explodes in paintbox flames. The van swerves down the road to the airport. In the underpass an ambulance cuts us up – a scalpel-slashing medic leaps on to our bonnet, eyeballs afroth with plagueBang! In the nuts! Bang! Vomit on the bonnetBang! The mutant staggers, but refuses to dieBang! Blasted through a billboard. Reload. ‘You’re my top gun,’ croons Zizzi. We get to the airport just in time to see my father dragged into a vanilla Cessna aircraft. I daren’t shoot his kidnappers at this range in case I miss. A mighty chokmakopter eclipses the sun, and zombie spawn abseil to earth. I pulp dozens in midair, but the semolina army of death sludges up too quickly. ‘Zax, honey!’ says Zizzi. ‘Megaweapon in McDonald’s!’ I fire the golden arches and collect the twenty-third-century rapid-fire bazooka. It purrs as I scythe – soon the runway is a spill of twitching limbs. I pepper the chokmakopter until it nosedives into the fuel trucks. Octane fuchsia explosions light the world. ‘Way to go, Zax! Now to follow your father’s abductors to their laboratory!’ We soar in pursuit of the Cessna – I click my trigger to skip the preamble. We enter the underworld. The sewers are quiet. Too quiet. A gigahydra erupts, nine heads dripping lime slime from nine lassooing necksBang! Cleft like a cabbage. Reload. But from the stump two new heads are born. ‘Deep-fry the freak!’ screams Zizzi, so I aim at the beast’s trunk and activate my flamethrower. Whoooooorrrsh! It shrivels away in my swathe of unlooping strawberry fire. A lily-white Lilith oneBang! and she’s history. A swarm of cyberwasps – bangabangabanga – reload. My hand is killing me. The tunnel narrows to a dead end. An unseen iron door creaks open – a scientist in silhouette. ‘My son! You found me! At long last!’ I relax and flex my gun hand. ‘You are in time’ – he rips off his false beard, his briefcase morphs into a grenade launcher – ‘to die!’ The gritty gloom swarms with intelligent missiles, homing in on my body heat. Bangabangabanga! I miss most of them, and can’t even take aim at the impostor. Scarlet pixels of life-blood splatter the screen. ‘Zax,’ begs my sister, ‘don’t leave me here – insert a coin to continue. Honey, don’t quit now.’
‘Honey,’ mimics a voice over my shoulder, ‘don’t quit now!’ I replace my gun and turn around to face my spectator and his slow applause. My first thought is that he is way too cool to be hanging out in games centres. Older than me, a sleek ponytail, an earring. Pop star good looks. ‘First time in the underworld, right?’ His real voice is tailored Tokyoite.
I nod. The real world fades in.
‘It was the same for me, my first time in the underworld.’
Laser zaps, vampire howls, coin rattles, cyclical video game music. ‘Oh.’
You see your father, so you let your guard down. A dirty trick! Next time, shoot the egghead on sight. It takes about nine shots to kill him.’
‘Well. Sorry I died and spoilt your fun.’
The most casual of shrugs. ‘You’re doomed from the first coin. You pay to postpone the ending, but the video game will always win in the long run.’
My last half-Marlboro died in the ashtray. ‘Very deep.’
‘Actually, I was waiting for my date in the pool hall upstairs. Looks like she’s playing the be-late-keep-him-on-tenterhooks game. So I came down to make sure she hadn’t fucked up and was waiting outside. I saw you, wrapped up in Zax Omega and Red Plague Moon, and had to stay to watch. Did you know your tongue pokes out when you concentrate?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a two-player game, really. It even took me a fortnight to polish it off.’
‘That must have cost you a fortune.’
‘No. My father owns a man who owns a distributor.’
No reply presents itself. ‘Well, hope your date shows up soon.’ ‘The bitch had better. Or I’ll flay her alive.’
Saturday night in Shibuya bubbles and sweats. One week since my sleepless night, I decided to come exploring. The pleasure quarter is so hot, one more struck match could ignite the place. Uncle Bank took me out last year to his bar in Kagoshima, but that is nothing compared to this. Neither are the prices. Drones drink in squadrons, ties loose, collars undone. She-drones, office uniforms stuffed into shoulder bags. I damn drones too much, considering I am one now. But I only pretend to be one. Maybe we all start out that way. Same as