— It is not the monsters we should be afraid of; it is the people that don’t recognize the same monsters inside of themself.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty-four year old im jaeyeol, better known as a hacker under black slugs and the owner of 9chan.
canon: n/a
part of: black slugs, 9chan
freeform:
i.
hey.
that’s right. I’m talking to you.
tell me something.
how far would you go to survive?
ii.
it was his sister that found it. she had run off the road chasing a dandelion to come back with soiled shoes, chubby fingers clenched tightly around a pair of fluttering wings. it stops beating against her palm as she skips to his side. her smile is unflinchingly pure.
later that night, as he helps her press the butterfly wings into his spiral-bound notebook for safekeeping, he watches her get scolded for ruining her new pair of leather shoes. she crawls into his bed that night to tell him she doesn’t like butterflies anymore. he smiles but does not correct her.
in the morning, she places half of her breakfast on his lap. he contributes a slice of bread.
iii.
do you know what death sounds like?
there are eighteen kids enrolled in his class. twelve boys and six girls. ten of the eighteen have family members in the party, five in the military and three others. he sits towards the back, the only desk right next to the window.
at noon, they push a few desks together to make a long table. he hands over his offering and is allowed to eat alone.
death sounds like silence.
it doesn’t take long for them to find him. he expected the visit. no one spoke when he left the room but whispers lingered long past he was gone.
iv.
she tugs on his shirt, holding a dragonfly in her palm. he lifts his fingers off the keyboard long enough to add it to his notebook. her eyes glaze over as she watches him, a yawn escaping her lips. he smiles, then nudges her to sleep.
in the morning, she eats her entire breakfast. he considers it for a moment, then takes a bite of his toast.
death sounds like laughter.
they catch on. hidden sneers had slowly turned to open jeering. the girls behave as if its contaminated, recoiling backwards when it gets too close. the boys are crueler, wooden sticks in their hands as they poke and prod. fighting back was futile and it had long since given up; curled into itself, a keening sound leaving broken lungs, shrill enough to pierce through the scraping of rough branches against open skin.
“this one isn’t as pretty.“
“that’s because it’s a moth.“
v.
there are seventeen kids enrolled in his class. eleven boys and six girls. ten of the eighteen have family members in the party, five in the military and two others.
at noon, they gather around his desk and hand him a gift. one of the girls smiles as a butterfly lands on his desk. he glances at it briefly then drops the ribbon on top of its wings.
“I don’t like butterflies.”
they die so easily.
vi.
he reminds her not to cry but she does anyways, throwing her thin arms around his neck and presses her wet cheek into his collar. she reminds him to send letters home. he smiles but does not correct her.
he buys her a postcard at every new city. they sit in a pile on top of his carry-on.
“why haven’t you ever sent them?”
“are we allowed to?"
vii.
he is transferred on recommendation though he has little say in the matter. they allow him autonomy only because of his seniority.
the latest postcard in his stack is of the han river. he drums his fingers against the keyboard in front of him then taps out a few words.
— Black asininity. / Decay. / Possession. / It is they who own me.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty-eight year old li jie, better known as the south side's official leader.
canon: the lamb
part of: golden triangle, golden dragon delicacies and the black slugs
freeform:
BEFORE SLUMBER.
Beauty is terror. Jie was raised to embody both, a ruby red jewel polished raw by the unsteady, ceaselessly merciless current of Seoul’s criminal underworld. He was born to a father with the heart of a coward, or so he was told, and a mother whose lips spoke ‘temptress’ but whose mind was that of a conqueror’s, sharp as jagged glass and loyal only to her blood, her true blood, Jie, and the color gold. She’d been a lady of the night, adorned in silk and temptation, and his father a customer, a married man seeking release and sentimental comfort he refused to find in his own home. Jie arrived, his father left with the morning, and he became one child of many raised in the backdrop of the brothels, born knowing vice before goodness. Li Yan did not care to preserve her child’s innocence, no, she only wanted for him what she could never accomplish, either by choice or by circumstance - she wanted to mother Alexander the Great, Heracles, the next Odysseus, and her desire to set him on a gilded path overshadowed any instinct to nurture or nurse.
It made sense, then, that he was a stranger to softness, even growing up. If he ever yearned for a traditional childhood, for sights beyond the brothel and the dim streets on each and every side, for days spent in the sun, for bright companions and friends to keep out the silence, he simply didn’t acknowledge it and buried it deep within the recesses of his mind and did not think about it again. A life in Seoul’s seedy underbelly was all he’d ever known, it had started to suit him and he it with his razor tongue and moonlit eyes. Even on the warmest days, Jie was too cold for kindness and, ever his mother’s son, sought out only that which would carve his name into the annals of Korea’s hidden, filthy history. He learned to thieve and deceive in the night, and when he showed his spoils of the day to his mother in the evening, she’d always shook her head, tutted. “You were meant for greater things, my prince.” He never knew what she meant by her words, only wordlessly allowed her to hold his hand and guide him towards a fate only she could see. He’d learned to trust her before himself.
