DJ MEGA 

A bizarre looking custom avatar: Nickname, “Iron DJ”.

A representative of destruction in the virtual Metaverse. The pulses it emits are stiff, yet somehow laughably strange. Its sound is notorious for bewildering the minds of those who hear it and stealing personal data.

Rumor has it that MEGA was once an “ordinary human”— the shadow of a former network engineer. But it was common knowledge in the Metaverse that it was impossible for a human to transform into a custom class avatar.

If the rumors are true, then how could he have become an Irregular?

There was a company that made and maintained server programs and the like, and I had started a part time job there. For now, I was drawing maps and other images by typing small squares referred to as dots.

It’s a strange company. There are toys strewn about. It’s interesting. An unfamiliar circuit board (the main body of the machine) is forcibly wired to incomplete development equipment, known as the barracks. To me, it’s an exciting environment.

“I’ve been experimenting with the new machine, but surprisingly, there’s no one else willing to try it out. Probably because business has been kicked into overdrive,” my senior colleague grumbled.

At the time, I was still a greenhorn. So I had a lot more free time than other employees rushing to meet deadlines. It was thanks to this I could secretly tinker with my senior’s experimental machines each day after work.

It’s a strange machine… It’s a server, but it has incredible sound functions. If you feed it the right data… It makes explosive noise! 

Once I had discovered the loud noise, I decided to slowly train the experimental machine (the sound server?) outside of work, hiding everything behind headphones. At first, I didn’t have the drivers, so I had no choice but to input the data manually using a calculator. Eventually, my senior took pity on me and gave me an editing tool. I’d surely make use of it!

I asked why the server was equipped with such an explosive sound generator. One reason seemed to be security, with threatening sounds and laughter added in unnecessarily. The other reason was that it seemed the developer was a pervert, and apparently it would be useful if the server could make a sound to express when it was in a good mood.

Incredible. It seemed the experimental machine still had hidden functions I had yet to figure out. Before long, I was able to play original songs on the server. For someone with no talent for instruments, having a machine in front of me that could produce music at will was a luxury.

I became so absorbed in it that I lost track of the time.

One day, as I was checking on the machine as usual, the headphone jack disconnected. The sound of the server exploding (as they called it) echoed throughout the entire office.

It was a hell of a way for my boss to find out… There was no way they wouldn’t notice the heavy base thumping from the speakers. My tinkering hadn’t been affecting my work, but surely I would be reprimanded?

But to my surprise…

“I’ll set up a sound department, so make your noise there,” came the unexpected order from my boss.

I was stunned. This was unheard of. Irresponsible. How could they be so calm!? What an incredible company. It was no wonder they had produced famous celebrities here. Even if I didn’t really like them…

I had my promotional interview and passed easily. With my boss’s approval to use my own computer at my own desk, I decided to go all out.

Around that time, pulse-code modulation (PCM) methods that sampled actual sounds were rising in popularity, but frequency modulation (FM) was still the norm. Even using FM’s very electronic sound, I could produce undulating tones if I put in enough effort.

It was a bit stiff and unrefined since I wasn’t used to making music, but when I released what I had made, it was incredibly well received. A stranger even told me that I had good taste. Whoever they were, I was happy to hear it. The company has also had an increase in sales. They seemed to be concerned that the audio was getting more attention than the servers they make, but…

I want to keep making these sounds.

However, the working conditions surrounding the sound generation were strict. My senior’s frugality had been ingrained in me, and I had been asked to save on data and compress as much as possible. Before I knew it, the sound pressure and sequences had become unique, and I had gained a reputation of being a "craftsman".

It was merely the result of doing whatever I wanted… But if it’s well received, I guess that’s a good thing.

Even though the mainstream had shifted away from FM, they still called me an FM artisan. I still enjoyed it, but I hadn’t been using it as much… My job of making the servers BANG was still fun, but it was starting to become routine.

The economy is doing well, but I’m too busy. I started going to clubs to blow off steam after working on my days off and staying up all night, and now my body was finding it harder and harder to fall asleep. That was only natural, right?

I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. The acoustic pressure that rocks my body seems like it can only soothe my soul. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat. I want to hear those explosive sounds in my ears rather than take in food. I want to feel that sound that numbs my skin.

Determined, I holed up at my work station. As I was putting together an electromagnetic mix with a stylish local girl, my boss showed up for the first time in a while.

“Did you read my email?”

Among the unread emails that had piled up, there were two marked as [IMPORTANT].

1: The project to develop and sell a mass produced version of the explosive sound server has been canceled.

My department was finally getting on track… It seems that this isn't an order from head office, but a notice from distribution. Just when the commercial version was about to be completed and the world was supposed to be filled with explosive sounds. Why so suddenly? I feel like I’ve become obsolete.

Email number two was even more confusing. It was a small excerpt from the company newsletter…

[Turn right for Indian]

It seems to have been included at the behest of the company president, who was known for being eccentric. But the English was incomprehensible.

