I am a special human being, born this way.
All the people in this world are mediocre,
and it is I who must move them.
I wonder when exactly I came to possess
such a way of thinking.
I have made the effort. I have produced
corresponding results. So, it's not that I'm conceited.
In my student days, I achieved near-perfect
grades in everything and entered what is called a top-tier university.
Despite being bad-mouthed for riding on my
parents' coattails, I consistently produced results at the family-run company I
joined.
I succeeded in transforming the company,
which was already becoming an outdated corporate entity, by energetically
pursuing new business ventures.
With my business performance, I silenced my
charismatic father and made sure he couldn't interfere at all.
And yet, despite all that.
"They're hopeless, those people."
On the monitor in front of me, a news site
is displayed.
This site constantly featured articles that
glorified creators.
On it, there was an interview with
Kawasegawa and Hashiba.
Perhaps they were on guard as well, as
there wasn't a single bitter word about "Succeed," but rather a list
of enthusiastic comments about their new company and content meant to stir up
anticipation for the software they were producing.
However, news naturally breeds speculation
and gossip.
"The lack of mention of Succeed must
be because it was erased under pressure," "They must have been
treated horribly," "Those guys are the bad ones," "They are
good people"—baseless comments written purely on sentiment were lined up
like maggots.
"What a pointless life."
I closed the browser, erasing their faces
and the unpleasant string of characters from the monitor.
When you throw a stone at something huge
from a distance, for a fleeting moment you feel like you have the upper hand. I
have nothing in particular to say to the fools who gain satisfaction from such
things. At most, all I can say is enjoy your life of never becoming anything.
But I will not forgive those who incited
such fools. Those childish, arrogant, and ignorant people who understand
nothing of management and think anything is permissible as long as they raise
the noble banner of "creativity" need to be cast into the depths of
hell.
I picked up my smartphone and called Torii
from the development department. He is my direct subordinate, whom I decided to
entrust with the department manager position after Kawasegawa.
Before long, I heard a tense voice.
"Is something the matter, Managing
Director? At this late hour..."
At his words, I checked the clock. It was
just about to be a new day.
"It's true that I called late, but it
seems the document consolidation for Department 2 that I asked of you hasn't
progressed much either, has it?"
"M-my deepest apologies! Many of them
are scattered or their whereabouts are unknown, so I'm having a bit of
trouble..."
"I'm counting on you. You don't have a
particular knack for planning, but you excel at information organization and
efficiency. That's precisely why I entrusted the hollowed-out Department 2 to
you."
"Thank you very much! To meet your
expectations, Managing Director, I will put in my utmost effort... no, I will
produce results!"
"Yes, yes, I'll be counting on you
then."
After confirming the other party's almost
shouted "Excuse me," I quietly ended the call.
"You remembered well that I hate the
word 'effort'. If you had kept going, it would have been a minus. What a
shame."
Results take form, but effort does not.
That's why I hate it. Anyone who uses it as an excuse is out of the question.
They have no place being my subordinate.
I stood up from my chair and gazed at the
city from the window.
From this floor, the city below looks like
a fabrication. The figures of people, barely discernible, are like ants, and
all the noise and lights begin to seem like a virtual reality.
Once you start seeing this view, you too
will come to understand management.
Among the words spoken by my despicable
father, this was one of the few that proved useful.
Though, thanks to the management I learned
from it, he himself is now on the verge of being eliminated.
"This is what you've done. You
couldn't possibly have any regrets."
I murmur to no one in particular.
I return to my desk and open a drawer.
A desk now empty, with almost all paper
documents digitized. Inside, there was just one thing left.
A photograph. A picture of me and several
other people.
About 10 years ago. I was still a student,
working part-time at the company.
Back when the company was still in Oosaka.
In everyone's hands was a package for a game we made ourselves, and they all
had huge smiles on their faces.
I stare at it in silence.
"Finally."
The reason I kept this until now wasn't
because it was precious. I had saved it for the fun of tearing it to shreds at
the right moment—as an object of hatred, regret, and scorn.
Now that the nuisances are gone and the
final moment has arrived, it is the perfect time for it.
"Goodbye, detestable memory."