When Yan married Lu Tong, she married him with every intention of watching Jie take his place, cooing for Tong to mentor her son the best he could, raise him to be the protege he’d always sought. From his mother, he’d been taught to be impenetrable, from his new father he was taught to draw blood from the untouchable. He was raised to be more god than man, holy in his arrogance and cruelty. To falter was mortal, to ruin was divine, and he quickly rose through the ranks of 14K Wu by simply being what he was taught to be. He razed because he didn’t know any other way to be, a boy king whose mother eagerly dipped his hands in blood as if it was the water of the River Styx. He knew who to kill, what to destroy, but never what he himself wanted. When he became underboss he thought himself content to be the boss’s right-hand man and support the god of a man he’d worked so hard to impress. He’d wanted so badly to know what he wanted and to have it.
II. AFTER SLUMBER.
When the Messenger woke him, Jie immediately thought of his mother, tears flowing in harsh currents from dark eyes without even knowing she’d be found floating in a pond beneath the willows hours after news of Lu Tong’s fate emerged, her throat neatly slit, as beautiful dead as she was alive. She had not lived long enough to watch him become what she’d dreamed of, he knew that without it having to be said. He thought of her even when the Messenger smiled at his tears and assured him all had been taken care of, and it was then, in the cold light of the dawn, that he was told of Lu Tong’s death.
He didn’t think to question the Messenger. Perhaps he should have, perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted his new seat so obediently, but to accept what was forced onto him was what he’d always done, why should it change in his grief?
Jie has his questions, but he doesn’t dare ask them yet for fear of reliving that dawn again - but he knows he’ll have to. His mother had been killed, and he believes the killer did it to avenge Lu Tong, to drive a dagger through Jie’s chest without offering him the respite of death afterwards. He hides his anguish behind the cold metal of a blade, as his stepfather taught him, lifts his chin up even when the burden is too heavy, as his mother taught him. But even some curses are too much to bear, and he can’t help but, at times, wish he could bend.
— The face one shows him he invariably reflects back at one, creating the illusion of warmth and depth when in fact he is brittle and shallow as a mirror.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty-six year old do kyungsoo, better known as a pimp at lotus anma.
canon: n/a
part of: n/a
freeform:
– 1990
at the foot of the house of cards mother bundles in comforters the prospect of endless joy – she felt as such because her pastimes during the swollen-belly months were completely consisted of reading and hearing stories lived by other ladies who decided to put such a situation upon themselves as well. therefore, even when the shivering september night folded into gore and ache, she held her husband’s hand until all those ten fisted fingers felt white noise, then smiled as they cooed and cradled the tiny being they had created.
december rolled colder than last years, or so say their friends, who found their way out of the cramped home only by this ungodly hour in which mother can barely see what rests between each beam of light in the sidewalk. father joins her, care in his smile and hands as he rests them over his wife’s shoulders. a kiss on her cheek as they turned back into the doors of their home again; a mumble about catching a cold.
“what are you thinking about?” father asks.
– 1999
“i’m thinking that i’ve been training my grabs, and that i can totally tackle you down by now, no problem” kyungsoo replies quickly, confident and pearl-white smiles, never munching on excuses to postpone.
father laughs loud, and the sound is inviting to the taste for a dare nestled in the core of kyungsoo’s very bones. in his thoughts he is rude, calls father an old man, and wins with an arm behind his back as quickly as he can catch his own reflexion in those darker eyes on their way to the ground. sounds unlikely, of course, but dreams are only as impossible as one assumes.
“maybe i’m gettin’ too old for our plays, kid” father shakes his head, “now that i think of it, you should be studying; why would you ever need to tackle somebody anyway?”
kyungsoo shrugs – the hell would he know? “protect mom, i guess” mother is in the kitchen, to which she paced with not much of a difficulty but still her right foot dragged slightly, and now stands undefeated by the stove, cooking the family their dinner, balancing not on the objects around her as if she had not lost the war. it was said to get worse from here.
father sighs, and he practices a proud smile on the corner of his lip, which he is saving for when kyungsoo pulls the feeling right out of him, golden boy. “alright, but i don’t want you getting into any fights out there; this is for protection only–” he stops, “you promise?”
