The Association of Antagonists Anonymous

It was Tuesday, and the first Bad-Anon meeting I decided to actually speak during. Usually I just sit at my folding chair, keep to myself, sometimes wear my helmet visor-down if I want to catch up on some shut-eye. Otherwise, I always have two cups of coffee, one in each hand, without fail.

I swallowed. "My vision…is definitely…getting worse."

That's what I told them, the other regulars at Bad-Anon. They asked for a problem, and I gave them one. Clyde, the ghost who runs the meetings, gave me that knowing look with his two giant eyes.

I elaborated reluctantly. "Well, I mean it is," moving my hand back and forth in front of my face. "It's definitely getting worse. Which is a problem my…line of work."

Clyde took a sympathetic note. "Well, I think that's true, but you know, that's not usually how we do this. You've been coming for…about fifteen years now?"

There's no getting things past Clyde, is there? "Fine, fine. Sorry about that. Should I…?"

"Go ahead."

A nervous, forced cough. "Do I have to stand up?"

"Only if you want to."

Oh, Clyde. Compassionate, understanding Clyde. I stood up, still holding a Styrofoam cup in either hand. "I'm Red Air Force Commander, from Smolensk Strike, the big game between the King of Fighters machines and Time Crisis." I sat down. "Oh, and I'm a bad guy."

"Hi Ivan," the others in attendance said in chorus.

I gave Clyde a frown. "Not…actually my name."

"It's on your game," the blue woman in the red dress next to me pointed out, pointing her staff at me.

I enjoy a good argument, it's a weakness of mine. "Right, uh…Kari, isn't it? From Shining Wisdom? Hi, Kari, nice to meet you," I told her very quickly. "If you'd looked closely, you'd see 'Ivan' is in quotation marks. It's…not my name."

"That's exactly what it is."

"No, it's not," I insisted before Clyde cut me off. Uncharacteristically rude of him.

"Commander Ivan, how about we make good use of our time here? Why don't you talk about what's really bothering you"

It's all in the manual, Ivan isn't my name. But it's hard to argue with Clyde, what with his supreme reasonableness and lack of arms and legs. "So, in level eight, over Smolensk North Aerodrome, not that the player gives a crap where it is because the game flies them there, I'm the last 'ace' encounter in the blue 'Flanker' that gets shot down. And I've been getting shot down since…about 1996. Which, I don't mind, by itself."

I gestured at my back with one of the cups. "I get to bail out and, after fifteen years of packing my parachute every day, I get used to it. Better than crashing in a…fiery inferno, right?"

The other people in attendance voice their agreement. Shermie, three chairs down with the hair that hides her eyes, gave an affirming shrug, apparently. Clyde beckoned me to continue.

"Except now, I must have...like...two dozen bicycles all over the forest under level eight. Because I need to get back to base, don't I, and I don't respawn unless I die," I muttered darkly.

I didn't know it at the time, but Shermie did me a favor by asking a question that changed focus from that. "Why don't just...drive back?"

"I used to have a soldier who'd drive me back, actually. Except nowadays, the players shoot every single one of the jeeps before they even bother with me. Completionist's bonus, you know? And that's the problem, it's definitely getting harder. For me, I mean. It's easier for the player. When I started this, I could actually dish out a decent number of G.O.s. Nowadays, three minutes in and I'm already on fire. And it's one thing when they can wipe out wave after wave of 'Fulcrums', and I can live with that because, well, I wasn't the one getting shot down at first. But now…" I stopped.

It was tough. "…I think it's my vision. I'm getting nearsighted. Or farsighted. Whichever one makes it harder to fly." Then I finished one of my coffees.

Clyde 'nodded', or floated a nod, or whatever it was he did. "Thanks, Ivan. It's really good to hear you share, after fifteen years of coming but…never saying anything." Some soft clapping followed.

A mustachioed man with a brown-and-red uniform and beret with an eye patch stood up. "I think I understand where Ivan's coming from," he explained. "I'm Donald Morden, and I'm a bad guy."

"Hi Donald Morden."

"Like you, Ivan, I first came in more than a few years ago, back when this place was still called 'Antagonists Anonymous'. And name change aside, I've found sharing here was a great way to overcome the difficult of being an antagonist, even if you've been written with a really tragic backstory."

I shrugged. "I don't…really have a backstory, but…thanks."

"I mean it. From one jackbooted bad guy to another, if you keep it bottled in, I tell you, you can't keep doing this. Not well, anyway, and if you've got a job, you might as well do it well, am I right?"

There was some murmured agreement, though I kept frowning. "I don't wear jackboots."

"What do you call those?" Kari asked, gesturing at my feet.

I straightened my legs and looked at my feet. "Those are sapogi. There's a difference." I scowled at her. "And look at what you're wearing!"

"Easy, Ivan, this is supposed to be a safe place," Clyde interrupted me while I grumbled. "Remember what we say here: one game at a time."

I held my head in my free hand and repeated the line as reverently as I could. "You're right, you have to live…one game at a time." It was hard to argue with that.

"Good. Now let's close out with the affirmation." Everyone stood up, myself included, and held hands in the circle. I held one of Kari's bandaged blue hands and Bob-omb, who doesn't really have hands so much as plasticized white nubs. He also has to stand on his chair because of his height; you have to sympathize with the poor guy's lot in life. Kari, on the other hand, I don't sympathize with: you have to figure being a sexy, magical shape-shifting elf-witch is a lot easier than a combustible, living explosive with no fingers. Poor Bob-omb can't even drink the coffee.

"I'm bad, and that's good.
I will never good, and that's not bad.
There's no one I'd rather be than me."

Clyde gave one of his approval-filled nods. "Good work here, everyone. I'll see all of you at the same time next week. Donald, Shermie, could you help me with the chairs?"

"Sure Clyde."

I was relieved he didn't ask me, though I did have to put up with an 'comforting' shoulder pat from Wario as he passed by. "Good sharing there, Ivan, some real growth."

Again, my name isn't Ivan. I didn't say anything, just turning to Bob-omb. "Wanna' head out, Bob?"

"Sure, Red. Got a dinner date with Juli, hate that miss that." Bob's got this metallic, tinny voice, probably the result of not having a mouth. He's got feet, sure, but he's clockwork slow and takes forever to go anywhere. No shame in asking for help when you've got metal feet.

I picked him up gingerly and held him in my gloves. "Juli...you mean one of the Shadaloo girls?"

"You know it."

"Well done," I complimented him while watching Kari leave. Somehow, Bob's got a way with the ladies that I can't figure out. "Come on, let's bail this maze before I go blind," I told him while following Kari's blue behind out of the dark halls of the Pac-Man machine.

Author's Notes:

Donald Morden, of Metal Slug, and Shermie, of King of Fighters, are both property of the SNK Playmore Corporation. Kari (or Karry) of Shining Wisdom is property of the Sega Corporation. Juli of Street Fighter Alpha 3 is property of Capcom Company, Ltd. and Pac-Man is property of Bandai-Namco Games Inc., and Midway Games (owned by NetherRealm Studios). Bob-omb and Wario belong to Nintendo Company, Ltd. The 'Flanker' (NATO reporting name for the Su-27 line of air superiority aircraft) and 'Fulcrum' (NATO reporting name for the MiG-29 line of multirole fighter aircraft) are property of the Sukhoi Company and the Russian Aircraft Corporation MiG respectively.

And, of course, Wreck-it Ralph was produced and released by Walt Disney Studios.

Smolensk Strike isn't actually a game, though Smolensk North Aerodrome was a military and civil air field.