The safe house in Seoul was a minimalist shoebox of an apartment in a trendy, high-rise district, chosen by Sato for its high-speed fiber-optic internet and its proximity to a 24-hour coffee shop. The view from the window was a dizzying, neon-drenched cityscape that gave Kenji a headache just looking at it.
"Welcome to your dojo," Sato said, not looking up from the bank of monitors she had already assembled on a sleek glass desk.
She had traded her janitor's uniform and her business suits for the unofficial uniform of the tech world: a black hoodie, black jeans, and an expression of intense, caffeinated focus.
Kenji's "dojo" consisted of a single, ridiculously ergonomic gaming chair, a keyboard that flashed with a rainbow of distracting colors, a mouse that had more buttons than the cockpit of a fighter jet, and a curved, wide-screen monitor that was larger than the television in his apartment back home.
"This is insane," he muttered, poking at the glowing keyboard.
"It feels like I'm about to launch a nuclear missile, not play a video game."
"The game is Mythic Vanguard Arena," Sato said, her voice a clinical monotone as she brought up the game's logo on the main screen.
It was a tangle of snarling dragons, impossibly armored warriors, and scantily-clad sorceresses.
"It's the most popular tactical hero-shooter in the world. A five-on-five, objective-based competition that requires a combination of superhuman reflexes, encyclopedic knowledge of over one hundred playable 'Heroes,' and the ability to process visual information at a rate that would give a normal person a seizure. You have six days to become proficient enough to pass as a professional."
For the next eight hours, Sato attempted to teach Kenji the basics of Mythic Vanguard Arena. It was, without a doubt, the most humiliating training exercise of his entire career. He had disarmed bombs with steadier hands.
"Okay, Kenji," Sato said patiently, pointing at the screen.
"This is the 'A' key. It makes your character move left. This is the 'D' key. It makes your character move right."
"Right," Kenji said, his fingers, which could field-strip a pistol in the dark, feeling clumsy and foreign on the glowing keys.
He pressed 'A'. His character, a hulking brute named 'Wrecking Ball Ronin,' immediately walked sideways off a cliff.
"That was a cliff," Sato observed.
"I see that."
"Let's try using the mouse. The left button shoots your Mega-Cannon. The right button activates your Kinetic Shield."
Kenji aimed the mouse at a training dummy and clicked the left button. The resulting explosion was deafening, filling the screen with smoke and fire. Unfortunately, he had also, in his panic, squeezed the mouse so hard that he'd accidentally clicked the right button, too. His character, while firing his cannon, had also activated his shield, which blocked his own shot. The rocket ricocheted off the inside of the shield and exploded in his face, killing him instantly.
After three hours, Kenji had mastered the ability to walk into walls, shoot his own feet, and occasionally, accidentally, activate his character's special ability, which was a taunting dance move. Sato, meanwhile, had been taking meticulous notes.
"This is hopeless," Kenji groaned, slumping in the chair after his twelfth consecutive accidental suicide.
"My reflexes are shot. My brain can't process this much flashing. I am, officially, too old for this."
"On the contrary," Sato said, turning her chair to face him.
Her expression was one of analytical excitement. It was never a good sign.
"Your performance has been… unexpectedly brilliant."
"I just blew myself up with my own rocket, Sato."
"Exactly. It's a classic misdirection. While your opponent is focused on your forward trajectory, you attack from an unexpected vector: yourself. It's a level of tactical self-sacrifice no one would ever anticipate."
Kenji just stared at her.
"I've been analyzing your gameplay data," she continued, bringing up a series of complex-looking graphs.
"Your APM is, objectively, terrible. You react to threats with the speed of a hibernating bear. But! When you do react, you press a completely random and illogical combination of keys. It's not a strategy. It's a Jackson Pollock painting of button inputs. It is, by its very nature, completely unpredictable. We're not going to market you as a player with good reflexes. We're going to market you as a player with a 500 IQ, whose moves are so advanced, so meta, that lesser players simply can't comprehend them."
"You want me to fail upwards," Kenji said, a horrifying sense of déjà vu washing over him.
"I want you to lean into the Takahashi Paradox," she corrected.
"Your gamertag will be 'Sensei_GG.' Your backstory is that you're a mysterious, reclusive older player, a forgotten master from the early days of competitive gaming who has returned from a long hiatus in a mountain monastery. Your playstyle is not slow; it's 'deliberate.' You are not bad at aiming; you are 'utilizing suppressive fire to control map zones.' You do not walk into walls; you are 'testing environmental collision parameters.' You are not a bad player, Kenji. You are a philosopher who has chosen a video game as his medium."
Kenji dropped his head into his hands.
"This is insane. This is completely, utterly insane."
"That's what you said about the Pudding Cartel," Sato reminded him.
"And you ended up a national hero."
"I ended up in therapy with a volleyball medal," he shot back.
"I have no idea how to explain it to people!"
"You won't have to."
Sato was already typing furiously, seeding rumors on e-sports forums and social media.
"'Has anyone heard of this new player, Sensei_GG? His mechanics are trash but his game sense is on another level.' 'Yo, I saw a clip of Sensei_GG. He killed himself with his own ult. Is that a new speed-running strat?'"
The final part of his transformation was the uniform. Sato presented him with a box the next morning. Inside was a black hoodie with a ridiculously over-designed, angry-looking dragon on it, the logo of their hastily invented e-sports team:
"Team Scramble."
"I look like a middle-aged man having a mid-life crisis," Kenji said, staring at his reflection.
"You look like a pro-gamer," Sato corrected.
"Now put on your wrist-guard. Your cover is that you suffer from chronic carpal tunnel. It will explain your slow and painful movements."
As they stepped out of the taxi at the tournament venue—a colossal, futuristic dome that looked like a grounded spaceship—the sensory assault was immediate. The roar of the crowd, the thumping bass of electronic music, the flashing lights from a hundred different screens—it was a nightmare carnival of hyper-stimulation.
A group of teenagers, decked out in the jerseys of their favorite teams, rushed past them. One of them, a kid with bright orange hair, bumped into Kenji.
"Whoa, watch it, old man," the kid said, then did a double-take.
He looked at Kenji's hoodie, his wrist-guard, his thousand-yard stare of pure despair. The kid's eyes widened in recognition.
"Wait a minute… are you Sensei_GG?"
Kenji felt his soul leave his body.
"I… yes."
"No way! Dude, I saw your clips online! Your chaotic, anti-meta playstyle is a revelation! You're my new hero! Can I get a selfie?"
Before Kenji could answer, the kid had his arm around him, a phone in his hand, and was making a peace sign. Kenji just stood there, a hostage to his own ridiculous, fabricated legend, as the camera flashed. The mission had barely begun, and he already wanted to go home.