– 2005
“‘course i do!” jiwoo sounds as excited as the little stars twirling in the white of her eyes conveyed, and kyungsoo can feel his melting heart dripping on his ribcage. “what else would i do except watch you kick some ass?”
he smiles at his sunday shoes with the warmth reserved for her, but which he cannot muster courage to present yet. maybe if he takes home the medal from the taekwondo competition, maybe if he doesn’t and instead she hugs him loving and soothing, maybe, maybe, maybe…
their pinky fingers curl around each other. his best friend stands up, shakes off imaginary dust, and fixes the cross around her neck. a comment on how the sermon is about to start.
“kyungsoo, are you coming?”
– 2010
never had kyungsoo gathered so many wires on the inside of his skull and dedicated those to the creation of excuses to suspend jiwoo’s plans. there’s sweat on the back of his neck, his jacket is too big on him, and the honey neon behind her head buzzes all around his own and stings the lobe of his ear. a frown is all he will let her see tonight – she will not be special, he tells himself, she will be as important as any unknown soul.
“i don’t want to” flat and cold and direct. he really doesn’t; his mother is probably still waiting for him up even if they clock is quickly approaching the darkest fold of the night; he has training in the morning before her dreams can even conceive daylight;
he has a thousands reasons why not and yet the fading twirling ballerina in her eye begs and he gives in.
“‘soo… i just need you to stay around to protect me. just until i move to seoul and find somebody to do it properly… i promise, just one guy tonight” she holds onto his arm; red nails, soft hands, all vices, no virtues. sheer, vicious sin. he wonders if he loves her.
“please, kyungsoo.”
– 2011
“i have to” kyungsoo has a lump on his throat he cannot swallow. he can feel it grow as he pulls his bags through the little house, wondering if he will be the final blow to dismantle the paper walls.
his mother is crying, his father regards him filled with disappointment.
“but we need you!”
– 2015
her hand on his shoulder has the weight of a life; a full life, of which he shared and nurtured as one of his own. the light of his care fidgets through, and he swallows an apology. he dwells on the memory of jiwoo, and he did and could have done, and it all seems to tie together with all those other lives he sees and touches, as the things he did are the things he should do as well.
they do need him – or at least he thinks so. how sinful they all are, filthy and lewd and improper. they need him. he sighs, and takes her hand in his, then calmly watches as she switches her gaze. they need him. the slow melt of his demeanor is by now usual to these girls, those with whom he deals with and off. they need him.
“all i can say is that i’ll think about it.” he already has. they need him.
— clever girl. you play with fire because you want to be burnt.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty year old saito eri, better known as a freelance hacker.
canon: n/a
part of: 9chan
freeform:
↺ LOADING… ERI PROFILE-CONFIDENTIAL.DOC
saito eri, born in fukuoka, japan on the 16th of february 1997. she was abandoned by her biological parents before she reached the age of one and was raised by her aunt and uncle in nagoya instead. since then, she has not made any contact with her biological parents, who have moved to the united states two years later. the married couple were both software engineers for the toshiba corporation, but lived a humble lifestyle that has not changed since. based on images, it seems that eri had a pleasant, average childhood.
the family moved to south korea in july 2002 due to the company relocating them to the country. eri had adapted to the change easily, picking up the language to near fluency after a few months of living in south korea. however, after accessing report cards and teachers’ comments from her primary school, it seems that her intelligence was not evident in the classroom. instead, she’s been regarded as a student who tended to zone out during class and occasionally, talk back to authoritative figures, whether they be teachers or students who were her seniors. the only adult figures she did not dare to disrespect would be her aunt and uncle.
at the age of fifteen, she was given her first computer and was taught by her aunt how to use it properly. since then, she has taught herself how to breach defences of computer system and networks by experimenting along with going through her aunt and uncle’s resources. by sixteen, her grades started to improve immensely, but upon further inspection, it seems that the grades were, in fact, tampered with. her original grades were still above average, but clearly do not show her full potential. the blackout that lasted for nearly eight hours the following year traces back to her computer, as do the numerous surveillance camera failures in the area.
eri entered university as a computer engineering student in the year where the political stability of south korea (and other countries) was declining. it seems that her ‘job’ began during freshmen year, where she started getting paid to access the answer key to tests and exams. however, according to some of her classmates, she was always suspected of doing more than just this child’s play. the main reason for their suspicion was because of her secretive, elusive personality — along with one eyewitness account where a fellow student saw on her computer screen a large sum of money being deposited into her account.
she consistently ranked among the top five students of her cohort without having to tamper with her grades this time. despite her success, she did not complete her bachelor’s course and dropped out of university in 2016. she moved into her own apartment a few days later. this was the same year her uncle was reported as a missing person from the apartment complex fire. given that the number of casualties are unknown and her uncle’s corpse was never found, eri remains convinced that he made it out and is still alive.
