they taught him to think in movements as one of the pawns ( in the game of chess, it’s the pawn that always kills the king – camouflaged enemy stomaching the best weapons, spearing the king point blank ). this was how he was molded, smelted. a forgery of a ragdoll dressed in promising technological advancements; he was the youngest bought from the men killed right after – best policy: leave no witness alive. an exoskeleton of the body infused with both normalcy and anomaly; they wanted to see if both could work side by side. ( spoiler: they do, creating this machinery that eventually grew autonomy too much for them to curb. )
and in the run, he grew much less and less of a mechanism,
and more and more of a human.
initially, it felt good to feel. it felt good being free to feel. he’d been living in the frozen husk for a long time; emotions were weaknesses. baby bones in the coffins under his backyard.
then experienced it enough; tar on tongue, copper between teeth.
he dislikes the dysphoria that now splits his being into too many.
nightmares that slither under his bed before choking him with their skeletal fingers.
the rest of this explanation is almost too predictable. painfully so: in the absence of daylights would be him swallowing more carcinogen, in the absence of moonrise would be his time for hunting. information, database, headlines. all while watching his back.
xxxx and xxxx were last seen in seoul.
he has to make sure that they were not there for his trails. he has to make sure that he left no trails.
last time heard, solar was killed in an accident.
a staged murder to the name that was not a name. still, he wears the scattered remains, translating ashes into frail shapes of hangeul. but now with them being there, he’s unsure if they bought the storyline inscribed on this game. not that he thought they would in the first place, but not foreseeing for them to be right where he is at the moment. he had been nomadic for so long, too long – thought it was long enough.
and tonight is a cascading point, proven by the entrance of a man who wears the face of his enemy’s companion. backdrop: the ricochets of sound, clinking beer glasses, laughter swallowed away from the aperture. fortune favors the haunted.
the man sits on the only empty seat: next to him. he lets him order first, coagulation of questions in his mouth. runs his own finger on the rim of his glass, casual mannerism exuded from the way he sits. “did you just have two visitors from montreal?” he asks, finally, without regarding the man directly, eyes on the still liquid in his own glass.
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