Just as I'm about to go through the front door, my foot knocks into something leaning against the wall on accident. I groan and place my tennis racket upright.
When was the last time I practised? I wonder. It wouldn't be surprising if I lost my skills entirely.
"Access denied."
I sigh and blink away the moisture in my eyes. Thinking about my Accounting grade on the way home ruined my mood.
"Access granted."
The front door slides open, and the automated voice greets me in a warm tone that's oddly comforting to hear, especially at the end of the day.
At the far end of the living room, Dad is seated in front of the holoview with his legs crossed and a mug in his hand. As I approach him, he slips off his reading glasses and places his drink on the table in front.
"Michael," Dad says. "Did you get your results?"
"Yeah," I say, the grip around the bag strap getting tighter. I'm not dying to talk to him, not after what happened two nights ago.
Placing my backpack on the table next to Dad, I pull out the test papers I collected throughout the day, dreading the moment he sees the last one.
"A for English. A- for Math and Science. A+ for Art," Dad looks up, oblivious to my shoulders tensing. "And...D for Accounting."
"Was it hard?" He asks.
"I know I could've done better."
Dad nods, handing the papers back to me.
"Well done for your other subjects, though."
I wasn't expecting Dad to lecture me, but the restraint in his tone isn't making me feel any better. As I begin to rush upstairs, Dad tries to break the tension in the air with some small talk. "An old associate," Dad points at the holoview.
On the NHK World-Japan channel, a young male reporter clad in grey with a microphone stands in front of a rose-tinted skyscraper that reflects the morning rays into the lens. The building's width is so extensive that the frame can only fit the main entrance. Even then, it's only a small segment to account for the monument sign to the reporter's right. Kakushin Games, it reads.
Next to the reporter, a tall woman in her late 20s with flowy dark hair and bangs, tugging the collar of the white button-up part of her formal wear, I notice the white of a T-shirt peeking through the top. She maintains a neutral smile for the camera, but it's obvious she'd rather be in something less formal. She's not being subtle with her glances at Okawa either, almost like she'd instead be hanging out with him one-on-one.
Meanwhile, another woman of roughly the same age and build stands a few feet behind the first, adjusting the dark spectacles resting on her nose. As the layers of her white coat billow in the evening breeze, she assumes the same stance she's carried for years—looking straight ahead with her hands in her pockets.
If someone didn't recognise Aiko Tokoshima and Suki Hachiyo, they might never have guessed they're two of the most powerful women in the world.
"I'm Matsuki Okawa, and in light of CyberWorld's 5th anniversary next month, we have arranged a special meeting with Kakushin's founders," Okawa says in Japanese as a translation of his words pops up. "Ms. Tokoshima, thank you for taking the time to do this interview."
Tokoshima smiles. "No biggie."
"It's barely been two years, but the Cognitive Resonance Gear is already on course to beat the iPhone's sales," Okawa says. "How does it feel to be behind one of the most successful products of all time?"
"What hasn't already been said?" Tokoshima says. "Hachiyo-san and I knew we were destined to become video game developers since high school, but to see everything lead up to the C.R.G is rather humbling."
"I LOVE AIKO!" Only after hearing the scream of a fan behind the camera, do I realise there must be a massive crowd off-screen. As Tokoshima laughs and waves to her fan off-screen, Okawa asks her, "Is there anything you want to say to your international fans?" Tokoshima nods, and talks about her product in English. From what I can tell, she's just as fluent in English as she is in Japanese.
"On a more serious note," Okawa says once Tokoshima finishes. "What do you think of the rumours of a cyberattack at your next appearance?"
Taken aback by Okawa's question, she becomes breathless, almost as if air has been stolen from her lungs.
"I—"
"The rumours are trifling," Hachiyo says, stepping beside Tokoshima. I doubt that she had plans to be interviewed since no superimposition is popping up to introduce her. "We understand everyone's concerns, but we've already taken the necessary precautions," Hachiyo says as Tokoshima steps out of frame, looking off-camera to address the crowd. "We'll have C.R.D officers stationed for protection—both in-game and outside HQ to shut down any brewing cybercrimes."
"You sound rather dismissive, Ms. Hachiyo," Okawa says.
"And that's about all the time we have," Tokoshima laughs, placing her hands on Hachiyo's shoulders. "The company can't run itself, you know."
"Yes, of course," Okawa says, offering Tokoshima his hand. She smiles and shakes it with both hands.
"I hope I said enough," Tokoshima says, winking at Okawa. Her response is so unapologetically amorous that I can imagine Dad rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, my mouth has dropped in shock knowing she's on national television.
