NHK ni Youkoso!

Chapter 04
Road to the Creator
Part One
The exit was blocked. I could see no hope. There was nothing I could
do. And because of some stupid daydream about the N.H.K. as the evil
organization that controls the world, I had lost even the means to divert
myself.
It was a spring of unending, depressive anxiety for me—the kind of
spring that made me want to imitate Vincent Gallo in Buffalo 66.
Entering the bathroom, I grasped my head and moaned, "I just can't go
on living."
I need to die.
Today was already different from every other day, though.
Something surprising had happened earlier.
After waking up at one in the afternoon, I found an unfamiliar slip 
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55
of paper in the mail slot. Picking it up, I examined it.
It was the resumé that I had written several days earlier for the parttime
job at the manga café. I had written it for that particular job
application, a memory that I now wanted to forget completely.
Why? Why was it in my mail slot?
I hurried next door to Yamazaki's apartment.
Yamazaki was taking the day off from school again. Seated at his
computer, he was playing some sort of game.
I asked, "Did a religious solicitor come by today?"
"Hm. . . they came about two hours ago. I got some of those
pamphlets. I just love the word-for-word translation. Why? Didn't they
go to your apartment, too, Satou?"
I suddenly saw the frightening truth behind Yamazaki's testimony.
Apparently, I had left my resume behind in the manga café. I could no
longer remember if it had fallen from my pocket or if I automatically had
handed it to Misaki. Because of the massive shock, my memories of that
moment were muddled.
Only one thing was certain: While making her religious rounds,
Misaki had gone out of her way to bring me the resumé. In other words,
when I had asked, "Do you like bikes?" in a clumsy effort to conceal that
I had, indeed, come to apply for a part-time job, I had failed utterly.
Realizing this, nothing at all seemed to matter anymore. When humans
run into an extremely embarrassing circumstance, it seems their
emotions go numb.
"Who cares?" I whispered, heading to the trash can to throw away
the paper. As I did, the back of the resume caught my eye. A message
was written there in black ballpoint pen: "You have been selected join my 
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project. Please, come to the Mita Fourth District Park tonight at nine o'clock."
Eh? My mouth had fallen open as I squatted in front of the trash can.
Now, objectively considering it, I saw that this was an earthshattering
situation. I had received a mysterious letter from a girl I had
met twice. Really, it was so incredibly incomprehensible that I had no
idea at all what was going on. So, I obediently went along with it.
The park was only a two-minute walk from my apartment. It was
already night. The roadside trees grew at even intervals. There was the
old jungle gym, the bench with flaking paint, and the towering
streetlights in front of the swings, illuminating everything with a dim
blue glow. I liked this park.
On my weekly, nocturnal supply trips to the convenience store, I
always made sure to stop here. Empty, the space belonged to me alone.
I enjoyed the cool night breeze. Seated on the bench, if I looked up at
the sky, I could see the faintly waving branches of the trees and, through
them, the moon and the stars. It was a place to relax and release my
worries.
Tonight, the park wasn't just my personal space, though. Someone
else was there.
I didn't call out. In fact, my stomach felt hollow.
What are you trying to do? What are you thinking? Who on Earth are
you? These questions accompanied a growing rage, yet my mind
remained clear for some reason. I was even calm, my thoughts moving in
an orderly manner, with no threat of spinning out of control.
This may have been a form of resignation. Perhaps I had finally
accepted my current situation. It was wholly possible I had quietly
admitted to myself that I was a hikikomori, a person with no future, 
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57
someone who should just die. Yes, that had to be the explanation.
Lately I had been living in the past. Every night, I dreamed of long
ago: the hometown I yearned for, friends, family, things I hadn't liked,
things that had made me happy, other various memories—fragments of
all these things. My nightly dreams were gentle and melancholy.
Indeed, the future had ceased to be a problem. It already had been
decided, which was precisely why I needed to exist in the past—in my
wonderful, comforting memories. While this was obviously an extreme
form of backward escapism, I didn't care anymore.
Yes, that's right. I am a hikikomori, a worthless person with a weak spirit.
Is that a problem? Just leave me alone, and I'll disappear quietly. I'm fine! It's
all over!
"No, no, no. . . " I sat on the bench, head in hands.
"'No,' what?" the girl inquired. She was rocking in one of the swings
near the bench. Her almost shoulder-length hair blew lightly in the
wind. Tonight, too, she was dressed like an average teenage girl—no
parasol, no pamphlets, and no discernible religious atmosphere.
However, I forbade myself to let down my guard. More than
anything about her, the very strangeness of the situation spoke vividly of
how truly odd she was. I had to deal with her calmly, but with total
caution.
Right then and there, I decided to think of her as an ASIMO, the
bipedal robot developed by Honda. If I did that, it would keep me on an
even keel. Why not? Nowadays, robot technology is really coming along. No
matter how I examine it, it looks exactly like a person.
Rocking slightly back and forth in the swing, the robot asked, "Why
did you run away earlier? We're short-staffed right now and could really 
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58
use the help. We would have decided to hire you right away."
Wow! The voice output was perfect, too. The joints moved smoothly, legs
extending flexibly from its skirt Japans technical skill truly is the best in the
world, isn't it?
"Seeing as you're a hikikomori, did you get scared of working in the
outside world and reconsider halfway through your application?" She
drove right to the heart of the matter—in the end, though, they were just
a robot's words. No matter what a machine might say, no one would get
that angry.
The robot continued to say even more mysterious things. "Don't
worry. I know how to escape from being a hikikomori."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I finally reacted to her words.
"Satou, right? Well, you're really a hikikomori, aren't you?"
Instead of immediately answering her question, I pointed at the sign
hanging over the park entrance. It warned, "Beware of perverts! Young
