hellooo, my dear muns! i’m sunny, presenting to you my chaotic evil baby, duchess! i’ve been waiting for a whole year for blcktmpl to return, and i’m so glad i’m able to join the directory once again!! now, i’m not very good at introductions, and i’m certainly almost 24 hours late in this, but i’ll try my best!
kim namjoo was the daughter of a politician and a cop. unfortunately, her mother died off-duty, and so namjoo was raised by her father, who took to training her from early on to send her to blcktmpl (without her knowledge, of course). her father sent her to the collective in 2016, only a few days after her boyfriend had proposed to her. everyone namjoo talked to considered her a kind, easy going type of girl. she could get along with almost anyone, and she always welcomed new adventures whenever she could - which was not often, for her father was overprotective and did not often let her hang out with friends.
the only thing namjoo and duchess have in common is their recklessness and their ability to fight. besides that, duchess finds it hard to make friends on the rare occasion that she tries. she’s ruthless, willing to sacrifice anyone for her own gain, and even off the field, she shows no mercy in her words or her spiteful actions. those who are lucky enough to get on her good side only do so outside of tournaments. but i swear, under all that angst is a confused, bitter girl.... pls someone teach her to be a good person
ANYWAYS if you want to contact me, you can do so either on my tumblr ims here, or on twitter @p1nkup! duchess’ profile page can be found here, and i’m working on a plots page this week so look out for that!! i’m super stoked to write with you guys, so please like this or hop into my ims for some plotting!! aaaa thanks for reading this far u rock.
[ tw // slight blood and violence. proceed with caution. ]
duchess expects more. she’s been the collective’s pawn for two years now, having undergone several bouts of training and surviving a variety of tournaments and subsequently smaller death games, so when the little one — that’s what she calls the generic-masked lackeys — only places some sort of electronic helmet on her head, duchess wants to strangle them.
she could be doing something much more productive: humiliating someone from cerulean, for instance, or raiding the shack for three hearty meals in one setting. “what the fuck is this—”
the flash of white light cuts her off. duchess squeezes her eyes shut, hollering obscene threats about the consequences of blinding her that leave no detail about bodily appendages left to the imagination.
“hello! welcome to the training zone!”
the machine is irritating, what with the robotic voice addressing duchess as if she were a toddler. though it’s new to her, duchess doesn’t want to do an easy level simulation. she’d much rather leap into the tougher missions than be coddled; there’s no possibility of perishing during a simulation anyways, so what’s the harm? (even if she could die in virtual reality by acting hastily, when has that ever stopped her?)
duchess goes through the motions as the simulator instructs, snatching an ice cream cone from a virtual passerby, only to shove it messily against their mouth. she snorts at her little prank, before ducking behind a building to avoid an enraged fake-human.
in theory, the simulation mission seems simple enough. with a map, it should be easy to traverse from one destination to another. gangnam isn’t too far from yongsan, as long as one knows where they’re going.
duchess does not.
that’s the hardest part of the simulation. she knows, for a fact, that she possesses the skills to avoid the taggers that are after her (not that she will), but duchess lacks… the intelligence to find her way around the districts. on a regular day, she can hardly determine which way is north. so she does the only thing she knows how to.
her leather gloves feel snug around her hands, and the blades along her fingers glint in the artificial sunlight. when the first tagger approaches her with ill intent, duchess sidesteps and traps them in a headlock. she runs one of the blades across the tagger’s neck, only enough to bring forth blood. “which way is gangnam?”
the answer doesn’t come immediately. in fact, it takes a few minutes of breaking skin and tortured cries until the virtual tagger breaks and points her in the proper direction (they lied twice, as well, but duchess never leaves a job half done). once she gets what she wants, duchess uses her right hand to sink her “claws” into the tagger’s throat until she can’t feel a pulse anymore. she drops the body behind a dumpster and begins her jog towards gangnam.
any tagger that attempts to catch her meets a similar fate, perhaps not as graphic. she wants the simulation to end as soon as possible, because she’s starting to feel the hunger gnawing in her stomach and she just wants some chicken legs from the shack. it only grows with each stride she takes, as if her sprint is more than just a simulation.
the clock reads 1:04, signifying the amount of time that remains, when she reaches her destination. it’s not an ideal time, but she can’t bring herself to care; it’s all-you-can-eat-steak-night.
[ tw // blood, gore, death. proceed with caution. ]
duchess.
the name comes to her much more readily than her real one. the memories of everything prior to awaking covered in bandages in a shipping crate are all muddled, and she’s unable to decipher what’s real and what isn’t right now. the only memory she can even vaguely recall is a man yelling at her to go harder, to push herself. the image itself is blurred, but his voice is loud and clear and strained; “protect yourself, god damn it!”
there’s a loud thump and that’s the end of whatever memory or dream that’s swirling in her brain, slowly dissipating to join the rest of her existence in a pit of nothingness.
she continues forging forward in hopes of discovering an exit to the musty place (and some food, because her stomach keeps growling). crossing a pool, choosing doors, duchess deems it all as foolish. if she’s been kidnapped and being trafficked, this is a poorly developed plan. there’s nothing of relevance to the situation, no clues as to where she is or what she’s doing or who this is for, and she’s growing impatient. not because she doesn’t know what’s happening, no. the obscurity is the only thing keeping her interested. but she wants something far more intense than silly riddles that force her to search deep into her soul.