F1REFLY is her online pseudonym and her identity is never revealed to her clients, any needed contact is always done online. it is well known that saito eri is a desired hacker by many organisations. but based off her constant rejections, she prefers her independence over affiliating herself with one. she claims to be strictly freelance, so hardly anyone can sway her over regardless of what they offer. this is a major risk that must be considered before attempting to recruit her.
SEND DOCUMENT TO XX?
→ SEND CANCEL
SECURITY WARNING!
VIRUS ACTIVITY DETECTED!
PERMANENTLY DELETING FILE(S) 01 OF 01.
→ CANCEL
FILE(S) SUCCESSFULLY DELETED.
nighty night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite :-)
— in other news, a recent report suggests that things may not be as they seem.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty-six year old chen wei jun, better known as a pirate radio broadcaster.
canon: the prophet
part of: 9chan
freeform:
AN INSIGHT INTO A SPLIT CHILDHOOD:
There’s not a focal point to be made, or allegorical rock ledge to be climbed. Instead, over the impeccable view of Seoul fans the breath of exhaust pipes fifteen stories down. And the moment he lets himself sink, finger hovering over the transmitter, he reconstitutes to the best of his abilities the conceptualized parts of his childhood.
The common opinion his grandparents share as he grows up is that he's an expendable member of their household. “Thank god he’s got more of his father than his mother.” It's the way the words enmonster. The onset of every worn SummerCasual and playing hide and seek by himself while sweating through hand-me-downs. He didn’t know of his father at age ten, but it was the self-reflexive respect he carried around like a prize that made up for the lack of maternal affection.
"He’ll never amount to anything.” So he has to learn to be humble. He’s treated like a dog for most of his life, hair pushed back to the syrupy of his ears, yet he's still so full of love. When he starts looking less like his father and more like his mother they send him away.
His father once told him he's too much like them. Too levelled. Or situational. “Whatever she is.” There is, he doesn’t want to call it animosity, bad blood. Definitely. It’d be impolite to ask. Justified maybe, by the halogen light mentality he’s presented with under carpets. He isn’t half-dressed anymore.
If he could, he’d spend all his afterlife’s worth rewinding and re-eating the way his father clears the driveway every winter month. And later rolls up in his rusty Bentley, arm out of the open window. He learns to be a child in Beibei. And the only way he can explain it to himself is how his father put it:
“They didn’t want you, because you came from me. And I’m not what they wanted for their daughter.”
“That’s alright. I wanted them, but that’s alright.”
“It isn’t,” and his father had sat on his wrinkle free bed, insteps naked under rough denim, and he’s committed it so strongly to memory. “You came here half starved and I was convinced the only thing they taught you to say was ‘I’m sorry’. But here’s the thing: mothers aren’t inherently bad people. That’s your story. But others might not understand. That’s why, instead of always asking me to buzz your head, learn to love yourself. You're not in Beijing anymore.”
He doesn’t understand. But he contemplates it. Long after his grandmother’s funeral preparations, and the letters asking him to willingly give up the inheritance cease. It’s a calm that settles in his life, and becomes a constant. He’s not in China anymore, though he sometimes wishes he was.
“Hello Seoul, how have you been? Well, my dear listeners, I must confess I’ve been feeling rather down. The weather’s been so depressing lately.”
— your name was more powerful than any empire, but it could not stop your fall.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about thirty-two year old lee jinho, better known as the north side's family head.
canon: the father
part of: the golden Triangle and lotus Anma
freeform: There exists a timeless debate between the environmental and biological impact on the human psyche.
Experiences string together action and reaction, personal ideologies, and familiar values accepted or rejected by its society. Relationships between people surrounding a child grossly impact the shape of their young mind as they age. Biologically, there are predetermining conditions; restless habits, personality traits, inherited disease, intelligence, natural skill. What becomes of those factors, which are cultivated, and which are left idle– it entirely depends on the individual.
“INTELLIGENT BUT ARROGANT…”
A television buzzes in the background and a chess board sits between two children. The carpet under his bare knees scratches against his skin and the AC hums on its highest setting to combat one of south korea’s hottest summers to date. Subtitles slide across the bottom of the screen, and Jinho is distracted by the appearance of his father’s name.
[President criticized for allowing foreign occupation by the Chinese…]
[Rise in crime rate across all provinces…]
[Public disapproval directed at military and police…]
He stops listening after the announcement of a celebrity’s birthday and stares down at his opponent’s move. The other is smiling, grin full of teeth and eyes shining. It’s one of the rare times Jinho had been allowed to bring home a classmate. But the sight of his cornered king piece leaves him unsettled.