girls have been continually targeted," in caustic red paint.
I said, "Are you sure it's all right to meet a shady person like me at
this time of night? I could be dangerous."
"It's okay. My house is right over there, so I know all kinds of things.
For instance, you're always spacing out in this park on Sunday nights,
right? I saw you from my window."
Having come this far, I was pretty anxious about all this. I couldn't
figure out what she wanted. Her real motives remained a mystery, and
nothing seemed normal. Could it be some sort of roundabout religious
solicitation?
"No, it's not. I'm just going along to help Auntie Kazuko."
“Huh?" 
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"Because I'm always troubling her, I figured it's the least I could do
to repay her."
I didn't understand what she was talking about, but she continued
our awkward conversation as we both stared at the streetlamps.
"Anyway, none of that matters. Satou, don't you want to know? About
how to escape from being a hikikomori?"
"Don't call me Satou. I'm older than you."
"You know my age?"
"Well, you look about seventeen, maybe eighteen."
"You're absolutely right!"
Gathering momentum from the swing, she leapt off lightly. The
display of energy seemed intentional. It might have been my
imagination, though. After she landed, she came over to where I sat on
the bench and looked straight at me. Crouching, her hands resting on
her knees, she said, "You want to know how to escape, right? I'll teach
you."
Once again, the same unnecessarily cute smile that I'd seen before
floated across her face. I was unable to think of her as a successor to the
ASIMO model any longer. Looking away, I whispered, "I'm not a
hikikomori."
"Liar. How can you say that even though you completely gave it
away when Auntie tried talking to you the other day? Even though you
ran away when you realized it was me at the manga café? Normal, people
don't do stuff like that."
"Hey!" I sputtered.
"You're scared, right? Of other people?"
As I lifted my head, our eyes met. She had big eyes, with large pupils. 
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60
Gazing into those eyes, I was at a loss for words.
In the end, without saying anything, I looked away again.
Suddenly, I realized that somewhere along the way, the wind had
started blowing harder. Over our heads, the branches of the trees were
stirring. It was a chilly night.
I decided to go back to my apartment. Standing, I turned my back
on her. From behind me, she tried to stop me. "Wait!" she called, "You'll
regret this."
"What are you talking about? For starters, who are you, anyway?"
"I'm a kind girl who helps worthless hikikomori."
'And what's this 'project' that you mentioned in your letter?"
"At the current juncture, details of the project are top secret.
However, you can rest assured that I won't do anything bad."
I started feeling sick, so I decided to tell a suitable lie and just get
away from that place. "I'm not just any regular hikikomori, you know.
It's true that I shut myself away, but it's for my job. I have to."
"What's your job?"
"S-SOHO. . . "
"What's that?"
"It's short for 'someone who works from home.' I work from my
apartment. . . or rather, my home office. I'm not a deadbeat. Although
I'm definitely a shut in, it's part of my job description, and I can't do
anything about that! Trying to get a part-time job was just a momentary
miscalculation on my part. . . "
"Huh. Really? What kind of work do you do?"
"D-don t be surprised when you hear this. I'm a creator!" That's right,
I thought, marvel at my job title! "Because I do creative work, I may act a 
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bit psychologically unusual, but that only proves my incredible talent!
I'm not just some good-for-nothing, jobless guy!"
Misaki grinned and casually asked, "What are you creating?"
"That is. . . you know, what do you call it, the latest, revolutionary
information technology. I can't really explain it in one word. . . "
"Well, let me know when you've finished what you're currently
working on, okay?"
"N-no, I can't do that. It's privileged information that I can't divulge.
Not to mention that we have tons of money invested in this project, so I
can't just give it away so easily. . . "Just as I had begun to wish for death
due to the thorough stupidity of the lines I was giving her, Misaki turned
away.
"It was a waste, huh? I did offer to show you how to escape, after all."
She really seemed to think this lost opportunity was unfortunate. In a
low whisper, she said, "Even though you'll never have this chance
again. . . "
Only her outline was faintly visible against the backlighting
provided by the streetlamps.
I was a little. . . no, fairly excited.
My bad habit prompted me to keep gushing. "It seems you doubt
what I'm saying; I am actually a really amazing creator, though. A young
girl like you probably wouldn't be aware of this, but I'm sort of well
known within the industry. Yeah, when I see you next time, I'll tell you
all about it. About my work. You'll be really surprised! You'll respect
me!"
Why did I say, "when I see you next time"? What did I mean by "my
work"? Why did I always broadcast these lies, all of which easily could be 
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62
disproved? I could just be honest and say, "I'm a jobless hikikomori!"
Why was I indulging in this strange pride over such weird things?
Whatever. It didn't matter. I should just run. I should just get out of
there fast before I dug myself in any deeper. "W-well then, see you!"
Uncertainly, I headed toward the park exit. Behind me, she might
have muttered something, but I couldn't hear the words.
Part Two
Back at my apartment building, I interrogated my neighbor. "Yamazaki,
how can one become a creator?"
"Huh? What's this, all of a sudden?"
"I have to become a creator right away. You're a student at the
Yoyogi Animation Institute, aren't you? Don't you know a lot about that
kind of stuff?"
"No. Well, I guess I do. Are you serious?"
"I'm serious. I'm completely serious. Anything will do. Just tell me
how I can become a creator right away! Please?"
"I'm hanging up. Come over."
The shock of the situation had been enough to force me into calling
my next door neighbor. It was the first phone call I'd made in months.
"When I see you next time, I'll tell you all about my work." Only a few 
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63
minutes earlier, I actually had said this. I had inflated my chest with
pride and preposterously said this aloud. When I see you next. . .
I suspected that this would not be far in the future. Misaki seemed to
live nearby. I might even run across her in town, completely by chance.
By that time, I had to change my huge, incredibly stupid lie into reality. I
