Golden Week's first day hit with no plans.
So, like my past life, I headed to the arcade.
Took a train from my local station, a few stops to a slightly urban spot.
Would the arcade I haunted back then exist here too?
"What's wrong with gaming all day? Nothing—zilch."
As a student, I was hooked on fighting and rhythm games.
These days, with smartphones and better internet, arcades aren't the juggernauts they were—but this world hasn't let them fade as much as mine did.
"Nostalgic vibes. Table-smashing, cab-kicking, ashtray sonic…"
Muttering old-school terms any arcade vet would grin at, I rocked with the train.
By the way, men-only cars are a thing here.
Tried one out of curiosity.
"…Lucky perv moments, reverse molesters—stuff happens, huh?"
I glanced at the mildly crowded regular cars.
Only escorted guys or old men there—young dudes hopping on without reason would stick out bad.
No point skipping the empty men's car anyway.
Naturally, I'd want a real excuse to ride regular.
"Eh, not today."
My mind's 100% arcade-bound right now.
Got off at my stop, walked a bit, and hit a big game center.
Not the late '90s madness—brawls breaking out, punks shaking you down, or rowdy delinquents smoking their lives away and cheering you at the fighting games—but that raw buzz still kicked in.
"Wow, tons here."
Of course, the entrance hooks you with prize games first.
Crane claws for simple grabs, plus mystery machines I couldn't figure out, all lined up.
Stuffed with anime and game merch.
I used to chase my favorite character figures, hitting the change machine nonstop—now, not so much.
In this gender-skewed world, it's all pretty-boy figures, not girls.
Some guy-aimed gal-game prizes popped up, but nothing I could sink into like my old life.
Too few titles, no cutthroat competition—circulating stuff lacked polish or depth, no life or philosophy.
Interest just fizzled.
I had no bias against pretty-boy figures, though—I vibe fine in a space with half-naked hunk statues and posters.
Kinda soothing, even.
But to the women around, a hot guy like me scoping near-lewd boy figures must've looked weird—they scattered from the machines they'd been glued to.
"Hmm. Crashed their party, huh?"
If I were hunting a girl figure with bloodshot eyes and a real chick watched me, I'd bolt too.
Not here to ruin this world's kinfolk chill, so I headed deeper in.
Dim lights, game noise blasting everywhere.
Pure eye-and-ear assault.
Ahh, nostalgic.
Battlefield air.
First thing I clocked: big rhythm game setups.
Crowds dotted around—I weaved through, spotting middle-school girls dancing with serious faces.
My feet stopped—natural law.
They were… in miniskirts.
Guys lock onto motion.
Primeval instinct—wild days when humans hunted for grub, baked deep in the psyche.
Twintails swaying, miniskirts fluttering, round butts in panties underneath.
Wrong prey, sure, but still that hunter's echo.
Not planning to mess with kids this young, but my eyes got hijacked—feet pinned.
Pink flashes now and then.
A twintail girl, sweating and shaking her cute ass, had two friends watching.
Short-hair and ponytail—miniskirts too.
Not tight ones—pleated, floaty ones.
Matching style? Maybe, but something felt off.
"Everyone's in miniskirts here."
Scanning around, every woman—age aside—rocked short skirts.
Well, just the rhythm corner girls.
Prize area ladies weren't like that.
Huh.
Scanning around, every girl in this corner rocked short skirts. Prize area wasn't like that—why here? No clue, but asking beats guessing.
"Hey, you two, got a sec?"
They spun around, wary—then their eyes went wide.