“I won.”
Jinho continues staring at the board.
A clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks– then small hands are flipping the chessboard over and unraveling the peace. Ceramic knights and pawns scatter cross hardwood floors and his hand is in their hair, tearing, pulling, shoving their face against the floor.
“You cheated. I wasn’t watching you.”
Jinho lets go immediately, perfectly calm, composed.
Then blinks, finally notices the blood on their neck from his nails. Blinks again as they are carted away by someone from security. There are dry tear streaks down their face. Hesitant fingers play with a chess piece and a small white pawn sits curled in his fist.
“Did you lose?.”
His sister had arrived home. She’s wearing her hair up, and leans against the entryway to the library. Jinho stares back at her hard gaze.
“Why don’t you go apologize to your friend?”
He says nothing and looks away first.
“UNNECESSARILY PARANOID…”
“What do you remember?”
There’s a needle being taken out of his arm. It’s connected to a IV drip hanging beside his bed. He grits his teeth but maintains an unreadable expression in front of his father. Eyes are still spider-webbed with red and purple veins. His lips are chapped, and he wets them. The nurse at his side offers him water, but his father hands him the glass first. It’s sweating and cold against his skin.
If he stares at own room walls long enough, he remembers the rooms his captors shoved him into for over two weeks. The air had always been hazy, light through the window behind him exposing clouds of dust floating around his head. Most of the time they had kept his vision blacked out. He memorized the time it took to drive from place to place blindfolded, the way pebbles cracked underneath his shoes as opposed to flat concrete. Sometimes, the soft touch of grass as they let him piss with a gun to his head.
The routine was always the identical, day after day, hour by hour, second by second. Blindfold, dirty rag in his mouth tasting like metal shoved between teeth, forced inside a van, taken to a new building and tied up inside a foreign room by the end of twenty four hours. It was fairly simple to plan an escape with a methodical mind. He is not stupid and he was trained.
But details of the kidnapping is not what his father wants to know. His father wants to know what he might have revealed about their family.
“Nothing.”
Jinho stares at the ground. His father stands up, and the chair creaks. It’s the only sound aside from the television turning on. Minsik flips through channels, one hand tucked inside their pants pocket and the other on a remote control.
“I think you do remember.”
The grainy image of Jinho on the ground in a warehouse sits broadcasted on the screen. His hands are free from bonds in the image, face bloodied but body alert and prepared. He clutches something in his fist that cannot be singled out by the camera image.
Minsik motions to the object.
“A knife.” Jinho focuses, silent and motionless as his father plays the recorded video tape. They both watch as Jinho holds his own against the first assailant, dressed in black and face blurred out. Jinho has the blade against the soft flesh of a jugular, prepared to cut. His father’s gaze is hard, and they pause the image again. “Here.” He turns back towards his son, bedridden from dehydration and a healing stab wound. “You hesitated to take control of the situation and spared his life.”
Jinho stares blankly ahead. His lips close and open noiselessly.
“You staged my kidnapping.”
The recording continues without his father’s response. Jinho shuts his eyes at the sound of his own scream when the knife is turned on him. A gunshot follows, and the tape ends with his retrieval by The Outfit’s own members.
“I had concerns about your ability,” Minsik explains, but not with the intention to assure his son. “I also instructed them not to harm you in a lethal manner. We reacted accordingly.”
Jinho focuses on the crumpled form of the hired abductor. He thinks the man is lucky, and can only wonder what his father subjected the other to. His hands tighten into fists until nails cut into skin when Minsik’s attentions falls upon him.
“You had every chance to save yourself, and you did nothing.”
“BUT APT AT COMMUNICATION…”
He has no real reason to attend school. The Outfit survives on the legs built by his father and his father before him. Money is never a concern, but the desire for an education and a broader worldview rather than one controlled by a censored media is what Jinho seeks.
The relationship between his political science T.A. and him is simple. Neither of them expect more than what it becomes. A comfortable, easy relationship between two people that have always been defined by labels. She is expected to marry after college to pass along her family’s fortune and help run the country with her fiance-to-be (right-wing policies backed by criminally funded lobbyists). He understands that world. Criticizing her for flirting with him while taken is not an option he considers. It would turn her own accusations on himself.
This works because they use each other.
He is young, impressionable, and carrying an even richer family name with him. She humors his brief, unexplained interest in traditional art, photography, literature, and music. They talk, and pretend. Flipping from one pass time to the next, never settling. Everything is temporary. That’s what she likes, because he is not a permanent man.