"I—" Okawa stutters.
Before Okawa can finish, Tokoshima walks off-screen, waving at the crowd once more. He tries to shake Hachiyo's hand, but she's already heading inside the building too.
"That was—Ms. Tokoshima and Ms. Hachiyo," Okawa stammers, still flustered. "We'll be back after the ad break."
Once the commercials start to roll, I reach out to grab the handrail at the stairs.
"Michael," Dad's voice stops me in my tracks.
"Take a look at the letter on your desk," He says. "I still think it's a good offer."
Sure enough, a familiar logo is sizing me up from my desk when I enter my room—the stencil of a horse in mid-air against a blue crest. Although I know many of my schoolmates would kill to be in my spot now, I'm not as elated to be receiving this letter.
Here goes nothing.
I tear open the letter and read the first paper that falls out—
August 20th, 2036
Oklahoma City
To: Adrian Leong,
As a token of appreciation for your exceptional service to the country, we at Stallion University have invited your son, Michael Leong, to be part of next year's intake of students. We have taken note of his outstanding academic performance, and believe his enrollment will be beneficial for both him and the academy's reputation.
Please note that a timely submission of the application for administration.
From,
Kamau Umar, Principal
To Dad, it's supposed to be my big break. But it isn't—at least not to me.
...
I was sitting across from Dad eating dinner when he got the phone call from Mr. Umar. I think he must've been a veteran of the war too, because they spoke to each other with the reverence of old comrades.
"How can I help, Kumar?" Dad asked.
"I'll cut straight to the chase," Mr. Umar said. "We want Michael to join Stallion next year."
After I heard my name, my head shot up, and I stared at Dad. He didn't take notice of the dread creeping up my face.
"Really?" Dad's face lit up. "You'd do that?"
"Come on. It's a small favour compared to what you've done for me," Mr. Umar said. "Just say the word, and he's in."
I appreciated Dad's enthusiasm, but I also trusted that he'd let me make the final decision. That was why I was shocked at what he said next.
"He'll go."
"Great," Mr. Umar said. "I'll send over a letter in the next few days. Take care."
"You too, Kumar." Dad hung up.
"What the hell was that?" I demanded once I was sure Mr. Umar was off the line.
"I told you this might happen," Dad placed his phone on the table.
"You didn't even give me a chance to say anything!"
"Calm down," Dad rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand. "It's not the end of the world."
"What's this about?" Mom came downstairs groggily, rudely awakened from her nap.
"Dad's sending me to Stallion without asking me," I grumbled. "Even though I said I didn't want to go."
"I told you Mr. Umar and I were already in talks for your enrollment three weeks ago."
"I don't need your name to get where I want."
Dad froze in place, and I think I had him under my control, for a moment. As I feared, he quickly broke free of the cell in his mind, and he was back to his aloof self.
"I thought that by teaching you what I learned, it'd make your life easier than mine," Dad headed to the staircase. "Perhaps I made it too easy."
"I feared something like this might happen ever since Kumar dialled," Mom gives me a solemn look as Dad heads upstairs.
"So Dad can do whatever he wants," I said. "Based on his name alone?"
"Michael, this is your opportunity to do great things," Mom rubs my shoulder affectionately. "But you need to find your true calling first."
...
AFTER I GAVE the Stallion application to Dad, I burnt through three assessment papers through the night, scoring no less than 96% for each. It wasn't my intention to stay up until 4, believe me—but after my grades came back, I didn't feel like doing anything else. Studying may be boring, but it's predictably boring. Besides, it's nothing you can't solve without a ball and a tennis racket. Two, if I'm feeling lucky.
At least that's how it was, back then.
I remember a time when Dad and I used to play tennis in our driveway. I didn't like how Dad was using brute strength to win match after match, so I'd started using two rackets at a time to stand a chance, much to Dad's amusement. I may be ambidextrous, but my left hand's always been weaker than my right. It was good for my skills, cognitive-wise.
I think he thought it'd be more of a gimmick than an actual tactic, but it worked. My arms now covered a wider range that managed to beat out Dad's force. It turned out to be even more exhilarating than using one racket, and I could still feel the effects of the rush long after we stopped playing.
I chugged from my water bottle as Dad stretched his legs, staring at the rest of our neighbourhood beyond the fence.
"Back to revision, huh?"
I shrugged, rubbing the droplets above my mouth on my sleeve. "I don't have anything better to do."
"Exactly. Sometimes you gotta shake things up. What about a new hobby?" Dad said, his eyes meeting mine. "Games, books? Movies? Wait, that last one might be a little old school—"
"I'll pass."