when duchess next finds consciousness, she takes a peek at herself in a corridor of mirrors. nothing major has changed: her cheeks are still rounded, hair still a mess of chestnut bangs, the innocence of a face that is anything but. it’s when her eyes travel downward that her mouth falls agape in a mixture of horror and admiration.
she looks… good. there’s muscle on her arms and toned legs, and she’s… taller than she expects to be. it’s peculiar to see a familiar yet oh-so-foreign shell of herself staring back at her but the changes aren’t exactly unwelcome.
they—whoever they are— present her with a weapon once she’s appropriately dressed. it’s something that, duchess notes, fits her character that she’s come to know in the past few… days? weeks? months? it’s unclear how much time has elapsed. nonetheless, the cylinder breaks into two and transforms into a deadly set of gloves. with her fresh claws, she easily makes her way through target practice. it feels natural to her to just swipe, stab, pounce on whatever dummy is laying around. once again, too easy. she simply moves on through the next door with a huff.
seven kilometres.
it seems elementary to her, as if she could just walk the entirety of the lane with leisure and cross the finish line at her own pace. that’s what she sets out to do, at least, after giving her best effort into mastering her weapon. admittedly, she’s somewhat drained. it’s hard to imagine she’s been well fed throughout this whole circumstance considering she’s been unconscious a majority of the time. when she’s not doing ridiculous questionnaires, of course.
the claws are still attached to her, duchess realizes, and she holds up her hands to watch the blades glint in the minimum light provided. she’d gone through dummies with no remorse, slashing their torsos and piercing through their chests as if she was born to do so. some part of duchess wishes there was a remnant of what she’d done, like… blood. proof of her hard work.
her frustration is rising now. if this is some elaborate introduction to a life of violence, then it’s not that challenging. duchess still wants more; she wants something new and alluring, risky.
her wish is granted.
saws erupt from the walls and although her senses are more honed in than ever, her reflexes aren’t quick enough to avoid all damage. her arm is lacerated as she stumbles backwards to safety, the blood she desired mere moments ago now spurting from her own wound.
duchess winces at the pain before glancing up at the very wall that caught her off guard. despite the stinging pain and crimson liquid trailing down her arm and dripping off the ends of her talons like a leaky faucet, the wicked sound of her guffaws reverberate throughout the container.
“is that all you got?” duchess hollers mockingly to everyone and no one in particular.
this is exactly what she wanted.
she retracts her claws, using her nimble fingers to tear her shirt off and tie it around the gash. hissing as she tightens the cloth, duchess knots it and watches the white cloth tainting red. it isn’t going to suffice unless she gets medical attention soon, but it should do for now.
tilting her head side to side, duchess cracks her neck to relieve the tension of her muscles. she rolls her shoulder through the agony, tightlipped as she stares at the obstacle. all at once, she feels reenergized and she’s sprinting, rolling, leaping past whatever is thrown her way. she lands a few more injuries, nothing major enough to throw her off-course. she’s a sweaty, panting mess at the end of it all, but she’s grinning triumphantly one second, and the next she’s lost consciousness.
it’s a while and a few more trials later that something exciting happens once again.
with a team, she has to find her way through a maze. duchess assumes the position of leader despite her “act first, think later” method, and by the resting area, she’s already lost two people. but it’s not a big deal to her; it’s not duchess’ fault that some people can’t keep up with the rest of the world. she can’t babysit everyone, and if they can’t handle whatever adversities by themselves, then maybe they’re better off dead.
this is why she prefers to be alone. relying on other people does no good unless they’re at her level or above. all duchess wants is to do better at everything, to survive, and she’s more than willing to toss aside the one’s not as passionate as her.
her thoughts are only confirmed when more teammates fall at the prospect of being hunted. weaklings, she thinks bitterly. she refuses to be like them. the remaining fighters band together and take down the predator—which now is the prey. everyone is grateful for whatever knocks them out, including duchess, for they can spend some time recuperating.
she doesn’t dream of the faces of fallen teammates, guilt doesn’t gnaw at her heart, and she doesn’t even remember the names of the unworthy. when she wakes up once more, she’s faced with yet another challenge. this one, however, poses a different challenge.
kill or be killed. the thought process duchess goes through isn’t long. she’s spent so much time and energy to get to this point and she’s not about to give up now.
the body, this person, is speaking. they’re crying, begging, telling tales that duchess has no connection to, yet acting as if they meant something to each other. as if they knew her. her grip on the pistol tightens. how can someone know her when she doesn’t even know herself? it’s just a feeble attempt to bargain for their life.
“what have they done to you?” they weep, and she see the tears mixed with sweat and dried blood from their capture. it does nothing to appease to her. “this isn’t you! this isn’t you, nam—
she wants their whining to stop. her adrenaline is pumping as she pulls the trigger—not once, but twice, eyes fixated on the corpse as blood oozes from two separate punctures in its chest. she’s going to see the end of this even if it kills everyone surrounding her. it feels like she’s trained her whole life for these gruesome moments; they don’t faze her. they don’t dangle from her heart. they’re just moments where she proves that she’s strong enough to survive.