needed to become a true creator. What was a creator, anyway? What is
it?
Yamazaki, seated at his computer as usual, condensed my situation.
"In short, Satou, you told a horrible lie because you were trying to look
good in front of a cute girl. And now you're flustered and trying to
conceal the fact that you lied. Does that about sum it up?"
Blushing, I nodded. I don't care if you scorn me, Yamazaki. You already
know my real identity as an unemployed, hikikomori dropout! There's no
secret more embarrassing that you could possibly discover. Help me,
Yamazaki!
"Oh, don't worry. I won't make fun of you or anything. Hm. . . "
Yamazaki folded his arms and groaned, deep in thought. I sat on the
floor and meekly waited for him to speak. However, his next words
made no sense whatsoever. "To begin with, no matter how much a real
girl looks down on you, does it really matter?"
"Eh?"
"Listen to me, Satou. Women. . . they aren't people. No, they're not
normal humans. In fact, it might not be an exaggeration to say that
they're unbelievably close to being inhuman monsters. Therefore, there's
no need to go out of your way like this. What does it matter if you're
scorned by some female?"
His expression was as calm as usual. 
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I abruptly became very uncomfortable.
He continued, "Those things don't have proper human hearts. They
look human, but they're different creatures. Satou, it's best if you first
understand this fact."
"Ya-Yamazaki. . . "
"Ha ha ha! Well, anyway, it's not really that big of a deal. No matter
what the reason for your decision to become a creator, the idea's
probably not half bad. It's fine. Let's think about this together."
Rising from his computer desk, he sat down before me. His actions
were infused with a bizarre confidence. Apparently, a four-year span
radically could change someone's personality. Yamazaki now seemed to
be twisting in a dangerous emotional direction. However, at this point,
that didn't matter at all. If it would help solve my problem, I'd bowed
down to a demon.
"No, no. There's no need to bow to me. Let's start. Briefly, there are
all different kinds of creators, Satou—what would you like to do?"
"What? Like I said, I want to be a creator. . . "
"There's no job called 'creator'!" Yamazaki's voice grew rough. "It's
just a general term for jobs like writing or drawing comics. Basically, a
'creator' is simply someone who makes something. So, what would you
like to make, Satou? That's what I'm asking."
"Anything, as long as I can be called a creator."
"Argh." Yamazaki tightened his right hand into a fist. Then, as if he
had regained control of himself, he let out a heavy sigh. "Well, let's just
go with that. Okay then, Satou, what kind of skills do you have?"
"What do you mean, 'skills'?"
"Like, can you draw, or write songs, or write amazing computer 
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programs? There are all sorts of possibilities."
"I can't do anything. If I had to say something, I suppose I have a
talent for solitude. I've been able to live for an entire year without
meeting anyone—"
"That won't do at all!" Yamazaki slammed the floor with both hands.
"Like I said, I'm worthless!" I screamed back.
Yamazaki stood and grilled me with greater force. "There's no way
someone with no skills easily could become a creator, is there?! It's not
right to say whatever's easy for you, all the time. Listen to me, you
laughed when I told you that I was going to the Yoyogi Animation
Institute, didn't you, Satou? Oh, it's fine, no need to hide it. . . Still, it's
clear that in terms of creative issues, I'm more accomplished than you are.
Please understand this."
As he'd been pretty convincing during his long diatribe, I nodded
automatically several times.
Suddenly, Yamazaki's body went limp. "No, thinking of the idiots in
my class, I got overexcited. People like them make me the maddest—
people who are all talk, huddling privately together, even though they
can't do anything themselves."
It appeared I'd somehow irritated his issues with school life. I
decided to make him drink some coffee to calm him down. Salvaging an
unused paper cup from the litter strewn across the floor, I poured water
from the hot pot set up in the cabinet. Then, fishing farther under the
bed, I discovered an economy-sized pack of rice crackers.
Eating the crackers, we drank coffee.
Calmer, Yamazaki returned to the main topic. "Well then, let's think
about it more concretely this time. Music takes a lot of skill and 
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discriminating taste, so that's out of the question for you, Satou. As for
programming, you're no good at math, right? So, that's out. Art also
would be impossible, wouldn't it? I once saw a picture you drew. So,
illustrating manga won't work. Then. . . "
Yamazaki suddenly slapped his knee. "Satou, you were a member of
the literary club, weren't you?!"
"So. . . ?"
"Novels! It's novels!"
I twisted my face into a frown. "No, I don't want to do that! I haven't
written any long compositions since they made me do it in middle
school. For starters, novels are too boring. They won't work—"
Yamazaki scowled at me again. Breathing violently through his nose,
he muttered quietly, "Just get over it, won't you?"
I felt a light touch of fear and decided to change the subject.
"B-by the way, Yamazaki, what are you studying at school? Is it
anime, after all? Are you painting cels and stuff?"
Yamazaki shook his head. "Even though the school is called the
Yoyogi Animation Institute, there are many different departments. I'm
in the Game Creation department."
Game Creation? The second I heard that phrase, it excited me.
"Game creator." That had resonance; the title sounded so cutting-edge.
The glamor industry of the modern age. The number one job that
elementary students wanted. I pictured an industry giant driving around
in a Lamborghini, being entertained at a high-class club in Ginza. He
had wads of cash flying around as he was wooed by headhunters,
hanging out amid the huge, long lines for his latest super-popular game.
Then, some dreadful high school student would steal one of these in-
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demand games from an elementary school kid, and the story would be
picked up by the six o'clock news. The game creator would be filthy rich.
It was high-salaried, with a yearly pay of one hundred million yen! It
was so cool! It was perfect!
Finishing off my coffee in one gulp, I grabbed Yamazaki's hand.
"Let's try to become game creators together!"
It was past eleven o'clock at night. Yamazaki was sipping his tenth cup of
instant coffee, and I was so hungry that I made some instant ramen.
Yamazaki grew angry. "Don't just take food from someone's
stockpile without asking!"
