Hey! This is my first DDR fic. I've had this idea in the back of my head for awhile now and I just had to get it out. This is a pretty weird story, and the punch line is a little weak, but hopefully you find it whimsical and enjoyable all the same. We need to take time to honor the sophisticated piece of equipment that is the dancepad, because without such, DDR would not be possible.
I don't own DDR. I also don't own Guitar Hero, Grand Theft Auto or Ebay which are briefly mentioned.
I came into being as I rolled across a conveyor belt through a crowded factory. A high ceiling, large machines, odd pieces of metal and plastic, wires connected to electrical outlets, and all things clanking and whirring with life. I was picked up by a burly factory worker and shoved into a large cardboard box filled with packaging pellets.
I was marked with four arrows: up, down, left and right. I knew what lay ahead of me and it filled me with anticipation. I was a dancepad, and I was to serve the greatest dancers in the world!
I was shipped to an arcade filled with bright flashing lights and colors. After I was dislodged from my box, I was set up amidst the other whirring and sparkling games. I was filled with excitement. I could begin fulfilling my purpose in life!
It was not as I expected.
Children and teens of all ages jumped on me without end. And while I was supposed to be sturdy enough to play in regular footwear, the majority of dancers I serviced insisted on stripping down their feet so that I was forced to experience their smelly, greasy socks against my arrows, or on some occasions their bare feet.
The children, (who had not the faintest idea of how to treat a sophisticated piece of professional equipment like me) would stomp on me without the slightest trace of eye/foot coordination and then burst into tears upon failing a song on Light. The teenagers on the other hand, would jump on me for hours at a time. If some reason or another they found themselves failing, they would promptly begin to curse all matter of swear words at me, as if I, the mat, was somehow responsible for their inadequate footwork.
There were the occasional prodigies, who could manage to scrape an A off a song like Butterfly on Heavy, but I experienced no one particularly outstanding jumping on my arrows throughout my time at the arcade.
I was sorely disappointed at my state of being. I thought that I would be of service to the world's most prestigious dancers! Instead, I found myself regularly abused by amateurs with smelly feet. I found myself thinking, was this really my true purpose in life?
It was a question I continued to ponder, as the weeks and months of my time in that crowded arcade wore on. If this wasn't my purpose in life, then what was?
Months turned to years. My situation did not improve. I could feel my sensors beginning to wear down. Indeed, the cursing of the teens who came to play had escalated as my condition became poorer and poorer.
And finally one day, I was detached from the machine. A shiny, new dancepad was put in my place that was clearly the latest model. I had become out-of-date. Obsolete. As I was carted away, I couldn't help but wonder if the new dancepad had been filled with the same dreams and aspirations I had been, upon my installation. Was it eager to serve the world's greatest dancers, as I had been? Dancers who would be able to play songs like Sakura, Paranoia, and Max 300 on Heavy or Challenge with the speed notched up times five? Instead of dancers who could barely pass Kick the Can on Light, or dissolved into tears upon failing a Beginner song, as I had witnessed.
I was sold on Ebay, to my humiliation. Despite becoming obsolete, I was still functional for the most part. I now found myself now under the ownership of a family of four prospective dancers, who were thrilled to own such a refined piece of dancing equipment, even if I was used.
As I was shipped to their house, I thought that perhaps this was my new purpose for being. I could be an instrument of learning to those who had bought me. While my new dancers might not be able to score AAA on Drop Out on Heavy, perhaps my presence could help them learn to become more accomplished. While dancing on me, they could hone their skills to perfection. I would be their teacher and raise them to become the next generation of DDR prodigies.
It was not as I expected.
The youngest of the family was about seven, with barely enough coordination skills to pass on Beginner. The next was a ten year-old boy, who much preferred using his hands to play rather than his feet. The last two were a pair teenaged twins, one boy and one girl. The girl was far more interested in going out and partying, rather than wasting her time jumping around on a stupid video game, while the boy preferred to sit around twiddling his thumbs against the little paddle at games such as Grand Theft Auto or Guitar Hero.
In short, I was put to little use. When I was dragged out of the closet on occasion, it was usually for the sake of blatant amusement, rather than serious dancing. And the feet I experienced smelled just as bad as those at the arcade.
One night when the parents had been out, the twins had invited over at least a dozen friends, all gotten completely smashed, and then made a game out of who could dance the best while being blind drunk. We hadn't even made it through a full three stages when my dancer threw up all over me. I never really worked properly after that. And if that wasn't bad enough, about a week or so later, the family adopted a Chihuahua that looked more like a rat than an actual dog, which after thoroughly sniffing me, promptly proceeded to mark its territory.
I was constantly squabbled over by the younger of the children, as to who got to play first, and who got to play Yuni, and who got to play Akria, and whether to play Matsuri Japan or Midnight Blaze, or else pointless arguments such as whether or not the Zukins were actually robots, or just a bunch of reject circus performers.
And as time wore on, my sensors become less and less effective to the point I was almost completely defunct. And one day I felt myself seem to just give out completely, and no matter how hard I was jumped on, the arrows pressed refused to register on the game screen.
That was it. I was broken. I'd seen my last stage, heard my last song. I'd served to my full extent.
Was that it? Had I lived my purpose in life? Was it simply over now?
I was put out with the garbage the next day, and thrown unceremoniously onto a large truck that smelled even worse than the multitudes of feet I'd been forced to experience in my lifetime. I was driven to a dump, where I lay amoungst piles of other trash, waiting for my execution at the hands of the garbage compactor.
I continued to ponder about what my life had been. What had been my purpose? My reason for being? If not to serve, raise, or teach the greatest dancers in the world, then what had it been?
And on my last day, as the garbage compactor bore down on me, ready to crush and to squeeze all shape out of me, I realized that I had been thinking far too hard. I knew what my purpose in life had been.
My purpose in life had not been complex or deep. On the contrary, it had been blatantly simplistic. I almost couldn't accept it, that I hadn't been worth anything more, existing only to serve such a simple function. But as my frame was crushed and collapsed and my deadened sensors bent in against one another as my insides turned to mush, I realized that I had served my purpose in life.
My purpose in life was to be stepped on.
So….what'd you think?