mild nights at sleep away summer camps are anything but assuming. in stark contrast, they’re an excuse to give into the spontaneity of adrenaline driven impulses. to finally act and start crossing things off that mandatory, “crazy things i did one summer” bucket list. to spend the finite number of your rosy, youthful nights doing exactly what your mother told you never to do, even if you’re half sure you won’t be able to remember it the next morning, just for the sake of being able to say you did so in the future.
so when an invite or two are sent his way about some kind of vague, “get 2gether possibly involving hot chicks and b00ze,” he truly cannot see any reason to say no. albeit, the boy was never known for having the best sense of judgement. about forty minutes of shirt tugging, teeth brushing, and putting an obscenely unnecessary amount of gel in his hair finds him in standing in front of the orange cabin’s brightly colored door.
now, junhao likes to think that if life were a competition, he’s definitely winning—if the number of insta comments and twitter dms from various girls ( and boys, for that matter ) making his phone lag were anything to go by. and when his mood is this sky high from a few simple strokes of his already over inflated ego, he figures it’s time he share some of that so called, unconventional joy.
enter, jung harim. fellow alpha initiate, hyung of 8 days, and what junhao so lovingly calls, “a charity case” because for the past almost two months since they’ve known each other, junhao has learned quite a deal about said boy. namely, that he’s got absolutely zero game when it comes to the love department. ( or is it actually more so the hooking up department? ) so in accordance with the 138th rule of the universe, junhao naturally takes it upon himself to help a friend out and play wingman, even if it’s mostly because he needs an excuse to have harim owe him some essay he knows he’ll be too lazy to write later anyways.
he knocks, loudly, as if this were a testament to his own sense of self—and it takes all but a whole three, brief foot taps before his fist is raised, rapping at the door again, frustrated at the silence he’s getting in response. patience, they say is a virtue. it’s just quite unfortunate that junghao’s never been deemed as a virtuous boy.
“harim, my dude. you in there?” he calls, weight shifting back and forth between his legs now as he takes a quick glance over his shoulder, making sure the coast is clear out of good ol’ habit. he pats his pockets, reassured when he feels the square-ish outline of a cool, metal flask, before sighing loudly as his forehead comes to rest on the door. you know, for the added dramatic effect.
“dude, stop ignoring me, we gotta pregame. i know for real you’re in there playing video games or something.”
( / * one. more. year. every step was another word repeated with this makeshift mantra. one more year of this specifically-gumi typa dramatic-ass event, and she’d be done. one more year and then she could potentially be one of the osprey members shoveling various methods of torture upon the unsuspecting undergrads. the thought keeps her going, until she can see a ratty old shack in the distance--ish. her night vision was never that good. \ ) ( / * various members of her cabin were scattered about the map, probably, but as of right now she was solo. she needs a little bit of solitary, right now--lest she go a little crazy otherwise. \ ) ( / * it’s either she get a little alone time (jugeum doesn’t count, of course), or she shares company with someone so bright and energetic that it raises her terrible mood, if just a little. \ )
( / * there’s someone already at the checkpoint, though. yunseo inhales through her teeth until she really gets a good look at who it is-- \ ) “oh. harim. you’ve made it so far! and by yourself?!” ( / * it’s one of those events where inter-legacy interaction isn’t side-eyed, so she feels her shoulders relax, the muscles in her forearms ease. \ ) “it feels kind of weird just being able to talk like this doesn’t it--”
Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT. [sms: my mentee] fuck fuck fuck fuck i messed up, harim.... so damn bad...... what am i supposed to do??? FUCK i’m gonna die this is it
Send “%” for a CURIOUS text. [sms: my mentee] okay but like.... how many eggs do you use when you bake a cake?? do you even use eggs at all? ...do you even know how to bake a cake?
on colder days, his mother will draw him close, flames licking the worn-out ashes of newspaper clippings gathered in a make-shift fireplace.
she will say:
this is who you were meant to be—
a stupid, reckless, lion-hearted boy, feet stumbling over each other in the overeager pursuit of something greater. the sky will tail after him, the wind whistling in laughter as he chases—unknowing—and finds serenity in uncertainty. when the sun droops closer, curiosity dripping from the tendrils of its prominence, he will sate his curiosity by weathering the burn. the world may be a puzzle; he won’t try to solve it.
