Hero's Duty (Another Perspective)
There's a primary difference between myself and the Air Commander—or "Ivan", as people have started teasing him.
Though he doesn't fully appreciate the fact, "Ivan" hates the fact that he's in an arcade.
And I? It's not a problem for me, because I hate the fact that I'm in a video game. Are we're both almost certainly being driven mad by the fact.
Konstantin Dmitryevich Novikov, as it says on the first page of the green-covered military ID that invariably finds its way into my pocket, is the overall commander of the Red Army unit in Smolensk Strike, the 'Sevastopolsky' Motorized Rifles Regiment. It's the name given to my character before this game was Smolensk Strike, actually. To be the ranking officer the ground troops in a game about high-altitude aerial combat is to be the most secondary of the secondary characters. But that isn't the real problem here.
The sleazy-sounding techno thump that seems to accompany Scarlett almost everywhere is actually part of the reason I hired her, perhaps a mistake on my part. Nonetheless, needing a foreign non-player character also means needing to track his or her whereabouts. Both "Ivan" and I are cognizant of the fact we're sitting on lot of firepower.
"Mr. Novikov?" Scarlett asked sweetly. One of the telephones on my desk—we have satellite-guided munitions, but no multiple-line phones, how's that for bizarre?—mercifully rang and I had to pick it up. "Novikov here, go ahead."
It's the Lieutenant Colonel—and he's sounds uncharacteristically lucid, suggesting something nontrivial and worth our attention. "I see. Yes, I'd heard that was moving in, I suppose Litvak beat the clock. I'll handle it, sir."
"Was that the boss?" Scarlett asked sweetly (and to be honest, a little dumbly).
I nod, before standing up from my desk and closing the ledger I was marking. "You're free to go, Scarlett. Have a nice day." Before she can respond, I'm gently pushing her out of my office and shutting the door.
My office, like the clothes I wear, is part utilitarian, part useless. Utilitarian in the sense that everything—the books on the shelves, the old oak desk, the multiple telephone sets, even the portrait of a wizened, glasses-wearing cabinet minister in an off-white senior officer's uniform—is there for a very specific reason. Useless in that none of those reasons actually matter. It's the price of living in a video game.
With Scarlett gone, I could get changed from my utilitarian-but-useless wool uniform. Where I'm going, you don't go in a jacket, a tie, a leather belt and riding boots. Fortunately, the ghost town department stores full of used, if outdated-looking clothing, which is good enough to keep a low profile.
"Night on the town, Tovarisch Mayor?" A wide-eyed youth sitting at the front desk between our ground line and the power junction, asks this. The Strip is a valuable posting, and the Signal Troops know this, since it spares them from having death rain upon them from the sky. All they need to do is look professional in their uniforms, watch the desk and make sure the telephones work. Otherwise, they can relax. They can meet interesting people. Partake in interesting gossip. Did I mention they're not being shot at?
"Just some business to take care of," I explained, glancing at the open book. The Lieutenant Colonel has signed out, as did a few troops who had scheduled leave. Signing my name, I look at the other youngster sitting next to him. "Tovarisch Efreitor, I need you to send out this telegram immediately," I tell him while holding a small piece of yellow paper.
"Of course, sir." Despite everything, these boys are actually quite responsible, if only because they know anyone else in the Signal Troops Company would gladly take their positions and they want to enjoy this comfortable posting for as long as they can before they're rotated out—military professionalism at its finest.
The two pass an official-looking tan envelope between the two of them, signing and stamping it a few times.
"You boys want anything? My treat."
One looked up. "Oh, uh…it's free wings night at Tapper's. Could you get us a box, Comrade Major, please?"
"You know…you know those things are basically just pure orange, greasy poison, right?"
"Yes, sir! We do, sir!"
There may be a shortage of common sense among the Signal Troops, but that's not my problem right now. In my dark blue sweater, collared shirt, slacks and no further distractions, I make a straight line for the South Town's Illusion Bar.
