Chapter 4 — Arathy
And thus begins Chapter Four.
Now, children.
There we remained.
Crouched beside the dog.
Two strangers
technically.
One self declared stalker.
One apparently stalked gamer.
And between us
conversation.
The council grows suspicious.
Nuo?
Conversing?
Without Hex?
Children.
Yes.
A rare historical anomaly.
Normally,
conversation with unfamiliar humans required significant processing power.
What do I say?
When do I say it?
Was that sentence too short?
Was that sentence too long?
Do I ask a question now?
How many seconds of silence before it becomes awkward?
The council opens the emergency handbook.
AWKWARD SILENCE PROTOCOL.
A highly developed system.
Usually involving staring at something nearby and pretending the silence was intentional.
But Stalker
had made one very intelligent choice.
She knew Dota.
The council nods solemnly.
Conversation solved.
Children.
I could talk about Dota for several lifetimes.
You wanted heroes?
I had opinions.
Items?
Opinions.
Drafting?
Opinions.
Team compositions?
Opinions.
That one idiot who bought the wrong item twenty seven minutes into a match three tournaments ago?
Children.
I had a thesis.
No social anxiety required.
Just supply topic.
Receive Nuo.
And as we sat there petting the dog,
she began revealing pieces.
A match.
A tournament.
Something I had done.
Some play I remembered vaguely once she described it.
And slowly
context.
The council leans forward.
Ah.
The crime scene.
Exactly.
I now possessed a vague idea of where she had spotted her prey.
A prior tournament.
Somewhere among monitors,
keyboards,
shouting,
and enough caffeine to restart the dead
she had seen Nuo.
Helpless.
Unaware.
Playing Dota.
The council nods.
Easy target.
Apparently.
She knew little details of my gameplay.
Enough that the word “stalker” began feeling less like random flirtation
and more like a disturbingly well researched job title.
Children.
I approved even more.
The council gives up.
Eventually,
Dog Protocol concluded.
The dog moved.
Or we moved.
Either way,
we stood.
And I turned toward Hex.
Hex looked at me.
Then
the girl.
Then
me again.
The council watches carefully.
No words.
Just
nod.
Children.
Hex and I had known each other long enough that entire conversations could be compressed into head movement.
His nod meant:
I see what is happening.
Go.
Be back before tournament time.
Do not make me search for you.
The council pauses.
All that from one nod?
Best friend bandwidth.
I nodded back.
Meaning:
Understood.
Probably.
No guarantees.
And just like that
Social Department granted temporary leave.
Off we went.
Me.
And Stalker.
The council follows.
Now.
She attempted something early in the walk.
An introduction.
A proper one.
“My name is Arathy.”
The council freezes.
A name?
Children.
Yes.
And stranger still
I remember it.
The council erupts.
HISTORICAL EVENT.
Nuo remembers the name of a human.
Not Hat Guy.
Not Ribbon Girl.
Not Blue because Blue was a colour assignment.
An actual name.
Arathy.
The Archive preserved it.
Remarkable.
The council opens champagne.
Calm down.
Because although I remembered her name
I refused to use it.
Not maliciously.
Not because I disliked it.
Children.
She had already introduced herself with a superior title.
Stalker.
You cannot hand Nuo a custom class name
and later expect him to revert to default character naming.
The council nods.
So Arathy existed in government records.
To me?
Stalker.
Always.
Not once did I look at her and say:
“Arathy.”
No.
“Stalker.”
Children.
She had branded herself.
I merely respected marketing.
We wandered through the campus.
No particular route.
No major objective besides:
Tournament later.
For now
walk.
Talk.
Dota.
Stalker.
The fest moved around us.
People passed.
Stalls.
Groups.
Noise.
And I found the whole situation remarkably easy.
Which was strange.
Because this was a woman I had met perhaps minutes ago.
A woman who had admitted to specifically finding me at NIT.
A woman who apparently knew my gameplay better than I knew her existence.
And yet
comfortable.
Children.
Dota is social lubricant for nerds.
No need for weather.
No:
What music do you like?
No:
So what course are you doing?
We had a battlefield filled with one hundred plus heroes and thousands of hours of collective obsession.
Plenty.
Then
crisis.
The council checks gauge.
Nicotine Meter.
Low.
Again.
Children.
The body demanded tribute.
I wanted a cigarette.
But the earlier police incident had installed at least one software patch.
Public smoking?
Perhaps
bad idea.
The council applauds.
Growth!
Tiny.
Do not celebrate yet.
So I told Stalker we needed somewhere secluded.
The council notices her expression.
And children
she beamed.
At the time,
I interpreted this as:
Excellent.
She also values discreet nicotine consumption.
The council slowly covers its face.
Story Nuo.
Sweet summer idiot.
We looked.
Walked.
Searched.
Eventually
a spot.
Trees.
Less traffic.
Quiet enough.
And there
seating.