They both know what they are meant to do.
“You don’t want to be an artist.”
“No.”
There’s a knowing smile on his face as he draws a smooth half-circle to create her shoulder. She’s in his bed, clothes discarded. He has not laid a finger on her.
“You don’t want to be a businessman.”
His charcoal breaks in half, black dust smearing when he turns the page. He adjusts his glasses and looks at her.
“You don’t want to be a politician’s wife.”
She watches him, chin propped up on her knee and dark hair spilling out across sheets. Her smile is tight-lipped.
“What do you want, Jinho?”
His sketchbook is always full of half-done ideas and poorly conceived thoughts.
She leaves him because he never really touches her the way she wants him to. He allows it because she says the relationship feels more like having a brother, and a friendship built beneficial ties between their families already. She was using him the same way he used her as a facade for what people expect him to be. There’s a part of him that’s relieved she left, but now he is without someone to hide the fact he’s never slept with a woman.
His father is too concerned with politics and shift in business ties when he graduates, Jinho on the brink of inheriting The Outfit and its enemies. His early twenties take place during a period when war is talked about instead of parodied in art and television. People are afraid, and people are quiet until a new presidential candidate echoes their own thoughts.
His sister has never waited for him to lose interest in being a leader. She will always be ready for a title he never deserved, and a title she will never receive.
He wonders when she will finally take it.
“IT DOES NOT MATTER THAT HE IS NOT GREAT…”
They tell you to pull out fingernails and teeth for disloyalty, but they do not tell you what it sounds like. Actions have far worse repercussions in this world, and for every consequence, he pries a fingernail away from flesh until he tastes blood in his mouth from cutting into his own cheek with teeth.
“How old are you?”
Bloodshot eyes stare up at Jinho. His security is with him, and almost stuff a rag back in the ex-con’s mouth after speaking directly to The Outfit’s new leader. Jinho stops them with a sharp glance.
He’s wearing gloves over perfectly clean hands. It feels almost like a sloppy caricature of a gruesome situation. The former Outfit member must be able to sense he does not quite fit the role of an interrogator. The way they look at him with fearless eyes and crushed fingers– it’s not the way a man should look at another man holding the threat of death overhead.
“A kid,” they rasp, struggling to speak. Their voice is hoarse when they focus on Jinho carefully as he’s fitting pliers underneath a dirty thumb nail. “I remember when you were five years old. Your father let me meet you on your birthday. We were close then… friends. Our wives would talk to each other like young girls do.” Jinho hesitates, just for a moment. They breathe through their nose and spit. “You’re still a fucking kid– you have no idea what you’re doing.”
Bloody pliers clatter away to a dark corner. Their scream barely drowns out pitched laughter that follows him like a mocking shadow when he fights the urge to vomit from the sound of tearing skin. Hands are pressed over his mouth, trembling fingers, legs barely kept upright and standing. He leans against a wall for support and retches dry air until acid from his stomach burns his throat.
“You can’t even kill for your family, or yourself. What exactly is yours?”
They laugh, and laugh, choking when fabric wrapped around their bruised throat steals the ability to breathe. Dirty spit runs out of the side of their mouth, gaping holes in gums bloodied and torn. They chuckle at Jinho on the ground, now leader of The Outfit, no longer afraid of dying. He stares at the floor until the only sound is the deafening echo of a gunshot that settles inside his ears and never leaves.
A dead man he had no hand in killing is not how it starts.
— if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty-four year old kang seulgi, better known as a bartender and a hacker for the outfit.
canon: n/a
part of: 9chan
freeform: she finds childhood pictures in the back of her closet, between the pile of thick baggy clothes put away for the winter and the box set of old electronics she never really threw out.
i. her, on the beach, up to the elbows in muddy watery sand / on the back; busan, 1994.
she reckons she liked living in busan more than seoul, though she can hardly remember. one year old ( and a very important half ), sometimes she still tastes the sea-salt residue behind her gums, if she shuts her eyes hard enough. there’s nothing pivotal about it.
she has a grandma there, on her father’s side, and three sets of 365 spent crammed up with her parents on the most upper house floor, one family too many for any comfort. her mother told her once she used to trip on the flooring, hard exposed wood and ridged nails, one thin faded scar above her knee to prove it.
it was simpler then. probably.
ii. her father, her, propped on his knees, the light of a computer reflecting onto her face. / on the back; seoul, 1996.
they had the best computer in the neighborhood. that, she makes herself believe she remembers quite clearly.
he teaches her everything she wants to know. click this. tap that. mother nagging in the background, she’s three years old, stop ruining her brain with all this computer stuff. maybe he shouldn’t have. maybe, instead of bouncing her on one leg, showing pretty pixels and magic work, she should’ve just been out with the other kids, should’ve scratched her legs on the asphalt, should’ve fallen off her kiddie bike –
but this is so much more interesting, isn’t it?