I bowed my head in apology and put some pepper on the noodles.
While I was slurping at the ramen, Yamazaki stammered, "I-It would be
impossible for beginners to make games."
"You have to help me with that."
"Modern games are a comprehensive art. A decent game can be
created only by mixing various specialized skills. Someone like you
couldn't do it, Satou."
"After not seeing you for a short while, you've started speaking really
insolently, haven't you?" was what I felt like saying to give him a hard
time. After thinking about it, however, I realized he'd actually been
insolent for a long time. Yeah, that was true. Even though he'd been a
weakling, he was the kind of guy who said whatever he wanted to
whomever he wanted. He'd openly call his classmates idiots or tell them
to go away. That's why he was picked on. It was totally his own fault. 
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He'd spoken politely to me; but once he found out that I'd become
an unemployed, dropout hikikomori, it was only a matter of time before
he started making fun of me, calling me "worthless" to my face. All that
didn't matter, though. For now, I had to do whatever it took to become a
game creator. I had to become an industry insider. Please, Yamazaki. . .
"I can see it's difficult for you to ask me for help. However, there are
things that can't be done, no matter how much you beg, Satou."
"Please, do something to help me!"
"For one thing, there's no way that something you started to earn a
girl's respect could last for long. It's obvious that you'll lose you
motivation soon."
"That's not true! I'm serious! I'm passionate!"
"I have school tomorrow. I'm tired already."
"It's not just wanting Misaki's respect. If I could become a game
creator, I'd be able to escape my life as a hikikomori, wouldn't I?!"
"It's impossible."
"No, it can't be!" I insisted.
"It won't work."
"Yes, it will."
I spent another hour pleading with him. I tried appeasing him,
coaxing him, yelling at him—and finally, I tried wheedling to get on his
good side. "While you're at school, I could tape the anime on TV. I'd
even cut out the commercials for you."
At last, Yamazaki gave in. "Well, Satou, you seem to be really
committed." His voice was serious.
"Yeah. I do mean it. I'm totally committed."
"If so, there's one way that even you, Satou, could become a game 
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creator. But. . . "
"But?"
"It may actually be the bloodiest path, an unendingly severe and
painful method that would make anyone want to abandon the course, not
to mention someone like you, Satou."
Yamazaki's face was grave, and I gulped reflexively. My
determination had already taken shape, though. I'll do it, no matter what.
"I'll do anything," I said.
"Is that really true?"
I nodded.
"Absolutely true? You can't just say, 'I'm done,' in the middle, okay?"
I made a show of nodding deeply again.
Yamazaki made his eleventh cup of coffee, and I started slurping my
second bowl of ramen. "I understand, Satou. Let's talk. I'll tell you about
my plan." Leaning forward, Yamazaki spoke conspiratorially. "Today's
games are made on an incredibly large scale. A huge amount of data and
precision programming are necessary, so novices like us can't do
anything. Even making a game around the level of the outdated Super
Nintendo would be a trial, at best. And even if you managed something
like that, you still couldn't possibly call yourself a game creator."
"Then—"
Yamazaki quickly cut me off. "Just listen to me, all right? We have
no budget, no friends in the industry, and nothing beyond the most
limited resources. Even in our humble situation, there's still a way. Even
without being able to write a decent program or prepare more than
crappy music, as long as we have about fifty CG—or computer graphic—
illustrations and one books worth of scenarios, there's a game genre that 
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should work for us.!"
Yamazaki's voice now was unmistakably suffused with passion.
"S-so what's the genre?" My own voice sounded hollow.
"As far as the programming goes, as long as we get a free-use game
engine, we'll be fine. Let's just take the soundtrack off a copyright-free
music CD, too. I'll draw the CG, Satou, and you write the scenarios."
Scenarios? Oh, that should be easy as long as I just had to write
something appropriate. Like, say, "the hero has to rescue a princess who
was kidnapped by villains."
"Okay," I said. "I'll write as many game scenarios as you want.
What's the genre?"
"You'll do it, Satou?!" Yamazaki patted me on the shoulders.
"Yeah, let's do it, Yamazaki. Let's make a game together! So, like I
was asking, what's the genre?"
"As long as the CG and scenarios are good, we can become totally
famous. It might not even be that hard to become pros in the future. If
we make some money with a self-published project, we even could start a
company!"
"A company! That would be amazing, Yamazaki. You could be the
president, and I'll be the vice president! What's the genre?"
"You'll do it, right, Satou?"
"Yeah, I'll do it."
"If we go this far, there's no turning back."
"How many times do I have to say it?"
"Well then, let's shake on it. Together, we can run toward
tomorrow!" Yamazaki took my hand and grasped it firmly. "We're
kindred spirits." 
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"Like I asked, what's the genre of the game?"
“We're friends!"
"What's the genre?"
"We're creators!"
"Like I keep asking, what the hell is the genre of the game?!"
Yamazaki finally proudly answered the question that I had asked
repeatedly. "Erotic games."
Someone, please save me.
I shakily tried to return to my own room, but Yamazaki pulled me back.
 "Here are the materials. Please, look through them as soon as you
get a chance. If you play all these games, you should be able to
understand the industry trends." Saying this, he handed me about thirty
game boxes. These were the packages slathered with words like
"torture," "wet," "abuse," "lewd," "tie," "academy," "confinement," "rape,"
'"savage," "pure love," "training," and "adventure."
I wanted to cry. But Yamazaki was grinning.
"These games aren't for sale to minors because they're erotic games.
Well, these are really, really erotic games—but they're the only path
open to us, so let's become erotic game creators. Let's get back at all the
people in my class with our erotic games! Let's become billionaires with
our erotic games! Let's become famous around the world for our erotic
games! We'll go on to Hollywood with our erotic games! Let's get
accepted into the Order of Culture with our erotic games.17 Let's get a
Nobel Prize for our erotic. . . " 
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His smile was ceaselessly bright, and any feeling that I could quit
and run off had evaporated completely. 