"Well," Dad said. "We should make this tennis gig a regular thing, at least," His tone grew serious. "I saw that fire in your eyes waiting to be let out, you know. I think you enjoyed it a lot."
I stayed silent, but I knew that deep down he was right. Once I knew I'd secured my victory with an iron fist, I'd felt as formidable as an eagle swooping down on its prey, my talons gouging into the animal's shoulders as its squeals grew increasingly muffled as we soared into the sky.
The thought made me smile.
I wiped the sweat off my brow and carried my rackets back into the house.
"I'll think about it."
...
Although it feels like gym weights are dragging my eyelids to the floor, I do my best to stay awake through History to take notes as Mr. Sayles wraps up his lecture on World War 2.
"The Nazi Party's actions were largely driven by Hitler himself, but one-sided dictatorships didn't cut by the 70s," Mr. Sayles marks an "X" on his increasingly convoluted timeline. "Humans love advocating for change, but it's become harder to start a movement," Mr. Sayles' steely voice zaps me awake like a bolt of lightning. "Yet, when it finally happens, we become averse to its effects, whether from those who want change or try to stop it.
"Now class," Mr. Sayles powering his holopad off. "You have the weekend to write any political power you want and its leader."
"Mr. Sayles?"
"Yes, Issac," Mr. Sayles points his pen at him.
"Can I write about the Apostles?" Issac places his hands in front of him defensively. "I don't have to if you don't want me to."
"Dude," Brody says. "Why'd you bring them up?"
"What?" Issac says. "It's a serious question."
Mr. Sayles' expression dims. "Why them, specifically ?"
"It'd be easy to research Enoch," Issac says. "Since he's an ex-student."
"Blevins," Mr Sayles shakes his head. "He may have been too devout for my liking, but he is affiliated with the Church of the First," He scratches his beard. "I suppose you could, as long as you keep your views neutral. I'll do my part in placing aside my sentiments."
"Thank you, sir."
...
After class wraps up, I know I need to catch a wink before recess ends. However, it isn't long before I'm stirred awake by Issac and his friends entering the classroom. I try getting comfortable by shifting my head on my arms, but I'm nudged awake by a hand gently tapping my shoulder. I realise who it is as my eyes focus on the figure standing to my left. There's only one person in class who wears yellow pullovers in summer.
"Michael?"
I glance up from my desk to see Issac standing eagerly next to me. The light from the fluorescent tubes above bounces off the headset in his hands, giving the dark angular device an enticing glow.
"What?" I ask Isaac.
"You don't play a lot of games, do you?" Issac asks.
"Sorry," I say, leaning my head back on the desk. "But it's not my cup of tea."
"Well, we all have to start somewhere," Issac says, undefeated by my cues for him to leave. He holds up the device—a round white face plate attached to a black carbon fibre 'X' with padding at the back.
"It makes you feel like you're really there, inside the game," He continues. "As real as how we're talking to each other now."
"What's CyberWorld about?" I say, still staring at my book.
Issac laughs. "So you do know about it."
As I look up and frown, Issac breaks eye contact and continues.
"Anyway, you can join me online after school, if you want," Issac explains. "Maybe we could help you come up with a username."
I'm not entirely opposed to the idea, but I can't afford to get distracted. My schoolmates have served as a living example of how addicting the game can be. Once I get a taste, there may not be any going back.
My grades have held me off from trying it for a long time, and I intend to keep it that way.
"I'm sorry," I say. "But no thanks."
"Come on, man," Issac says. "My uncle will be there to—"
"I SAID, I'M NOT INTERESTED!" I yell, smacking the visor out of his hands. As Issac lurches back in shock, the device hurls at the floor, cracking the faceplate. The crash of machinery jolts three of my other classmates from their slumber, and they turn around to face me.
My hand stays in mid-air until I can put it down. By the time it drops to my waist, Issac is already squatting on the ground, attempting to salvage the device's remains in vain.
"Dude," Issac looks up and mutters. "Not cool."
Two of Isaac's friends—Jax and Brody, have come over and bent down beside my desk to help him. They don't bother to look at me at all, whether it's because they're concerned or scared. Or a mixture of both.
A heavy set of footsteps comes rushing through the hallway, and they stop at the foot of the door.
"What was that?" Ms. Harris pants. "Is anyone hurt?"
As her eyes land on the monochromatic mess on the ground, Brody points at me and says, "Michael broke Issac's headset."
In response, Ms. Harris shakes her head at me in disappointment.
"Michael, Issac," Ms. Harris says. "The office, now."