( as long as daddy has the patience to show her, she’s never been not curious enough to try. )
iii. her, in bed, with the droopy red eyes and crumpled tissues / on the back, in ugly cursive; stop taking embarrassing pictures of me, mom! seoul, 2002.
nine years old, another sick day. she gets a lot of those.
( she heard her mother crying on the other side of the doctors office. told her to wait outside. told her it’s all going to be fine. something about a weak immune system, something about needing to be careful – )
she misses a lot of school. she reasons with herself that it’s not of any particular importance, not when she can be warm at home, doing whatever she pleases. the older she grows, the more the boredom surfaces, urging her lithe little hands where they shouldn’t go. the internet goes deeper the more you gaze into it.
( funny in just how much trouble one misguided teenager can get, when she has the right amount of time. )
she might be failing literature in high school, but her math teacher always makes sure to note how stunned she is by the small, partially home schooled girl, carrying books heavier than all her hollow bones combined.
her condition gets better with time. it’s more of a lifestyle at that point.
this part worked out, at least.
iv. her, in a barret, locking arms with a friend, with a crowd, with an idea / on the back, underlined; never forget. seoul, 20–
dad told her once everybody should believe in something.
it’s not about god, he said. not about a bigger power, well, not in the obvious sense. some people believe in love. some people believe in justice.
other people believe in power.
( call her a cynic, but she can hardly bring herself to acknowledge any other type of drive. not these days anyway. )
there’s something young about her face in an idyllic way. bright eyes, firm stance, minutes away from getting chased down into horror and panic, one way streets, scurrying into the underbrush before her tail can catch on fire. who let the overly ambitious fifteen year old go to a protest?
it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter.
they’re all animals, when it comes down to it. she gets a colorful blow on her left rib from an officer, and an elbow to her chest so hard she’s left helpless, gasping for air. that one’s from the crowd.
she got lucky.
v. her, in her graduation robe. / on the back, crossed out; come on out, wherever you are.
she finishes undergrad school in software engineering at KAIST at the top of her male dominated class. never signs up to do her major. she just wanted to see this through, she’s not a quitter, least until the situation gets too heated up.
9chan knows her as ambrosia, rightfully infamous for her various cyber-attacks. it was only a matter of time before she got an employment offer from the outfit. it’s a new age, she’s glad they agree. guns can only take you so far before you reach five levels of encryption and a bug that tracks every one of your expenses down to the very last zero.
she’s a bad person with a good plan. draining random debit cards in a time of occupation can only get you so much wealth before it all fucks up and you get a quick sentence for twenty years - at best - bullet to the head - at worst. seoul’s oldest crime ring offering her an alliance? now that’s something she can work with.
one year more of this job. get as much money as she can while she’s under their protection. then she’s getting herself and her family on the first plane, boat, car, whatever, out, somehow, somewhere, she doesn’t care. she won’t be staying for this war.
until then she’s left as the outfit’s digital girl for all, everybody’s favorite money launderer, info gatherer, hacker ( in the simplest terms. )
she puts the album way at the back, closes the doors.
war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about twenty-five year old park hyungsik, better known as a pastor at yoido full gospel church.
canon: the shepherd
part of: celebrity influence
freeform: tokyo has always been kind to him, to his family.
concrete sky scrapers lick the stormy skies, and he turns his head up, staring into the infinite grey. he longs for sweet heat, the press of summer sun and humidity sticking his school uniform to his skin. he’s a handsome boy, his mother tells him always, but his classmates aren’t fond of him. he’s different, less.
his step-father tells him to pay no mind. at the end of days, when god’s wrath comes down on them in the form of a thousand suns, only the pious will be spared from burning.
the rain beats against the stain glass windows, the angel’s hands raised to touch the sky in glorious reds and greens. their pastor stands before the altar, howling against the sound of the storm, hands thrown up to god. his parish follow suit, many in tears, many shouting amen at the top of their lungs, chanting prayers, voices full of desperation. there are tears running down his step-father’s face, spit flying from his mouth, eyes wild as he shouts for salvation.
father takada says the end is near, that the second coming will be upon them. hyungsik cannot wait.
he’s average in his studies at best, but among his friends he’s the smartest.
his mother weeps behind closed doors, when she thinks he’s gone to sleep at night, but come morning she is red faced and raging, the devil in her eyes when she tells him to study harder. she’s worried that he won’t get into a good school, that his future is going to fall apart because he doesn’t pay attention now.