Chapter 04

Road to the Creator

Part One

The exit was blocked. I could see no hope. There was nothing I could

do. And because of some stupid daydream about the N.H.K. as the evil

organization that controls the world, I had lost even the means to divert

myself.

It was a spring of unending, depressive anxiety for me—the kind of

spring that made me want to imitate Vincent Gallo in Buffalo 66.

Entering the bathroom, I grasped my head and moaned, "I just can't go

on living."

I need to die.

Today was already different from every other day, though.

Something surprising had happened earlier.

After waking up at one in the afternoon, I found an unfamiliar slip 

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55

of paper in the mail slot. Picking it up, I examined it.

It was the resumé that I had written several days earlier for the parttime

job at the manga café. I had written it for that particular job

application, a memory that I now wanted to forget completely.

Why? Why was it in my mail slot?

I hurried next door to Yamazaki's apartment.

Yamazaki was taking the day off from school again. Seated at his

computer, he was playing some sort of game.

I asked, "Did a religious solicitor come by today?"

"Hm. . . they came about two hours ago. I got some of those

pamphlets. I just love the word-for-word translation. Why? Didn't they

go to your apartment, too, Satou?"

I suddenly saw the frightening truth behind Yamazaki's testimony.

Apparently, I had left my resume behind in the manga café. I could no

longer remember if it had fallen from my pocket or if I automatically had

handed it to Misaki. Because of the massive shock, my memories of that

moment were muddled.

Only one thing was certain: While making her religious rounds,

Misaki had gone out of her way to bring me the resumé. In other words,

when I had asked, "Do you like bikes?" in a clumsy effort to conceal that

I had, indeed, come to apply for a part-time job, I had failed utterly.

Realizing this, nothing at all seemed to matter anymore. When humans

run into an extremely embarrassing circumstance, it seems their

emotions go numb.

"Who cares?" I whispered, heading to the trash can to throw away

the paper. As I did, the back of the resume caught my eye. A message

was written there in black ballpoint pen: "You have been selected join my 

Welcome to the N.H.K.

56

project. Please, come to the Mita Fourth District Park tonight at nine o'clock."

Eh? My mouth had fallen open as I squatted in front of the trash can.

Now, objectively considering it, I saw that this was an earthshattering

situation. I had received a mysterious letter from a girl I had

met twice. Really, it was so incredibly incomprehensible that I had no

idea at all what was going on. So, I obediently went along with it.

The park was only a two-minute walk from my apartment. It was

already night. The roadside trees grew at even intervals. There was the

old jungle gym, the bench with flaking paint, and the towering

streetlights in front of the swings, illuminating everything with a dim

blue glow. I liked this park.

On my weekly, nocturnal supply trips to the convenience store, I

always made sure to stop here. Empty, the space belonged to me alone.

I enjoyed the cool night breeze. Seated on the bench, if I looked up at

the sky, I could see the faintly waving branches of the trees and, through

them, the moon and the stars. It was a place to relax and release my

worries.

Tonight, the park wasn't just my personal space, though. Someone

else was there.

I didn't call out. In fact, my stomach felt hollow.

What are you trying to do? What are you thinking? Who on Earth are

you? These questions accompanied a growing rage, yet my mind

remained clear for some reason. I was even calm, my thoughts moving in

an orderly manner, with no threat of spinning out of control.

This may have been a form of resignation. Perhaps I had finally

accepted my current situation. It was wholly possible I had quietly

admitted to myself that I was a hikikomori, a person with no future, 

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57

someone who should just die. Yes, that had to be the explanation.

Lately I had been living in the past. Every night, I dreamed of long

ago: the hometown I yearned for, friends, family, things I hadn't liked,

things that had made me happy, other various memories—fragments of

all these things. My nightly dreams were gentle and melancholy.

Indeed, the future had ceased to be a problem. It already had been

decided, which was precisely why I needed to exist in the past—in my

wonderful, comforting memories. While this was obviously an extreme

form of backward escapism, I didn't care anymore.

Yes, that's right. I am a hikikomori, a worthless person with a weak spirit.

Is that a problem? Just leave me alone, and I'll disappear quietly. I'm fine! It's

all over!

"No, no, no. . . " I sat on the bench, head in hands.

"'No,' what?" the girl inquired. She was rocking in one of the swings

near the bench. Her almost shoulder-length hair blew lightly in the

wind. Tonight, too, she was dressed like an average teenage girl—no

parasol, no pamphlets, and no discernible religious atmosphere.

However, I forbade myself to let down my guard. More than

anything about her, the very strangeness of the situation spoke vividly of

how truly odd she was. I had to deal with her calmly, but with total

caution.

Right then and there, I decided to think of her as an ASIMO, the

bipedal robot developed by Honda. If I did that, it would keep me on an

even keel. Why not? Nowadays, robot technology is really coming along. No

matter how I examine it, it looks exactly like a person.

Rocking slightly back and forth in the swing, the robot asked, "Why

did you run away earlier? We're short-staffed right now and could really 

Welcome to the N.H.K.

58

use the help. We would have decided to hire you right away."

Wow! The voice output was perfect, too. The joints moved smoothly, legs

extending flexibly from its skirt Japans technical skill truly is the best in the

world, isn't it?

"Seeing as you're a hikikomori, did you get scared of working in the

outside world and reconsider halfway through your application?" She

drove right to the heart of the matter—in the end, though, they were just

a robot's words. No matter what a machine might say, no one would get

that angry.

The robot continued to say even more mysterious things. "Don't

worry. I know how to escape from being a hikikomori."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I finally reacted to her words.

"Satou, right? Well, you're really a hikikomori, aren't you?"

Instead of immediately answering her question, I pointed at the sign

hanging over the park entrance. It warned, "Beware of perverts! Young

girls have been continually targeted," in caustic red paint.

I said, "Are you sure it's all right to meet a shady person like me at

this time of night? I could be dangerous."

"It's okay. My house is right over there, so I know all kinds of things.

