily, if you ask me …) "I dunno. It's, whatever. What's it gotta do with me? The work that I do? Nothin'. I don't care 'bout none of that shit.

"… I mean, am I slightly fucking miffed that I can't use em dashes anymore, lest I be called out on AI accusations? That the ornate style I worked for 12 straight years developing, which I will admit relies a bit too heavily on em dashes as a crutch, has to be reworked? That every time I write something, I'm overly self-conscious now about negative parallelisms, and rule of three? … Never mind the fact that grouping things into sets of three is just an incredibly human fucking behavior when it comes to the organization of thought??? … Nah, nah, dawg, I'm not mad about that at all," says Alex, fists balled up, nails digging into his flesh, drawing blood.

"Well," I shrug. "What does it matter? … We've all shuffled off that previous mortal coil."

Valerie: "… I wonder what's happening now, back there. …"

Alex, angrily: "You know—I don't even know what pisses me off more: 1) that people who are completely, functionally illiterate in every single aspect of scrutinizing text will simply count your em-dashes and base their accusations on that; or 2) I have to force myself to express myself differently than how my thoughts are structured just to avoid slop accusations."

Me: "And you said you weren't angry …"

*

Outside the club room, the halls of L.I.M.B.O. seem to be emptier and emptier with each passing day.

The Isekai Waiting Room all but abandoned. Only one goddess working the counter.

… How much longer do we all have?