hyungsik blinks and nods along, though he never makes any effort to change. his mother isn’t the smartest either, so why should he care?
she stops going to church when he’s sixteen, to both his and his father’s outrage. how could she, when she knows the end is near? his hands shake, his own anger held back barely by his confusion, by the lingering traces of affection he has for her. he tugs her sleeves, begs to come with them, to see the truth. for him, to avoid his step-father’s rage and for his younger brother to have a good influence. these are all the wrong reasons, but he hopes, he prays that she’ll come around eventually.
when he was little, he used to dream of heaven. father takada says that his dreams will never compare to what waits for them beyond the grave, but in his dreams his whole family is there, smiling under the warmth of the sun.
it only lasts for a few weeks before his mother begins again. it hurts him to think that she could renounce their religion, to deviate from god’s path when it had been so bright before her. he hears yelling from his parents room at night, and when it gets louder his brother sneaks into his room, asking for a story to distract him from the noise. hyungsik tells him about heaven, the angels that pray for him while he sleeps. his brother tells him that his classmates think he’s weird, a freak.
hyungsik kisses his brother’s head and reminds him that sinners do not go to heaven.
his father makes them breakfast in the morning, and though his brother asks where his mother is, hyungsik knows better. he shushes the boy, before dressing him and asking his father if they can afford to send hyungsik to seminary school.
ulsan is not kind to him.
when he looks out to the ocean he sees not the life it holds but the shrinking horizon and the harsh winds that whip his hair. it feels like something is upon them soon, a great calamity that hides just beyond what can be seen. he sees it, the end that comes soon. his classmates think he’s a desperate fool, but he excels in his studies, works harder to study the word of god than any of them ever could.
they know nothing.
hyungsik prays at night for his step-father, for his little brother, that they remain on the path of god with him, that they join him under heaven’s light. he prays for his classmates too, misguided as they are. they are children of god, as he is, though the path may be hidden from them. there are no end to his prayers, for no matter how he despises the words thrown at him, his heart is not cruel.
he begins praying for a girl too.
she goes to a university nearby, studying economics. they frequent a cafe and when he catches her eye more than once, his friends haggle him till he speaks to her. for once, he thinks they may have had the right idea.
her heart is so kind he’s find he’s breathless every time he speaks to her. he’s never met someone so pure, so lovely in his life. not at his church, not at his school, not at hers. an angel, he thinks. the child of an angel, blessed before his very eyes. he’s so hopelessly enamored with her, heart full of love. she embodies every virtue, better than he ever could.
he tells her he wants to wait till marriage, and she says its a refreshing change. he doesn’t think much of the words.
it’s months till she confesses to him, her sin.
his heart breaks into a million pieces, dropping right through his gut to the ground below. to think that a girl like her, so warm and so pure, would have to sell her body just to survive in this world-
the end must truly be near.
she tells him she wants to cleansed, to leave it all behind her. her hands shake as she skirts around telling him what she had to do, but he knows, understands how much the weight of her sin must bear on her. she had seen god’s path with him, but what good would it do? there will always be suffering for her in this world. there is only happiness in heaven.
he baptizes her in the ocean water, and she weeps in his arms.
she is sinless, born anew. but for how long could she stay like this? in his arms, in his soul, in his prayers, when the fate of this world waits to snatch her away back into it’s cruel embrace. he wants her to stay like this forever, to be free of sin.
she dies that night, free of sin, body sinking into the infinite horizon.
seoul is kind to none.
despite his inexperience, he’s recruited by a church in the city, and he goes happily, eager to begin his work. his parish is full of sinners, the rich who drip opulence and guilt in equal amounts. they come to him once a week, their hands and necks and ears adorned with jewels, dressed in their sunday best so they may weep to him, beg for his forgiveness.
he tells them god can forgive all, should they repent. he’s weighed down by the weight of their sins, by the knowledge that they truly seek heaven.
they line up, pew by pew, waiting to be cleansed before they go out and ruin themselves anew, bloated with greed and gluttony and pride. they think themselves untouchable, that their lives are infinite and god knows not what is in their hearts, that their repentance is shallow.
the church grows only more popular, partly for himself, partly for the words of those he works with.
soon, he sees the faces of true believers, screaming for forgiveness, to die free of sin. to these people, to those who have seen the light of god’s sun, he can only do his best to grant their wishes. when the end of the world comes, only the sinners will be left to burn under the heat of the last days, while he and his parish bask in the light of heaven.
but it is not the end, not quite yet. his work is not done here, for there are those that still need to be led to the path.
