Damien was one of Ethan's dorm mates, though they weren't in the same course. Damien's major was a rather niche one—Ancient Language and Symbol Studies.
Despite how traditional that sounded, Damien himself couldn't be less conventional. In fact, for the 1980s, he was downright trendy.
Shoulder-length hair, always strumming a guitar, exuding artsy vibes. Around the dorm, they jokingly called him "the Phantom Singer"—mostly because he sang like a ghost wailing through a storm drain.
"I got in this morning," Ethan said, dropping his bag. "And you're back to murdering that guitar again? Careful—one more chorus and the guys next door might charge in and beat you with your own strings."
Damien chuckled, completely unbothered. "Let them try. They each lost at poker last night and owe me a pound of ration coupons each. Anyone starts something with me, those coupons vanish."
He set his guitar aside and came over with a grin. "You're looking sharp, mate! What's Japan like? Bet it's all skyscrapers and neon lights, yeah?"
Ethan replied with a casual shrug. "It's alright."
After experiencing post-21st-century modernity, 1980s Tokyo didn't exactly blow him away. Sure, it was ahead of Britain by a few years, but the difference wasn't dramatic.
Besides, Japan was on the edge of a financial bubble burst. The Plaza Accord had just been signed the previous year, the yen was surging, and they were at the tail end of their golden era.
"Tsk, listen to you, sounding all worldly now," Damien teased. "So, did you manage to get what I asked for?"
"Of course."
Ethan pulled off his backpack, fished around inside, and handed Damien a small notebook. The latter received it like it was the Holy Grail, then gleefully traded a handful of meal coupons in return.
It was a Japanese guitar tablature book—a rare gem. Damien, ever the guitar enthusiast, was sick of the painfully limited sheet music available in the UK. He was desperate for foreign material to expand his musical world.
But importing that sort of thing wasn't easy these days. That's why he'd begged Ethan to pick one up abroad.
"My precious~" Damien cooed, hugging the notebook like Gollum cradling the One Ring.
Ethan stifled a laugh. The resemblance to Gollum was uncanny.
"Owe you big time, mate," Damien said. "Lunch's on me! Let's eat out—there's a new place outside the uni gates, doesn't even require coupons."
He tucked the book away like it was gold bullion, threw an arm around Ethan's shoulder, and dragged him toward the door.
"What about the others?"
"They're all in lectures. Just you and me this round—we'll take the lot next time."
Meanwhile, back at the university library's computer lab, a lecturer had arrived. The desk Ethan had used earlier was now completely surrounded by students.
"Sir, it was this machine," one of them said. "A student was working on it earlier—he made some kind of program that lets you move things on screen!"
The lecturer raised an eyebrow. "You're all this worked up over some simple 2D movement? That's not exactly rocket science."
He was a computer science instructor—one of the earliest in the country, with experience attending academic exchanges abroad. When students had burst into his office shouting about something incredible happening in the lab, he'd half-expected a fire or equipment failure.
Turned out it was just a program.
Interesting, sure, but hardly worth a panic. After all, the UK's computing capabilities were still in their infancy. Most students barely knew how to boot up a machine, let alone write code.
Honestly, he'd been keeping things very surface-level in class. Too much depth and he'd lose them.
But seeing their excitement now, he realized he might've been too soft.
Still, he was already here, and the lab wasn't far from his office. Might as well have a look.
When he stepped inside and saw nearly fifty students swarming around a single terminal, he was mildly amused. All this over a basic movement demo?
"Sir, the student built it in under half an hour," one of them added.
"Half an hour? That's barely enough time to write a 'Hello World' loop," he muttered skeptically. "What could anyone possibly create in that time?"
He was clearly unimpressed.
It was more evidence, in his mind, that these kids had no proper frame of reference.
The students reluctantly made way, and the teacher walked over to the workstation. The guy sitting there looked reluctant to give up the seat, glancing at the screen as though he were leaving a part of himself behind.
On-screen was a simple, interactive map—a prototype level where the player-controlled character could run and jump around.
It wasn't much.
But for someone who had never played a video game before, the interactivity alone was mesmerizing.
Even something as basic as running and jumping felt magical.
"Sir, try it! Just use the arrow keys and spacebar—it's got movement and jumping. It's really fun!"
"Fun?" the instructor blinked, then sat down. "Alright, let's see."
The screen displayed a flat-blue background. Easy enough to code—he could've done that himself.
Wait… the camera moves?
That's interesting. He thought the character was confined to a small viewport.
Oh! It jumps too?
Oops, fell off the platform.
No matter—jump again.
The instructor slowly began navigating the level—left to right, up and down, jumping between platforms and gradually making it to the upper section of the screen. Then right to left, upward again, and finally looping back around toward the end point.
He slipped a few times, falling back down—but it wasn't difficult, and he managed to complete the level.
At first, he was analyzing everything—trying to guess how each function was implemented, mentally reconstructing the logic.
But somewhere along the way, he stopped thinking like a teacher.
His only goal became reaching the end.
And when he did, he felt a surprising sense of satisfaction.
Then it hit him.
This was something else.
Despite its primitive graphics and minimal polish, the program felt complete. Intentionally designed. Purposeful.
He finally realized what he was looking at.
If he wasn't mistaken, this was a video game.
Two years ago, during a visit to the U.S., he'd stumbled upon something similar—basic platformers with run-and-jump mechanics. At the time, he couldn't understand how they were made.
And now, somehow, a student here had recreated the same thing… from scratch.
His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the group.
"Wait a moment… did you say someone built this in less than thirty minutes?"
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