The council looks.
Benches?
No.
Chairs?
No.
Children.
Upside down plant pots.
The council pauses.
Plant pots?
Questionable ones.
Large enough to sit on.
Stable enough,
apparently.
Luxury.
Five stars.
I sat.
Stalker sat.
Beautiful private corner.
Trees around us.
Campus noise softened.
No police in immediate visual range.
Perfect.
I reached into my pocket.
Pulled out a cigarette.
The council winces.
Stalker watches.
Lighter.
Click.
Flame.
Drag.
Peace.
Children.
Nicotine Meter restoring.
I looked over.
And
something was wrong.
Stalker seemed disappointed.
Not slightly confused.
Disappointed.
The council leans forward.
I asked:
“Sup?”
Or something equally articulate.
And she looked at the cigarette.
Then at me.
And said
“Is this why you wanted a secluded spot?”
Pause.
“I thought we were gonna make out.”
Silence.
The council freezes.
Story Nuo stops functioning.
Children.
System crash.
Blue screen.
No response.
Because Present Nuo?
Present Nuo has experience with women.
Not mountains of it.
Let us remain humble.
But enough that if an attractive woman follows me to a secluded spot
while smiling suspiciously,
I might now consider possibilities beyond:
Excellent smoking location.
Story Nuo?
Negative experience.
The council pauses.
Negative?
Children.
Not zero.
Negative.
The representative of virgins worldwide.
The elected chairman of:
I Have No Idea What Is Happening.
The council rises in salute.
He served with distinction.
So when Stalker said:
“I thought we were gonna make out.”
my brain did not produce one thought.
It produced thousands.
Simultaneously.
The council watches images flash.
Wait.
What?
Make out?
With me?
Now?
Is she joking?
No, she looks serious.
Does she want me to say something?
What am I supposed to say?
How does one initiate this?
Do people schedule this?
Have I missed a step?
Is there paperwork?
The council screams.
NO PAPERWORK.
Children.
I was overwhelmed.
Not scared exactly.
But suddenly very aware that I had wandered into a scenario for which Dota knowledge offered no tactical advantage.
There was no guide.
No hero build.
No item timing.
No Hex.
The council gasps.
HEX.
Children.
For perhaps the first time that day,
I became acutely aware that Social Department was not present.
Hex was somewhere preparing for the tournament.
I could not exactly turn toward the trees and yell:
HEX.
ASK THIS WOMAN WHAT I SHOULD DO.
The council laughs.
This one belonged to me.
Stalker waited.
I sat there,
cigarette in hand,
possibilities flashing.
There are moments in life when you produce wisdom.
Moments when instinct takes over.
Moments where years of experience crystallize into the perfect sentence.
Children.
This was not one of them.
I looked at her.
And said:
“We can make out.”
The council goes silent.
That’s it?
That’s it.
“We can make out.”
The council collapses.
Children.
Romance.
Seduction.
Poetry.
The great silver tongue of Nuo.
A woman practically handed me the situation preassembled
and I responded like someone approving a calendar invitation.
WE CAN MAKE OUT.
The council writes:
REQUEST:
MAKE OUT.
STATUS:
APPROVED.
Beautiful.
Stalker looked at me.
Maybe laughed.
I hope she laughed.
Because children,
what else do you do with that sentence?
But the important thing was
I had answered.
Not elegantly.
Not confidently.
But positively.
The cigarette remained between my fingers.
Nicotine Meter halfway restored.
The tournament somewhere beyond the trees.
Hex trusting me to return on time.
And beside me
a hot girl in thick framed nerd glasses,
who liked dogs,
liked Dota,
had apparently tracked me to NIT,
and had just informed me that my secluded smoking location
had been interpreted as romantic intent.
The council nods.
Understandable miscommunication.
Entirely.
From Nuo’s perspective:
Trees = cops can’t see cigarette.
From Stalker’s perspective:
Trees = private.
Same geography.
Very different quest marker.
Children.
And somehow,
the Twelfth Wandering had just acquired a side quest.
The council opens the log.
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:
DOTA TOURNAMENT.
SECONDARY OBJECTIVE:
???
The council waits.
Story Nuo had finally supplied the answer.
We can make out.
The council sighs.
Smooth.
Never claimed otherwise.
Thus concludes Chapter Four.
The Dog Conversation.
The Prior Tournament.
The Discovery Of The Hunting Ground.
The Bypassing Of Awkward Silence Protocol.
The Hex Nod.
Arathy.
The Immediate Renaming To Stalker.
The Nicotine Crisis.
The Luxury Plant Pot Seating.
The Misunderstood Secluded Spot.
And The Greatest Romantic Sentence Gamer Nuo Had Yet Produced.
Children.
She said:
“I thought we were gonna make out.”
I processed every possible response available to the human species.
And chose
“We can make out.”
The council nods solemnly.
Representative of virgins worldwide.