"Major Bonus Points!" the beautiful proprietor King says, all smiles, as I enter. That nickname has largely fallen by the wayside, but King loves anything of vintage. South Town outside was unseasonably warm, making me regret the choice of a sweater. Also, Kyo Kusanagi was setting someone on fire outside, possibly one of the Bogard brothers.
All smiles. "Good evening, King."
"The usual?"
As a teetotaler, you soon learn your options bar-wise are a little limited. In my case, tonic & lime. "Yes, please." This being King, and not one of our Signal Troops, what she gives me in a few minutes is an unnecessarily bold, fresh, even exquisite ginger-lime tonic, which I almost spill when someone pushes up against me at the counter.
"Hey, K.D.!"
It's the Illusion Bar's fighting queen, Mai Shiranui, who takes the establishment's informal three cocktail minimum relatively seriously. Ms. Shiranui finds me hilarious for any number of reasons—because I don't "look Russian", because my choice in fashion is almost comically outdated, because I'm occasionally dragging the Lieutenant Colonel out of one mess or another, or my general unflappable-ness—particularly when she's drunk.
All smiles. "Good evening, Mai, you seem to be having a good time."
"When isn't she?" King chirps.
"Okay, see, this is what I'm talking about," she says, very slurred. "I was having fun. Then you two started talking, and my fun went dry." She taps the bar, demanding another drink, and I finish my own.
Once Mai gets her order, she immediately brightens, throwing an arm over me and shaking me back and forth. She's a good bit stronger than me, even when sloshed, and can shake me like one of Litvak's novelty bobble-head dolls you can sometimes spot in his office. King comes to my rescue.
"She's in the back."
"Thank you." I turn to Mai. "Well, Ms. Shiranui, I have to go and…" I am interrupted by Mai's love-tap, which is actually a close-fisted punch that knocks me on my back, where I stay for a minute, contemplating the absence of choices in life that brought me here. Drunk Mai thinks this is hilarious.
Towards the back of the Illusion Bar is a woman dressed in a manner more at home in my game than her own—a olive drab, double-breasted tunic, riding breeches, leather boots. The air conditioning must be the only thing keeping her comfortable like that. She's lacking the trademark implement from which she derives her name: Whip, or Muchiko as she's sometimes known. Sitting at the booth with my back to hers.
"Do you have it?" My question is redundant because she's already holding an antique box of chocolates toward me, which I take. "Your payment's waiting in the usual place. Give Ms. Heidern my regards."
Whip's a very quiet girl—the one exception being when she goes on one of those ojousan laughing spells of hers—so I wasn't expecting her to talk. "There's one outside, behind the alley. You should go now."
I thank her without looking. Inside the box of chocolates is something we don't have in my game: a personal electroshock weapon typically called a "Taser". All smiles in King and Mai's direction before I leave, I find Whip is as correct as usual: in the alley, something huge is moving about, a behemoth at least the size of one of Whip's male colleagues or Mr. Sakazaki, if not a good bit larger. For a second, I think it's a fighter, but from the way he's anxiously lingering about, I decide to risk it.
"Something I can help you with, son?" To my luck, he actually is younger than me, from what I can see of him through his helmet.
The massive newcomer turns to me, about two meters of something I reckon is carbon fiber and high-tech metal plating in a roughly man-shaped form, occasionally marked by glowing red diodes. He's more of a tank-shaped man than anything.
"Oh, I…I'm sorry, sir," he becomes stumbling. There's something about him that sounds like a soldier of sorts, aside from his massive size and imposing equipment. "Are you from this game?"
"Yes." A short but blatant lie, though in my normal dress, I suppose I look as much like any SNK character as far as this young man knows. I certainly look more at home than he does. "Want in, eh? Maybe chat with some of the pretty ladies?"
The giant blushed a little under his helmet. "Well, I…"
"Oh, come on, son, there's nothing wrong with that. We're all on the same side here, right? Who says you don't deserve a break from fighting…aliens…or Klingons…or space-communists or…"
"Cy-Bugs, sir. It'll be my first time."
"Right, skybugs, of course. I guess they don't have nice establishments where you're from, do they?"
"No, sir, just the canteen."