For instance, you're always spacing out in this park on Sunday nights,

right? I saw you from my window."

Having come this far, I was pretty anxious about all this. I couldn't

figure out what she wanted. Her real motives remained a mystery, and

nothing seemed normal. Could it be some sort of roundabout religious

solicitation?

"No, it's not. I'm just going along to help Auntie Kazuko."

“Huh?" 

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59

"Because I'm always troubling her, I figured it's the least I could do

to repay her."

I didn't understand what she was talking about, but she continued

our awkward conversation as we both stared at the streetlamps.

"Anyway, none of that matters. Satou, don't you want to know? About

how to escape from being a hikikomori?"

"Don't call me Satou. I'm older than you."

"You know my age?"

"Well, you look about seventeen, maybe eighteen."

"You're absolutely right!"

Gathering momentum from the swing, she leapt off lightly. The

display of energy seemed intentional. It might have been my

imagination, though. After she landed, she came over to where I sat on

the bench and looked straight at me. Crouching, her hands resting on

her knees, she said, "You want to know how to escape, right? I'll teach

you."

Once again, the same unnecessarily cute smile that I'd seen before

floated across her face. I was unable to think of her as a successor to the

ASIMO model any longer. Looking away, I whispered, "I'm not a

hikikomori."

"Liar. How can you say that even though you completely gave it

away when Auntie tried talking to you the other day? Even though you

ran away when you realized it was me at the manga café? Normal, people

don't do stuff like that."

"Hey!" I sputtered.

"You're scared, right? Of other people?"

As I lifted my head, our eyes met. She had big eyes, with large pupils. 

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60

Gazing into those eyes, I was at a loss for words.

In the end, without saying anything, I looked away again.

Suddenly, I realized that somewhere along the way, the wind had

started blowing harder. Over our heads, the branches of the trees were

stirring. It was a chilly night.

I decided to go back to my apartment. Standing, I turned my back

on her. From behind me, she tried to stop me. "Wait!" she called, "You'll

regret this."

"What are you talking about? For starters, who are you, anyway?"

"I'm a kind girl who helps worthless hikikomori."

'And what's this 'project' that you mentioned in your letter?"

"At the current juncture, details of the project are top secret.

However, you can rest assured that I won't do anything bad."

I started feeling sick, so I decided to tell a suitable lie and just get

away from that place. "I'm not just any regular hikikomori, you know.

It's true that I shut myself away, but it's for my job. I have to."

"What's your job?"

"S-SOHO. . . "

"What's that?"

"It's short for 'someone who works from home.' I work from my

apartment. . . or rather, my home office. I'm not a deadbeat. Although

I'm definitely a shut in, it's part of my job description, and I can't do

anything about that! Trying to get a part-time job was just a momentary

miscalculation on my part. . . "

"Huh. Really? What kind of work do you do?"

"D-don t be surprised when you hear this. I'm a creator!" That's right,

I thought, marvel at my job title! "Because I do creative work, I may act a 

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61

bit psychologically unusual, but that only proves my incredible talent!

I'm not just some good-for-nothing, jobless guy!"

Misaki grinned and casually asked, "What are you creating?"

"That is. . . you know, what do you call it, the latest, revolutionary

information technology. I can't really explain it in one word. . . "

"Well, let me know when you've finished what you're currently

working on, okay?"

"N-no, I can't do that. It's privileged information that I can't divulge.

Not to mention that we have tons of money invested in this project, so I

can't just give it away so easily. . . "Just as I had begun to wish for death

due to the thorough stupidity of the lines I was giving her, Misaki turned

away.

"It was a waste, huh? I did offer to show you how to escape, after all."

She really seemed to think this lost opportunity was unfortunate. In a

low whisper, she said, "Even though you'll never have this chance

again. . . "

Only her outline was faintly visible against the backlighting

provided by the streetlamps.

I was a little. . . no, fairly excited.

My bad habit prompted me to keep gushing. "It seems you doubt

what I'm saying; I am actually a really amazing creator, though. A young

girl like you probably wouldn't be aware of this, but I'm sort of well

known within the industry. Yeah, when I see you next time, I'll tell you

all about it. About my work. You'll be really surprised! You'll respect

me!"

Why did I say, "when I see you next time"? What did I mean by "my

work"? Why did I always broadcast these lies, all of which easily could be 

Welcome to the N.H.K.

62

disproved? I could just be honest and say, "I'm a jobless hikikomori!"

Why was I indulging in this strange pride over such weird things?

Whatever. It didn't matter. I should just run. I should just get out of

there fast before I dug myself in any deeper. "W-well then, see you!"

Uncertainly, I headed toward the park exit. Behind me, she might

have muttered something, but I couldn't hear the words.

Part Two

Back at my apartment building, I interrogated my neighbor. "Yamazaki,

how can one become a creator?"

"Huh? What's this, all of a sudden?"

"I have to become a creator right away. You're a student at the

Yoyogi Animation Institute, aren't you? Don't you know a lot about that

kind of stuff?"

"No. Well, I guess I do. Are you serious?"

"I'm serious. I'm completely serious. Anything will do. Just tell me

how I can become a creator right away! Please?"

"I'm hanging up. Come over."

The shock of the situation had been enough to force me into calling

my next door neighbor. It was the first phone call I'd made in months.

"When I see you next time, I'll tell you all about my work." Only a few 

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63

minutes earlier, I actually had said this. I had inflated my chest with

pride and preposterously said this aloud. When I see you next. . .

I suspected that this would not be far in the future. Misaki seemed to

live nearby. I might even run across her in town, completely by chance.

By that time, I had to change my huge, incredibly stupid lie into reality. I

needed to become a true creator. What was a creator, anyway? What is

it?

Yamazaki, seated at his computer as usual, condensed my situation.

"In short, Satou, you told a horrible lie because you were trying to look

good in front of a cute girl. And now you're flustered and trying to

conceal the fact that you lied. Does that about sum it up?"

