The next day is Monday. Despite my lack of sleep tormenting me, I go to school like always.
I maintain a facade of calm, but in the car on my way to school, the older gentleman who drives me asks if I’m feeling all right, which comes as a shock. What a professional, I think, impressed.
It’s a normal school day, or rather, what passes for normal these days. The awkward atmosphere Robot Girl left behind seems set to continue. The most popular students are paranoid, suspecting everyone, and there aren’t as many conversations as before.
Personally, I consider a quiet classroom a cause for celebration.
After eating lunch, I slip out of the room and behind the school building. No one else is around, so I seize the opportunity to pull out my smartphone and check the video submission site with Abaddon. Calling up the admin screen, I check the list of all our submitted videos. I can see the three from yesterday, my original introduction video, and the new one from this morning—a total of five. The number of views and comments for each are recorded to the side, allowing me to see everything together.
In chronological order, starting with my first video, the view and comment counts are as follows:
95 views, 7 comments.
60 views, 5 comments.
56 views, 4 comments.
40 views, 5 comments.
12 views, 3 comments.
Incidentally, my subscriber count is still zero.
“The same haters are still coming to comment. They even hit the one I had scheduled to go live this morning.”
“Maybe they’ve become fans,” suggests Abaddon.
“I think they’re just persistent. They didn’t subscribe, but they’ve been looking at the videos and posting comments for multiple days in a row. I get the feeling they’re not in a safe mental state.
“Yeah, we can’t discard that possibility,” says the demon as he peeks over my shoulder at the screen. He doesn’t sound worried at all.
Through our work the previous weekend, Abaddon has gained a broader understanding of modern video culture. He can now quickly grasp terms like “channel” and “subscribers.” He doesn’t act high-and-mighty all the time for nothing—he’s a pretty smart demon.
The haters’ recent comments read, “Still an amazing model and mo-cap, but the person inside is so gloomy it’s pathetic” and “Why not just restart as a downer introvert?”
“So what now?” asks Abaddon.
“Nothing. We upload our afternoon video. We recorded everything for today yesterday, so we’ll just stay quiet and keep uploading. Everyone in the contest is starting from square one, so maybe double-digit views will mean something down the line.”
“We should try to cleverly extract information during today’s pretend family time!”
“My thoughts exactly.”
From there, Abaddon and I discuss our strategy for our planned recording that night. The lunch break passes by in a flash. Then, once classes are over, it’s time to join our pretend family.
Back home, we meet up with my neighbor and everyone else, then Robot Girl ferries us to the UFO. In a little under an hour, dinner is prepared, and we all sit around the kotatsu in the living room to enjoy our evening meal.
The Japanese-style table is feeling a little cramped with the addition of the prince, who is supposedly an acquaintance of Blondie’s. Nevertheless, we all huddle together and enjoy our meal. If the magical girl shows up now, we’ll probably need to add a table. My neighbor is already trying to make himself smaller, out of consideration for everyone else, and I feel sorry for him.
A few minutes after we pick up our chopsticks, my neighbor turns to Futarishizuka and asks, “So, how is your let’s-play project going?” He must be curious about the contest’s outcome, too. The others shift their focus to the two of them, all seeming to share the sentiment.
“Oh, you want to know? Curious about how I’ve been getting along, are you?”
“Well, I’m not that curious.”
“I suppose we need a little progress report to keep the excitement going, eh? Since I’m the one who suggested it, I’ll reveal my account. I only uploaded my first video last night, though, so it won’t have many views,” she says, taking out her phone. She fiddles with it, and the TV in the living room switches from a variety show to the video submission website we’re using for the contest. When did she install the app on there?
Soon, we see the home page for a channel called Shizu’s Gaming Dojo. The top banner is an illustration of a cute young girl— one who looks nothing like Futarishizuka. The two-dimensional beauty wears an awfully provocative, alluring smile; she must be “Shizu.”
Just as we were told, the list of videos contains only a single submission. As far as I can tell, the thumbnail looks typical for a game stream. More striking is the number of views—it’s already over ten thousand.
“Spiffy header image, right?” she says. “I had an artist friend of mine make it for me.”
“Wait, that’s amazing,” says my neighbor, surprised. “It already has so many views!”
“Well, yes. I did sort of beat the national speedrun record.”
At that, Abaddon and I take a closer look at the screen. “Will you play it for us?” I ask.
“Oh, well, I suppose it’s time to unveil my godlike gaming abilities to the rest of the family.”
Despite her pompous attitude, Futarishizuka quickly plays the video. The big TV screen shows her playing a game. From the speakers, I hear both the game audio and her voice.
“I’m Shizu, a true gamer girl, and this is my channel! I’m going to do some speedruns of this rogue-like game, okay? I’ve never recorded myself before, including my voice, so I hope you enjoy this as if you’re actually with me. Now, let’s play!”
The voice, brimming with childlike enthusiasm, fills the room. My neighbor gives a start. “Wait. What’s going on?” he asks her nervously. “Whose voice is this? It sounds very strange.”
“What do you mean? It’s my playtime voice.”
It’s a lot higher-pitched than usual; this must be what people mean when they refer to “anime voices.” To be honest, it feels really out of place. This little child sounds nothing like Futarishizuka. It’s as if she’s a completely different person.
But when I consider that this is a game stream, it suddenly seems rather orthodox. A lot of streamers make a living off this sort of anime voice. Even female VTubers tend to use a similar tone and rhythm. I start to feel jealous, recalling how people dogpiled me for my gloomy voice.
“You’re not complaining about my voice, I hope?” says Futarishizuka.
“No, not at all,” my neighbor assures her. “It’s just so different from how you usually sound.”
“What? Don’t like my mesugaki persona?”
As we look at her in bewilderment, the video transitions to her starting the game. As she explained already, it’s a type called a rogue-like. Dungeons are created randomly, and you proceed through them one after another. I’ve seen VTubers playing similar games, so I just barely understand what they are.
“Oh, wowie! That’s a really strong weapon to get right at the start! Now I can one-shot all the mobs on the lower floors. Small fries, all of you. Come at me all at once if you dare! None of you stand a chance before Shizu. You’re about to be rust on my blade! W-wait—a rust trap?!”
The whole TV screen is taken up by the video game; you can’t see Futarishizuka’s face. It seems she isn’t using a face cam. Considering her background, I guess that makes sense. Instead, there’s a bust shot of the little girl from the header image in one corner. She makes little movements to show a range of emotions.
I’m not surprised, but I sense that she’s taken a lot of care editing her video. The fact that her anime voice makes her sound like a total stranger serves to perfectly mask her identity. If I saw this video out of context, I would have never realized it was her. In that sense, she’s killing two birds with one stone.
“I see you went for a cult classic,” my neighbor remarks.
“Games like these have a steady, eager fan base. Even if it’s a video made by some nobody, a punchy title will bring in viewers who want to go into the comment section and blast me with negativity.”