However, the technology for Live2D was only meant to move a single image (although there were often many separate layers making it up), and its portrayal was limited to 40 degrees in either direction—any more than that and the picture fell apart. In essence, it was a trick to make 2D seem like 3D.
Additionally, the fact that there was only one main drawing being moved around meant that large movements dipped into the uncanny valley. VTubers had a real person behind the 2D image, so when they nodded too deeply or turned too suddenly, it wasn’t rare for a viewer to be pulled out of their immersion due to the jerky motion.
Aya’s version didn’t have any trace of visual discomfort.
“If you know that much, that makes it easy to explain! Well, going into the nitty gritty would be a bit much, especially since Nana-sen and Aye-aye are giving me blank stares, so I’ll wrap this up quick,” Aya had told them. “This rendering isn’t based off of a single image, but a bunch of them. 3D’s just a matter of what you show the camera, after all. I just shift the layout of a few different pictures depending on the camera’s position, fill in the gaps on my end, and voila, it looks like 3D. So, the basic idea of making 2D look like 3D hasn’t changed, but... if you can fake it perfectly, then all that’s left is the real deal.”
Kai wouldn’t have been able to follow a more technical explanation, either. Aya had mentioned a few constraints, like the fact that it wasn’t optimized enough to process more than one character at a time, or that it required a ton of illustrations to work with... But the character hadn’t changed at all when it transferred dimensions (obviously, as that was the whole point) and there was no way Kai could sweat the small stuff when he saw the character moving so flawlessly.
It was simply amazing.
“Honestly,” he’d asked, “who the heck are you?”
“I’m Oushima Aya, Meikun High Social Game Club’s develop-a-little programmer,” she’d retorted. “Duh.” Aya had been sporting an impish grin, all while Kai had been frozen in awe at her incomprehensibly prodigious new program. Now, that same smile crept onto Aya’s face as she watched Eru glue herself to the screen.
It wasn’t over yet. They didn’t have a card up their sleeve, or anything... it was just that the experience simply wasn’t complete without the final piece of the puzzle.
“Don’t worry,” Aina had reassured them. “This isn’t a question of my acting skills. My voice will fit this drawing.”
In present time, the character inside the phone began to fiddle with a smartphone of her own. They had set her animations up to do so beforehand. On screen, the character nervously took a deep breath as she tapped away at her own virtual phone. For a moment, she hesitated and went into deep thought. Eventually, the lifelike character looked beyond the screen—directly at Eru—and smiled.
The phone in Eru’s hand switched its display, and the entire view morphed to show an incoming phone call through the LIME program. There was no caller ID. She didn’t need it to know who was calling. Eru picked up the phone just as timidly as the character had done moments prior.
“I’m sorry,” said a voice.
Why was that the line? Whose message was it? Who was it for? Aina had refused to answer those questions, but there was undeniably emotion packed into those words.
“This... is a photo of me in middle school. I’ve cut it since then, but I used to have long hair, all the way down to my waist... You get what I’m saying, don’t you?”
Kai had felt a strange sensation ever since seeing the drawing for the first time, almost as if he’d seen it somewhere before. Like the drawing had somehow caught his eye in the past. That gnawing sensation directly connected to Aina’s photograph with the straightest of all lines.
“For this character to speak is for me to speak.”
They had initially tried out a handful of other lines, poses, expressions, and gestures, but none of them had met Aina’s standards, causing her shouting match with Aya to stretch out until the last minute.
With everything said and done, their final conclusion was to show the small bit of animation in the beginning, and lead directly into an experience that was indiscernible from a real phone call. Aina had acted out all the motions for the character, fiddling with her own phone to provide base motions for the animations. On that note, Aya had explained some unintelligible mumbo-jumbo about employing an AI to automate the process, but what mattered was that they had been able to evoke the same image through Aina’s acting.
Aina had a lot of trouble deciding on what to say, but for now, all she wanted was for her words to reach Eru. Every facet of the plan had been simple: restore the character that Eru had poured so much love into, and don’t stop until it was fully revived. On top of the artwork, they’d add Aina’s voice to the mix and Eru would scream, “Oh dear, she’s aliiive!” Then, the shock would make her faint and foam, and their mission would be accomplished. That was the entire plan.
However, neither Aina, nor Aya, nor Kai could stop themselves from jumping to their feet in panic at the scene that unfolded in front of them.
“Ah...” After ending the call, the screen in Eru’s palm depicting the character began to blur. With a quiet drip, a single droplet of liquid burst onto the screen and shattered into light. Eru lifted her right hand to her cheek, as if to confirm for herself what was happening, and scooped up a tear rolling down her face. “Ah... huh...?” she asked, clearly feeling bewildered.
Nanaka ran to her side and embraced her from the front.
“Ah, Na... naka...?” Eru asked slowly.
“...You idiot,” Nanaka whispered, squeezing her best friend tight. With her head resting on Nanaka’s shoulder, Eru’s face began to distort. Nanaka comforted her by saying, “It’s okay, Eru.”
“...Gh,” Eru choked. “Ah, waaaaaah!!!”