Once, twice, I fold the paper and tear it
over and over. Everyone's smiles, their relationships, the memories—all of it
becomes tiny scraps of paper, fluttering down.
"It's almost time. Soon... everything
will disappear."
I closed the drawer and sat back down in my
chair.
"I will erase it all with my own
hands."
In the dark room, my faintly smiling voice
echoed as if crawling across the floor.
◇
That night, for the first time in a while,
it was very quiet.
Recently, I'd often been bogged down with
work until midnight, and on top of that, Kawasegawa and Kuroda would take me
out for drinks at every opportunity, so I had gotten used to lively nights.
But tonight, I was having a night I could
spend relaxing by myself.
While sipping slowly from an opened can of
beer, I'm looking at the site that was launched today on my smartphone.
"Maybe this is a little too
postured."
The interview article I did with
Kawasegawa.
It's an article by Miyamoto-san, who
started working in web media at a new place, and it talks about the project
we're involved in and our workplace.
I agreed to it as soon as I heard about it,
hoping it would raise our visibility even a little.
"This is kind of embarrassing."
Although it couldn't be helped given the
nature of the article, the content was filled with a rather strong, uplifting
tone, like an introduction to big-shot creators.
The software itself is still at a level
where we can barely show an outline; we haven't even reached the starting line
for full-scale implementation and development.
If we build it up too excessively at this
stage, it could backfire and we could end up getting backlash from the users.
Having expectations become too high is a
negative for the software.
"It's better to be a little flashy
with this kind of thing."
Those were the words Miyamoto-san said to
me when I expressed my concerns during the checking phase.
It's true that if we made it too modest,
the article would have fewer standout points and could get buried.
So, in the end, I decided to follow
Miyamoto-san's words. In fact, looking at social media, most of the reactions
were positive, and the negative ones were within the expected range.
But I still can't help but worry.
"He's probably... watching this,
too."
Managing Director Matsuhira. The biggest
enemy in our project, an opponent we finally managed to score a point against.
Against him, who clearly held power and had
no hesitation in using it, we paid the utmost attention as we devised our
countermeasures.
When quitting the company, when launching
the new project, and the cleanup afterward. We brought in legal and management
experts and went over everything meticulously, one by one, to see if there were
any openings he could exploit.
As a result, there has been no conspicuous
interference so far. Everyone was pleased, thinking it was the result of us
constantly staying one step ahead.
"I wonder if... we succeeded."
I should probably preface that with
"up to this point," but for now, we've managed somehow.
However, the Managing Director is not one
to give up here. That terrifying tenacity and meticulous preparedness, and the
ruthlessness to completely crush his opponents.
He is surely reading this article.
And he must be contemplating how to crush
us.
I remember those cold eyes and shudder
involuntarily.
"I wonder why."
For all that, the Managing Director was a
decent enough businessman. He launched new ventures and succeeded in all of
them, and although he had a tendency to force his own methods, he never lined
his own pockets or caused any obvious scandals.
But when it came to game development, he
was consistently inhumane, taking actions so negative it could be called a
personal vendetta.
What does that mean?
"Does it mean he had a reason to
despise it so much?"
I can't think of any other explanation. And
a very powerful one at that.
I tilt the can and pour the slightly warm
beer down my throat. I could feel the pleasant fizz of the carbonation passing
through my esophagus.
I have only spoken with the Managing
Director face-to-face twice. Neither of those occasions was anything close to
amicable.
The chance to speak with him again is
probably next to none. Now that we are at separate companies, it should be
difficult to realize unless something extraordinary happens.
But if such an opportunity were to arise, I
think this time I'd want to ask him.
"Why do you hate the games that we
love so much?"
As someone who was once saved by them, I
especially want to ask him that.
As I was vaguely thinking about such
things, the "piron" of an email notification sounded. It seemed
something for PR had arrived for me to check.
"Anyway, for now I have to focus on
creating."
We desperately created a "place."
Now it's our turn to create something in that place.
That achievement itself should be the most
effective answer to the Managing Director.
"We will create it with our own
hands."
In front of the brilliantly lit monitor, my
soliloquy quietly melted into the night's darkness.