Blushing, I nodded. I don't care if you scorn me, Yamazaki. You already

know my real identity as an unemployed, hikikomori dropout! There's no

secret more embarrassing that you could possibly discover. Help me,

Yamazaki!

"Oh, don't worry. I won't make fun of you or anything. Hm. . . "

Yamazaki folded his arms and groaned, deep in thought. I sat on the

floor and meekly waited for him to speak. However, his next words

made no sense whatsoever. "To begin with, no matter how much a real

girl looks down on you, does it really matter?"

"Eh?"

"Listen to me, Satou. Women. . . they aren't people. No, they're not

normal humans. In fact, it might not be an exaggeration to say that

they're unbelievably close to being inhuman monsters. Therefore, there's

no need to go out of your way like this. What does it matter if you're

scorned by some female?"

His expression was as calm as usual. 

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64

I abruptly became very uncomfortable.

He continued, "Those things don't have proper human hearts. They

look human, but they're different creatures. Satou, it's best if you first

understand this fact."

"Ya-Yamazaki. . . "

"Ha ha ha! Well, anyway, it's not really that big of a deal. No matter

what the reason for your decision to become a creator, the idea's

probably not half bad. It's fine. Let's think about this together."

Rising from his computer desk, he sat down before me. His actions

were infused with a bizarre confidence. Apparently, a four-year span

radically could change someone's personality. Yamazaki now seemed to

be twisting in a dangerous emotional direction. However, at this point,

that didn't matter at all. If it would help solve my problem, I'd bowed

down to a demon.

"No, no. There's no need to bow to me. Let's start. Briefly, there are

all different kinds of creators, Satou—what would you like to do?"

"What? Like I said, I want to be a creator. . . "

"There's no job called 'creator'!" Yamazaki's voice grew rough. "It's

just a general term for jobs like writing or drawing comics. Basically, a

'creator' is simply someone who makes something. So, what would you

like to make, Satou? That's what I'm asking."

"Anything, as long as I can be called a creator."

"Argh." Yamazaki tightened his right hand into a fist. Then, as if he

had regained control of himself, he let out a heavy sigh. "Well, let's just

go with that. Okay then, Satou, what kind of skills do you have?"

"What do you mean, 'skills'?"

"Like, can you draw, or write songs, or write amazing computer 

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65

programs? There are all sorts of possibilities."

"I can't do anything. If I had to say something, I suppose I have a

talent for solitude. I've been able to live for an entire year without

meeting anyone—"

"That won't do at all!" Yamazaki slammed the floor with both hands.

"Like I said, I'm worthless!" I screamed back.

Yamazaki stood and grilled me with greater force. "There's no way

someone with no skills easily could become a creator, is there?! It's not

right to say whatever's easy for you, all the time. Listen to me, you

laughed when I told you that I was going to the Yoyogi Animation

Institute, didn't you, Satou? Oh, it's fine, no need to hide it. . . Still, it's

clear that in terms of creative issues, I'm more accomplished than you are.

Please understand this."

As he'd been pretty convincing during his long diatribe, I nodded

automatically several times.

Suddenly, Yamazaki's body went limp. "No, thinking of the idiots in

my class, I got overexcited. People like them make me the maddest—

people who are all talk, huddling privately together, even though they

can't do anything themselves."

It appeared I'd somehow irritated his issues with school life. I

decided to make him drink some coffee to calm him down. Salvaging an

unused paper cup from the litter strewn across the floor, I poured water

from the hot pot set up in the cabinet. Then, fishing farther under the

bed, I discovered an economy-sized pack of rice crackers.

Eating the crackers, we drank coffee.

Calmer, Yamazaki returned to the main topic. "Well then, let's think

about it more concretely this time. Music takes a lot of skill and 

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66

discriminating taste, so that's out of the question for you, Satou. As for

programming, you're no good at math, right? So, that's out. Art also

would be impossible, wouldn't it? I once saw a picture you drew. So,

illustrating manga won't work. Then. . . "

Yamazaki suddenly slapped his knee. "Satou, you were a member of

the literary club, weren't you?!"

"So. . . ?"

"Novels! It's novels!"

I twisted my face into a frown. "No, I don't want to do that! I haven't

written any long compositions since they made me do it in middle

school. For starters, novels are too boring. They won't work—"

Yamazaki scowled at me again. Breathing violently through his nose,

he muttered quietly, "Just get over it, won't you?"

I felt a light touch of fear and decided to change the subject.

"B-by the way, Yamazaki, what are you studying at school? Is it

anime, after all? Are you painting cels and stuff?"

Yamazaki shook his head. "Even though the school is called the

Yoyogi Animation Institute, there are many different departments. I'm

in the Game Creation department."

Game Creation? The second I heard that phrase, it excited me.

"Game creator." That had resonance; the title sounded so cutting-edge.

The glamor industry of the modern age. The number one job that

elementary students wanted. I pictured an industry giant driving around

in a Lamborghini, being entertained at a high-class club in Ginza. He

had wads of cash flying around as he was wooed by headhunters,

hanging out amid the huge, long lines for his latest super-popular game.

Then, some dreadful high school student would steal one of these in-

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67

demand games from an elementary school kid, and the story would be

picked up by the six o'clock news. The game creator would be filthy rich.

It was high-salaried, with a yearly pay of one hundred million yen! It

was so cool! It was perfect!

Finishing off my coffee in one gulp, I grabbed Yamazaki's hand.

"Let's try to become game creators together!"

It was past eleven o'clock at night. Yamazaki was sipping his tenth cup of

instant coffee, and I was so hungry that I made some instant ramen.

Yamazaki grew angry. "Don't just take food from someone's

stockpile without asking!"

I bowed my head in apology and put some pepper on the noodles.

While I was slurping at the ramen, Yamazaki stammered, "I-It would be

impossible for beginners to make games."