she will say, quieter now, expression tight as her palm hovers over his shoulder, recoiling when the faintest curl of static nips at her fingertips:
here is how you became another—
april showers tease dreary souls yearning for a reminder of the sun’s warmth. a dingy hospital groans when its halls are filled with a sob mixed with a scream. a boy is born. his father’s hands are clasped in prayer. please, the man whispers to a god that has turned away from them, have mercy on him.
she will say, hand folding into a fist, fist falling to her lap, gaze dropping from the curious tilt of his head to the chipped vinyl flooring:
god has not forgiven us yet. you, alone, are evidence.
REFLECTION
his parents remind him daily that he is an impurity.
the way lightning crackles from beneath his flesh in time with his pulse—it’s unnatural. and he believes them in spite of the way his sisters dart their gazes from looming crosses hammered into the brittle walls of their home to one another.
he is an impurity, an anomaly, just like his sisters. they are proof that god has found fault in their family and they are proof that the pearl-adorned gates of heaven are unyielding still.
in the quiet of his room, he bites back the untamed sting of electricity coursing through his veins, spends too many nights, eyes clamped shut, sweat a second skin as he digs his nails into the palms of his hands and prays to a god that has spurned him, begging for the pain to leave him.
“we’re not impure,” his eldest sister tells him one night, knees hugged to her chest as she reaches out, hand clasping his, gingerly squeezing the imprints his fingernails have left behind. his body’s trembling, a collapsing prison, and he wonders why striving to be holy breaks him from the inside-out, as though his skeleton was never meant to stomach sanctitude.
he’s hardly ten. his days are spent in cramped classrooms, idle hours wasted away by the strip of ocean forgotten by passersby—the only place that seems to take the jolts in his blood without asking for anything more.
sometimes, he wonders if he’d be any different had he been born in a different family, with a different name, with a different sin to call his own.
“we’re not impure,” his sister says again, slower. “the lightning storms you feel every night, the way water seems to fear you—you’re not impure.”
time passes excruciatingly slowly but the tremors beneath his flesh calm to stillness.
“we’re monsters. our only sin is challenging god.”
REPENTANCE
at some point, the prayers his mother and father hurl his way turn to gibberish, and this is the first time that peace comes to him with the intention of staying.
(i.)
"we’re kind of cool, aren’t we?” his best friend says, outstretching his hand to block the harsh sunlight falling in waves from above them. “not everyone has powers, you know? we’re the world’s exceptions.”
“huh,” harim replies, the bright pink bubble he blows a second after deflating almost immediately. “i guess. hey, you done with your wrapper? this gum tastes like rubber.”
(ii.)
when he comes from school, he heads straight to his room and slams the door shut before his mother has the chance to lift her head. there are times when she sits outside, murmuring broken apologies that crawl to him with weak insistence.
i love you, she says. i’m sorry, she chokes out. we’re just afraid.
(of who?)
we’re just afraid of you.
(iii.)
this is how it happens: the soccer ball flies into the goal. the people around him erupt into cheers. his heart nearly explodes from the adrenaline rush. a laugh tears itself from his throat. he turns to gauge the reaction of his best friend and sees, instead, the grimace on his friend’s face before he collapses to the ground.
this is how he tries to fix it: the ambulance is on its way, but he doesn’t know if time is on his side (it never is). the crackles of electricity emanating from the palms of his hands are promising, but the doubt at the very core of his heart swallows him like a shadow. even so, he stumbles closer, hands hovering over the slow rise-and-fall of a heart that ought not stop beating.
this is how he fails: THE PROGNOSIS OF HIS RECOVERY IS GRIM… HE’S CONSCIOUS AGAIN, BUT THE CHANCES OF PERMANENT PARALYSIS DUE TO IMPRECISE DEFIBRILLATION ARE HIGH…
(iv.)
if he is repenting, he is repenting not to god, but to the depraved force that brought him here.
(PENANCE)
there are nights when electricity pushes his body to the brink of paralysis. where there once was fear and bitterness, heartless prayer, there is newfound determination.
“i’m going to get better,” he announces one morning, the entire family gathered around the dining table for the first time in a long time. his parents gaze at him wearily, his sisters uninterested for the most part until he continues. “i’m going to gumi. if i can’t get rid of this fucking—”
“language,” one of his sisters warns.