"Well, here, let me help…you out…clean you up a little…" I begin, trying to find some way to raise myself to his height. Climbing onto a tossed-out beer crate does the job, and I take out my handkerchief. "For starters, you've got a little schmutz…right…about here…"
"Here?"
"No, further toward your neck…"
"You mean here?" he asks, removing his helmet and setting it down on the nearby.
"Yes, thank you, right there," I said, wiping his face. "I'm telling you, son, if you want to go to a classy, bourgeois establishment like this, you really need to look the part." And then I "tase" the heck out of him through that handkerchief.
I'm not one to fail to recognize when I'm lucky: lucky that a giant like him would go down from just a few seconds of full-power Taser. Lucky that his high-tech armor is actually fairly easy to remove, mostly held together by latches and zippers. Lucky that, by the miracle of technology, it actually conforms to my far smaller, far skinnier build as I lock it on. Unlucky that it apparently isn't self-cleaning or odor-resistant. More lucky than unlucky, still.
The tiny writing on the nametag reads 'KOWALSKI', in the fine tradition of these video game warfighters having Polish names for reasons unclear to me, and it is who I am now. After a few minutes of practicing moving in the armor—smell aside, it's remarkably intuitive and flexible—I prop the real Corporal Kowalski up against the dumpster, leave him yesterday's newspapers to read in case he wakes up and gets bored, and take off.
There are so many problems with my plan: how do I know that a cursory glance is all the inspection given at the entrance to this new arcade game? How do I know there isn't some sort of biometric instrumentation that will clearly establish that I'm not Corporal Kowalski? How do I even know there are any other armored warriors who only stand roughly 168 centimeters tall? These are all very real issues that I'm taking for granted when I walk right up to the entrance to this game, Hero's Duty, for the first time.
"Just think of it this way: I'm sure the next guy who tries to sneak into this thing won't even have a military background," I tell myself, pulling down the yellow-orange visor over the helmet. Corporal Kowalski was only carrying a sidearm—apparently South Town's not as infamous as I'd come to view it—and I find that the other gigantic, real heroes with duties are carrying full-sized, boxy avtomats, assault rifles with more glowing orange-red lights. What's with these people and glowing lights? Is it because their whole world is a bunch of rusting, wide corridors and bulkhead doors? That's all I can see of it as I sneak in rather easily.
"Where's your piece?"
A huge, hulking man without a helmet greets me like this as I get off the high-tech tram. I take out Corporal Kowalski's rather large, glowing-red pistol before holstering it again.
"I didn't mean your sidearm."
This is the test. I bring my best American accent to bear, speaking in a distorted, slurring mumble. "I left it in the barracks, didn't think I needed it for a walk."
The big man seems to ponder this and agree. "'Guess not. Where'd you go?"
Honesty is sometimes the best policy. "South Town, you know, SNK country."
The other man's face brightens immediately. "How's the talent?"
"Oh, it's there, but you really need to dress the part. They've got high standards."
"Yeah, I thought so," the trooper laughs while I try and sneak away. He turned back before I could, forcing me to stop in my tracks. "Hey, I heard…"
That thought's cut off when a very familiar siren begins to play. I've got a good feeling what this means, but the large man confirms my suspicions nonetheless. "What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks is that? I thought we were closed for the night!"
H-E-what? What the hell does that even mean?
Another voice comes in shouting—everyone's always shouting in Hero's Duty, it must be the helmets—this one belonging to a woman from deep in the game.
"Sergeant on deck!" someone else—of course—shouts.
"Heads up, ladies!" she gives a commanding shout. "Litvak's giving us a midnight run, so we're back on the job! You file up or your butts' are tardy, and I do not enjoy tardiness, are we clear?"
It's unclear to anyone if this is a question that we're to respond to, but everyone's filing up into orderly lines in this tunnel, so I join in, poising myself towards the back. Several rows a head of me, a large but not-quite-giant blond woman with a short-cut bob—the same as Whip's actually, but less balanced, who is very clearly in charge here. Though she does not look quite as cartoonish as the giant corporal or any of the men surrounding me, she still has a certain cartoonish quality more prevalent than what you'd see in in South Town, much less a dour, "realistic" place the Smolensk Aerodrome. She's still very tall. Her waist is impossibly narrow, to the point where she might make Mai jealous. But there's no ignoring the air of authority around her, especially when she brings it right up to your face.