“Turn right” should mean “turn to the right”, but I believe “right for” can also refer to “doing the right thing”

I’m really not interested, but I decided to try running it through translation software.

[Indian to the right]

I see… Huh?

All I could do was stare at the sentence the translator had spit out.

Indian to the right… Turn [right]… for Indian… Indian? [Right]? Indian? Right?

What a mysterious message. India has a unique and advanced traditional mathematics education, and in recent years, the software industry has been thriving, producing many excellent technicians. Over the past few days, we have seen a number of young engineers from India in the company.

Was this an order from the president? In the hallways, walk straight along the walls so you don’t bump into people. It's especially dangerous when you're carrying large equipment and can't see what's in front of you. So, get out of the way. To the right.

Is that what it meant? No, wouldn’t they be on the right? I’m on the left? Which way is it? Indian on the right or on the left? Right, left? Me on the right? Me on the left?

What should I do on the right?

Thinking about the right was giving me a headache, but even if you’ve got a headache, can’t sleep, and have no appetite, you still have to eat. Lunch at the company cafeteria was Japanese style spicy curry rice, and the Indian engineers enjoyed it as well.

One of them speaks with me, “Gigigafajegegigi.”

Ah, but I don’t understand. But I think I get the intent. I think I get it. This curry is awesome! Japan, you're doing great! Something like that, right? He’s smiling back at me.

A familiar Japanese engineer speaks, “Wisharraraurelirage...”

Wow! He speaks the language. Huh? What language was this? What language is the system reading?

With the spoon in my right hand, I scooped the magnificent sauce over the rice and into my mouth. Even after the meal, I could hear the conversation between my two colleagues.

"Garghfhtamad." 

"Radghfhtabama." 

I don’t feel like I have the right to join the conversation, but it’s work related, so I have to say something…

“Fhxfghtjjfgj” (Lower that gauge.) - I don’t really understand what I’m saying, but… 

“Apfjgrsrsh” (Understood) - It seems they get the message.

Communication is important. To build relationships, I'm going to have lunch with an Indian person today.

“Fdhgxfjfgx” (What should we have for lunch?)

“DSgdfxhjgh” (Curry sounds good, doesn’t it?)

Today, we’ll be having curry again.

Another day, a mysterious experimental machine arrived from the company president. It was apparently a modified sound server. Was there another enthusiast developing it besides me?

The Indian engineer started working on the experimental machine while reading the instruction manual, so I started working too. The machine was covered in countless skulls and crossbones, but what really caught my eye was the large handle, painted in a gaudy yellow, black, purple, and red color scheme. I didn’t know where to begin, so I moved my hands as instructed.

“Fhxfghtjjfgj” (Lower that gauge.)

“Apfjgrsrsh” (Understood.)

I lower the gauge.

“Gsdgdhdjhe” (Turn the wheel.)

“Apfjgrsrsh Apfjgrsrshdg” (Understood, understood.)

I turn the wheel.

For some reason, it feels incredible. I can’t get enough of this color scheme!

“Gsdgdhdjhe dgsdsfgh” (Turn it again.)

What? It still isn’t enough?

“Wililyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi” (Leave it to me!)

I turn the wheel to the right, and it came right off! The face of the Indian engineer turned pale.

But why?

[Turn right for Indian]

That’s right, right? 

“Hfgh gddhjj thdrtjh!”

“Hfgh thdrtjh!”

The curious language we had been using was now clearly registering as Japanese.

“I told you not to touch the steering wheel!”

This was right, right?

An intense surge of electricity overflows from where the wheel had come off. It ran from my right hand, clutching the steering wheel, all the way through my body. Wrapped in a pale light, I finally come to my senses. The man I had been speaking with was just my colleague, John. The strange language was plain Japanese.

As my consciousness faded, I remembered the words of the email. 

"Turn Right For Indian" 

Was I the only one who saw that message?

× × ×

The next thing I knew, electrons were swirling around me…

There’s a grid of colorful buttons, all lined up neatly in a row. All of them flicker at irregular intervals, and it feels like I’m inside of a box.

Where am I? [WHERE AM I?]

Far away in the sky, from what looked like an aquarium, I could see my senior was looking at me curiously. His figure is blurry, and I can barely make out any details.

＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊

Maybe it was because of the intense electric shock, but my sense of reason was escaping me.

＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊

[OKAY][OKAY] Oh, whatever! My iron body never tires. Smells like something’s burning, but [FORGET IT!]. Why don’t you try twisting this knob? The super duper LFO [LOW-FREQUENCY OSCILLATION] goes GYUIGYUIGYAPIHYA! GIBYAPIGYEGYAHYEIRIRII!

×　×　×

And so, from the explosive, echoing roar of the machine’s sound, a single avatar was born. MEGA has gained eternal life in the digital world. The transient side remained outside of the monitor, and the eternal was here within.

Someday, you’ll meet him when looking through a monitor.

[TURN RIGHT FOR INDIAN]

If you abide by his catchphrase, you might become an Irregular as well— As long as you receive the “right” email.