“—if i can’t get rid of this impurity,” he continues, “then i’m going to tame it. i’m going to learn to live with it.”
his father parts his lips to protest but harim can see the way his mother’s eyes fall from his face to the scarred flesh of his arms, testaments to trials of endurance he’s throttled himself through over the years.
“okay,” she says before anything else. her fingers curl around the silver cross necklace dangling from her neck. “then we’ll learn to live with it too.”
APOSTASY
to become the version of himself that he most wants to be, he knows that there are paths that demand to be walked. and he’s an uncomplicated boy, a reckless sort that chases after dreams that haven’t quite become his. sometimes the wind whistles insistently after him, as though it’s chastising him, reminding him to reel himself back to rationality. the sky always falls behind him and he never thinks to look back.
he doesn’t want to climb to the top to look down at the world beneath him. he wants to climb to the top so that one day, when the sun droops closer, flame-lit coils thrashing about, he can swallow it whole and become the sun itself.
the world is a puzzle and he hates complicated things. so, he’ll solve it just to shatter it so questions of sanctity and existence never trouble him again.
WHAT CAN THEY DO?
DEFINITION
ELECTROKINESIS, otherwise known as electricity manipulation, is defined broadly as the ability to create, shape, or manipulate electricity, which is a form of energy produced by the movement of charged particles. users of this power are capable of manipulating the properties of electricity, thus resulting in a wide range of applications, such as utilizing electricity offensively and defensively either through projectile bursts/streams or through the formation of constructs, absorption, generation, and negation. as a result of his power, being in motion not only produces kinetic energy, but electrical energy as well. electricity is quite literally inside of harim—and as a result, there are more times than not that he’ll accidentally shock someone if they touch him without prompting. his power source is in himself and any electricity he utilizes for applications of his power, if it is not readily available in the environment around him, comes directly from him. not to be confused with electromagnetism manipulation, harim’s power pertains exclusively to electrical sources within his vicinity or the tangible electrical energy within him.
OFFENSIVELY, he tends to use electricity in seemingly shapeless projectiles. it’s out of preference, but long-range combat suits him best and making constructs out of electricity (such as electrical swords, and other weaponry) are too close for comfort and also require more concentration to maintain.
DEFENSIVELY, he can utilize electricity to make a small, short-term force-field of sorts to deflect minimal attacks.
PASSIVELY, he is capable of absorbing electricity both from his environment and from physical objects or people near him. as a byproduct of this application, he is also capable of negating electrical characteristics of the source from which he is absorbing electricity.
WEAKNESSES
GENERAL — (1) as a result of one of the primary sources of electricity being from within himself, harim is not immune to the aftershock of his power. he frequently experiences passing moments of a paralysis as a result of an over-accumulation of electricity inside of his body. this paralysis comes after an excruciating pain akin to being struck by small bolts of lightning all throughout his body. (2) once he’s out of energy, he’s out of energy. unless he’s capable of recharging from a physical source, the organic formation of electricity via his body’s motion is less effective after he’s depleted his energy due to the decreased physical condition of his body. he’s human and he needs to recuperate.
TIME LIMIT — presently,his ability can be used continuously, without any breaks, for about thirty minutes offensively before he needs to recharge. defensively, he can manage about fifteen minutes of a steady electrical shield before it begins to crack.
PHYSICAL FLAWS — exceedingly windy environments can not only negatively impact the accuracy of harim’s offensive attacks, but they can prevent him from maintaining any form of electricity for long due to the insulation that non-conducive matter such as air/wind (and rubber, silicate, etc.) create.
RANGE — electrical projectiles can be seen as being hurled, so in spite of the considerable range they might achieve, there’s an increasing lack of accuracy the further the projectiles are thrown. well-controlled offensive attacks can reach a distance of about twenty-five feet before becoming susceptible to mis-aim.
DID YOU KNOW?
three of his teeth are ceramic crowns because he once got into a fist fight with a dude twice his size for making fun of his sister and got two-and-a-half teeth knocked out. he doesn’t like talking about it because it’s embarrassing, but if goaded, he will tell you that the other guy lost teeth and broke his nose.
