The coffee was bad.
It was the staple of bureaucratic work. The bitter, weak, and cheap taste of coffee. Kenji Takahashi was very familiar with it. In his 20-something years of career as an agent, he developed a taste for it. This somehow became a way to know that this was the real world.
In the movies, after a successful mission a spy would usually go to some isolated location — may it be a cabin in the woods or a tropical island — and enjoy his days with the 'girl' who he met in the 'mission'. But unfortunately, real life doesn't work like that. Every decision made in the 'mission' has consequences. Everything must be reported, filed, and audited. An agent is responsible to handle every detail of the paperwork. Everything that had been done must have followed the code and regulations. Every action, every decision, every purchase — no matter how small it is — should be approved beforehand. Otherwise it would create a bureaucratic nightmare for everyone involved. Kenji Takahashi was very familiar with it.
After every single mission Kenji Takahashi was involved in, it took approximately 6 months to complete the paperwork. Thus, the very reason that Kenji Takahashi was widely disliked in PSIA. Yet, he wouldn't mind it. Being disliked or doing paperwork was not a concern for him. He wouldn't mind spending the rest of his career at the desk filing reports while showered by the hateful gaze of others. He would prefer it to the alternative. But real life doesn't work like that.
The new director, who was filling in for Director Yamamoto while he was on his annual hunting trip, summoned Kenji Takahashi to his office as the first thing in his new job.
"I want to officially thank you again for your work on the Ouroboros case, Agent Takahashi," the new Director said, his voice lacking the usual gravelly authority Kenji was used to.
It was the voice of a man who read reports, not one who carved them into stone tablets.
"Dismantling a global conspiracy while simultaneously winning a prefecture volleyball tournament and starring in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet is… well, it's not in any of our training manuals."
"It was an unorthodox mission, sir," Kenji replied, his voice a flat expanse of practiced resignation.
"Unorthodox doesn't begin to cover it." The Director slid a sleek, black tablet across the polished table.
"Which brings us to our next problem."
On the screen was a logo. It was a stylized, pixelated serpent, its blocky green body coiled not around a stalk of wheat or kale, but around a classic, old-school joystick, which it appeared to be eating.
"Ouroboros is shattered, but the splinters are out there," the Director continued.
"Chef Ayame is still at large. Dr. Inaba is in a very secure, very quiet government facility, trying to teach the guards the 'bio-acoustics of regret.' But their research, their philosophy… it's like a virus. It mutates."
He tapped the screen, bringing up a video. It showed a massive stadium, filled with thousands of screaming fans. The stage was a riot of flashing lights, smoke machines, and colossal screens. But there were no rock stars or athletes. There were just ten teenagers, sitting in ridiculously complex-looking chairs, staring intently at computer monitors.
"The Global Gauntlet Championship in Seoul," the Director explained.
"The world's largest e-sports tournament. A hundred-million-dollar prize pool. A live audience of eighty thousand, and an online viewership of over two hundred million."
The video zoomed in on one of the players. He was a lanky kid, no older than nineteen, with pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and a mop of unnaturally blue hair. His fingers were a blur on his keyboard, his face a mask of intense, twitchy concentration.
"This is Lee 'Viper' Jin-Hwan," the Director said.
"Top player for the Seoul Soul Crushers. Three months ago, his APM—that's Actions Per Minute—was around 350. Elite, but human. Last week, in the qualifying rounds, he clocked in at over 500. His reflexes are becoming medically impossible. He plays for eighteen hours a day and, according to his teammates, never seems to sleep. He's also become… docile. Less prone to the emotional outbursts that pro-gamers are famous for."
"Let me guess," Kenji sighed, the pattern all too familiar.
"He's become happier, more compliant, and less prone to critical thinking?"
The Director nodded grimly.
"His team is dominant. And their primary sponsor is a new energy drink company. The drink is called 'God Mode'."
Kenji looked from the hyper-caffeinated, blue-haired teenager on the screen to the snake-and-joystick logo. It was happening again. A new verse, same cursed song.
"You want me to go to Seoul," Kenji stated. It wasn't a question.
"We have a problem. Ouroboros is a known entity now. Every intelligence agency in the world is looking for their signature. We can't send in a traditional agent. But this tournament… it's a closed ecosystem. They don't trust outsiders."
"So what's the cover?" Kenji asked, a deep, weary dread settling in his gut.
He was already running through the possibilities. A coach? A tournament organizer? A journalist?
"Your cover is perfect," the new Director said, with a faint, almost apologetic smile.
"You are a celebrated young prodigy who, after conquering the culinary world, has taken a gap year to explore other forms of youthful, competitive art. You're going undercover as a rookie pro-gamer."
Kenji counted to five in his head. The punchline, as always, refused to arrive.
"Sir," he said slowly, carefully, as if speaking to a man holding a live grenade.
"I am forty-one years old. I make a noise when I stand up. My primary experience with video games was losing to my nephew at Mario Kart a decade ago. He was six. He lapped me. Twice."
"Details, details," the Director waved a dismissive hand.
"That's what makes the cover so brilliant. The e-sports world is full of strange, reclusive figures. And frankly, Agent Takahashi…"
He zoomed in on the face of another pro-gamer on the screen, a haggard-looking twenty-year-old with the posture of a cooked shrimp and the skin tone of a cave-dwelling fish.
"...you'll fit right in. You already have the exhausted, world-weary look of someone who has been staring at a screen for 72 hours straight."
Kenji stared at his own reflection in the dark screen of the tablet. The Director had a point. The crow's feet, the faint stubble, the deep-set canyons of existential despair… he didn't look like a spy. He looked like a gamer who had forgotten what the sun was.
"Agent Sato is already in Seoul," the Director added.
"She's established her cover as a freelance team manager and tech consultant. She'll be your handler. Your mission is simple: get inside the tournament, identify the source of 'God Mode,' ascertain the nature of its chemical compounds, and find out what this Ouroboros splinter group is planning. The tournament starts in one week. Good luck, Agent."
Kenji looked at the tablet, at the video of teenagers earning millions of dollars by clicking things very, very fast. Then he thought about the last 2 missions and what he endured.
"What's the worst that could happen..."