"You have to help me with that."

"Modern games are a comprehensive art. A decent game can be

created only by mixing various specialized skills. Someone like you

couldn't do it, Satou."

"After not seeing you for a short while, you've started speaking really

insolently, haven't you?" was what I felt like saying to give him a hard

time. After thinking about it, however, I realized he'd actually been

insolent for a long time. Yeah, that was true. Even though he'd been a

weakling, he was the kind of guy who said whatever he wanted to

whomever he wanted. He'd openly call his classmates idiots or tell them

to go away. That's why he was picked on. It was totally his own fault. 

Welcome to the N.H.K.

68

He'd spoken politely to me; but once he found out that I'd become

an unemployed, dropout hikikomori, it was only a matter of time before

he started making fun of me, calling me "worthless" to my face. All that

didn't matter, though. For now, I had to do whatever it took to become a

game creator. I had to become an industry insider. Please, Yamazaki. . .

"I can see it's difficult for you to ask me for help. However, there are

things that can't be done, no matter how much you beg, Satou."

"Please, do something to help me!"

"For one thing, there's no way that something you started to earn a

girl's respect could last for long. It's obvious that you'll lose you

motivation soon."

"That's not true! I'm serious! I'm passionate!"

"I have school tomorrow. I'm tired already."

"It's not just wanting Misaki's respect. If I could become a game

creator, I'd be able to escape my life as a hikikomori, wouldn't I?!"

"It's impossible."

"No, it can't be!" I insisted.

"It won't work."

"Yes, it will."

I spent another hour pleading with him. I tried appeasing him,

coaxing him, yelling at him—and finally, I tried wheedling to get on his

good side. "While you're at school, I could tape the anime on TV. I'd

even cut out the commercials for you."

At last, Yamazaki gave in. "Well, Satou, you seem to be really

committed." His voice was serious.

"Yeah. I do mean it. I'm totally committed."

"If so, there's one way that even you, Satou, could become a game 

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69

creator. But. . . "

"But?"

"It may actually be the bloodiest path, an unendingly severe and

painful method that would make anyone want to abandon the course, not

to mention someone like you, Satou."

Yamazaki's face was grave, and I gulped reflexively. My

determination had already taken shape, though. I'll do it, no matter what.

"I'll do anything," I said.

"Is that really true?"

I nodded.

"Absolutely true? You can't just say, 'I'm done,' in the middle, okay?"

I made a show of nodding deeply again.

Yamazaki made his eleventh cup of coffee, and I started slurping my

second bowl of ramen. "I understand, Satou. Let's talk. I'll tell you about

my plan." Leaning forward, Yamazaki spoke conspiratorially. "Today's

games are made on an incredibly large scale. A huge amount of data and

precision programming are necessary, so novices like us can't do

anything. Even making a game around the level of the outdated Super

Nintendo would be a trial, at best. And even if you managed something

like that, you still couldn't possibly call yourself a game creator."

"Then—"

Yamazaki quickly cut me off. "Just listen to me, all right? We have

no budget, no friends in the industry, and nothing beyond the most

limited resources. Even in our humble situation, there's still a way. Even

without being able to write a decent program or prepare more than

crappy music, as long as we have about fifty CG—or computer graphic—

illustrations and one books worth of scenarios, there's a game genre that 

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70

should work for us.!"

Yamazaki's voice now was unmistakably suffused with passion.

"S-so what's the genre?" My own voice sounded hollow.

"As far as the programming goes, as long as we get a free-use game

engine, we'll be fine. Let's just take the soundtrack off a copyright-free

music CD, too. I'll draw the CG, Satou, and you write the scenarios."

Scenarios? Oh, that should be easy as long as I just had to write

something appropriate. Like, say, "the hero has to rescue a princess who

was kidnapped by villains."

"Okay," I said. "I'll write as many game scenarios as you want.

What's the genre?"

"You'll do it, Satou?!" Yamazaki patted me on the shoulders.

"Yeah, let's do it, Yamazaki. Let's make a game together! So, like I

was asking, what's the genre?"

"As long as the CG and scenarios are good, we can become totally

famous. It might not even be that hard to become pros in the future. If

we make some money with a self-published project, we even could start a

company!"

"A company! That would be amazing, Yamazaki. You could be the

president, and I'll be the vice president! What's the genre?"

"You'll do it, right, Satou?"

"Yeah, I'll do it."

"If we go this far, there's no turning back."

"How many times do I have to say it?"

"Well then, let's shake on it. Together, we can run toward

tomorrow!" Yamazaki took my hand and grasped it firmly. "We're

kindred spirits." 

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71

"Like I asked, what's the genre of the game?"

“We're friends!"

"What's the genre?"

"We're creators!"

"Like I keep asking, what the hell is the genre of the game?!"

Yamazaki finally proudly answered the question that I had asked

repeatedly. "Erotic games."

Someone, please save me.

I shakily tried to return to my own room, but Yamazaki pulled me back.

 "Here are the materials. Please, look through them as soon as you

get a chance. If you play all these games, you should be able to

understand the industry trends." Saying this, he handed me about thirty

game boxes. These were the packages slathered with words like

"torture," "wet," "abuse," "lewd," "tie," "academy," "confinement," "rape,"

'"savage," "pure love," "training," and "adventure."

I wanted to cry. But Yamazaki was grinning.

"These games aren't for sale to minors because they're erotic games.

Well, these are really, really erotic games—but they're the only path

open to us, so let's become erotic game creators. Let's get back at all the

people in my class with our erotic games! Let's become billionaires with

our erotic games! Let's become famous around the world for our erotic

games! We'll go on to Hollywood with our erotic games! Let's get

accepted into the Order of Culture with our erotic games.17 Let's get a

Nobel Prize for our erotic. . . " 

Welcome to the N.H.K.

72

His smile was ceaselessly bright, and any feeling that I could quit

and run off had evaporated completely.