"'Little short for a trooper, aren't you?" she glowers at me. In fact, we're not that different in size, but in these circumstances she's not mistaken about my inferior height next in the line I'm standing.
I trust my instincts. And my instincts tell me to grin as wide as I can manage underneath my visor. "Comrade Sergeant," I slur out.
Rather than leave unimpressed, the leader keeps staring at me. Obviously, something is wrong here. Does their military not use that form of address? Am I too short to ignore? Or is the absence of an oversized rifle in my hands extremely incriminating.
"Sergeant!" someone else shouts, saving me. The Sergeant, bug-eyed, turns and storms over to another line, leaving me to exhale deeply and even laugh a little.
"Well, I'll never do that again."
"Where's your gun, man?" It's the trooper standing next to me, though he doesn't really pose it as a hostile inquiry so much as a point of curiosity.
"Okay, how many people do I have to explain this to, I left it…" I began before the same man shoves his rifle into my hands, leaving me on my backside before a clamor back up to my feet nosily. I hold the thing the way someone might hold a commercial vacuum cleaner, because that's about the right size and weight of what I've been given. And of course, the giver of the gift reaches behind his back and takes out another oversized weapon, this one vaguely resembling a pump-action shotgun, just as the game's own audio decides to start blasting another new track. I can speculate as to what that means.
"Ah, like Doom. Very cool," I assure my neighbor after clearing my throat.
"Make way, the First-Person Shooter's comin' through!"
"Pardon, the what?" I asked as some sort of hunched weapon-carrying automaton passes through the crowd on a pair of treads, like a bomb-defusing robot married with a very large screen. It stops at the front of the line, where the Sergeant, now in a helmet, addresses it directly.
It belatedly makes sense. "So that's the player. Rather familiar." My neighbor's staring at me again. "I'm sorry, did I break character?"
I'm not even sure he can hear me. "Man, I'll just be glad to get out of this tunnel."
I nod sympathetically. "Right, for you lads this must seem a little…claustrophobic?"
"Huh?"
"Forget it." The wall at the end of the tunnel grinds loudly and begins folding downwards like a ramp. Exactly like a ramp. It dawns on me: have I been inside some sort of huge transport this whole time? I thought I was a tunnel. And god, is the music only getting louder!
I have to squeeze by the massive trooper in front of me to even see where we've 'landed'—some sort of desolate, greenish moonscape with jagged rocks and cliff faces radiating out in a circle? And with some sort of spire in the distance? Something flickering is moving in the distance, almost like a very high number of small, moving aircraft with green navigation lights, but far too many to be flying in any sort of formation. The troopers bellow their war cries and begin moving forward.
"Well, I've probably seen quite enough, thank you." That's precisely what I say as a trooper shoving his way past me pushes me right through the corridor and right out into the green light.
Author's Notes:
"Avtomat", or "machine" or "automatic", is a common term for "automatic rifle" in Russian, as in "Avotomat Kalashnikova", or "AK", while a Taser is a type of conducted electrical weapon typically used in law enforcement, originally made by the Axon corporation but now treated as a generic. Sergeant (Tamora Jean) Calhoun is a main character in the game Hero's Duty in the Disney Film Wreck-It Ralph, where she fights (among other things) alien enemies called Cy-Bugs. Kyo Kusanagi and Whip are both characters from SNK's King of Fighters fighting game franchise, appearing in multiple entries. Doom is the 1993 sci-fi blockbuster shooter produced originally by id Software.
The 1st Guards Motorized Rifle 'Sevastopolsky' (of Sevastopol) Regiment was a distinguished infantry unit in the Soviet Union's Moscow Military District, continuing to exist in the early years of the Russian Federation. Klingons are a species of human-like aliens that appear in multiple television series, films and novels belonging to the Star Trek franchise.