Twenty or so minutes later, Alan stumbled into Video Room 204, identified the snickering group at the back of the room as his friends, and collapsed both into the nearest chair, and by consequence, onto Steve's shoulder. And he, by consequence, submitted himself to Jeff's media theses.
Aura Battler Dunbine wasn't, in any way, a “good”, or even “entertaining” series. To put it quickly, as far as Alan could tell, it was a fantasy mech series, revolving around the concept of being sucked into another world. There were plenty of stories of that vague genre, known as “isekai”, in anime – after all, isn't the natural conclusion of escapism actual, total escape from one's reality? - but Dunbine occupied a unique space in Jeff's arguments. First, he considered it part of a, as he put it, “pre-zeroth generation” literary tradition. In the mid-nineties, Vision of Escaflowne had popularized the “giant robots in a fantasy setting” genre, while also preserving the isekai premise, and watching something that significantly pre-dated what was considered the foundational work in a genre was something edifying. When selling the idea to the rest of them, he'd said it was like watching Akira Kurosawa's films before watching The Phantom Menace. The mere existence of it served not just as an influence upon future works, but as a template on which they were built.
Alan hadn't been convinced by this, but the side of things more based in historical material conditions had, in fact, got him. Jeff had told the story of how the creator of Gundam, Yoshiyuki Tomino, had latched onto the idea of telling a fantasy story while not letting go of his giant robot roots, and how it had eventually led to one of the worst anime of all time. Alan had questioned Jeff's assessment, and then swiftly regretted that questioning after watching all three episodes of Garzey's Wing, despite consuming a frankly heroic quantity of alcohol in order to try and mentally survive. While Alan didn't particularly want to subject himself to more of that, he couldn't help but find it interesting. He'd been nursing a theory for a while, based on a series of fantasy novels he dearly loved and a quote about Lyndon B. Johnson that he ran into in a 201-level politics class he took to clear one of his General Education requirements in college. “Power doesn't always corrupt,” went the quote. “Power always reveals.”
He knew he wasn't smart enough to evaluate whether that was true on a fundamental, societal level, but when it came to media? Well, that fantasy series Alan loved? It started as a delightful little series of power fantasy novels, in which a chosen hero both disproved the prophecy that chose him, and made the world a better place anyway, while also engaging in a surprising amount of what were clearly the author's fetishes. But by the sixth book, the author had felt sufficiently clear of editorial oversight that he just recreated the entirety of Ayn Rand's political polemic, The Fountainhead, in fantasy novel form. Horny fantasy novel form, to be sure, but that wasn't too far removed from Rand's love of intimate encounters on train tracks.
And the same thing applied to Tomino, as far as Alan was concerned. After being labeled a money-printing machine post-Gundam in the early 198s0s, Tomino's creative wiles were not to be denied, and while his instincts led him to good outcomes more often than not, eventually it led to him taking millions of dollars and dumping it into a narrative and stylistic trash-fire. This idea wasn't something Alan could prove, but watching content that Tomino made between Gundam and Garzey's Wing made him feel like he was working his way towards a definitive defense of his theory.
Hushed whispers and strategic elbow-nudges among the former members of the Pioneer College Anime Club communicated various positions along the continuum of opinions about this issue, up until the point that Jeff rose from his seat. At first, there was the concern that something had been said – or well, indicated – that was so far from his position that Jeff had been right and truly offended, but with a smile and a glance to his Timex G-Shock and its ethereal blue-green glow, the party knew that it was time.
The six of them shuffled out, and Alan thanked his lucky stars that his friends had taken seats along the back wall. He didn't want to give any true, dyed-in-the-wool Dunbine fans the impression that one line had suddenly chased out a full fifth of their viewership.
“I swear, Jeff, if that fucked us over…” Bill said, with a slight smirk.
“We'll be fine,” Steve insisted. “There's a half hour before the opening ceremonies, there's no way they hit occupancy cap by now.”
Bill won either way, of course. The scrawny guy, the sort who could pull off feats of acrobatics on sheer lack of mass and gumption, like leaping over three full sets of desk chairs (it was more impressive to see in person), knew that if they didn't get into the Opening Ceremonies of the convention, he'd be able to blame Jeff's “bad anime opinions” for it, and if they did get in, well – He'd get in, and that was a victory of its own.
The opening ceremonies were at the other end of the second floor of the convention hall, and as they walked out into the open, well…
“Fuck,” Steve said.
Running down the entire length of the main connecting corridor of the convention hall was a single, contiguous line of people, about a third of which were in costume.
“No fucking way,” Alan said.
“I told you, it was too popular last year-” Jack said. He was overweight, dressed in cargo shorts and a tactical vest with plenty of pockets, only three of which were outfitted with granola bars and water bottles, and far too often correct.
“Shut up,” said Steve, in a tone that reassured exactly no one.
“You know, if there's this many people in line,” Clive said, “that means, mathematically, we're looking at people who can't be in line for the opening ceremonies.” Clive was tall, thin, and possessed a magnificent head of long blond hair that made him look like he had walked off the cover of a romance novel, albeit one where he'd left any muscle definition on the cover. Jeff was leading the way, so no one could tell exactly how he reacted, but Steve stopped his panicked gesticulating, before saying “Yeah!”, and the rest followed suit.
With the reassurance of one of their smarter members, the Former Pioneer College Anime Club passed by a gaggle of Sailor Moon cosplayers trying to keep their sanity intact by singing the opening theme, in English, over and over again, to the detriment of the sanity of everyone around them. When they rounded the corner, and saw the line stretching past the escalator and on to the backup stairs of the convention hall, no one knew whether to worry more or less at this sign.
Jeff, however, continued to lead them on, until they reached an individual with a blue t-shirt, a walkie-talkie, and a sign saying “End of Line”, who seemed vaguely official. Rather than asking the obvious question, Jeff nodded at them. They nodded back, and the group took their seats along the wall, behind the other closely-packed anime nerds between them and the auditorium.
Once they had sat down, all the conversation that had been bottled up back in the video showroom poured out of them. There's nothing quite so conducive to conversation as forcing people not to talk while giving them something to talk about. Alan avoided participating, and avoided notice by being the one sitting at the absolute rear of the line. It wasn't the absolute rear for long, of course, as more nerds filtered in behind them, but Alan kept himself far enough away from his friends that he didn't have to think.