there's something incredibly time travel-esque about grian walking through the scene of the crime without actually seeing the wreckage. instead he sees it for what it was before—with the floor loaded with TNT. it's like the pokeball was manipulated by the time stone. it's like grian went back in time tenet style.
now i'm thinking time-suspended!grian who glitches back into the desert and winds up in the middle of a ring of cacti. it's silent and he's alone; the world is still and desolate. slowly, blood begins to materialize, staining the ground beneath his feet. he jumps away, confused and horrified, pricking himself with cacti as he backs himself into the edge of the ring. desperate to put more distance between him and the tinge of red spreading through the sand, he stumbles away only to glance at a ledge a few feet away.
at the bottom of a cliff is another pool of blood. he hasn't looked yet but he knows it's there.
I. we've been on this roof deck before on a city blackout. classes were out early but we didn't really want to go home, or at least i didn't. we hung around the roof deck, basking in the waning sunlight as the sun set over the horizon. the sun makes itself known early from my house, while this had a clear view of the sun when it left—golden rays sinking, painting the entire sky orange for an hour before ultimately plunging our side of the world into darkness. everybody else's houses slowly got darker inside except for the neighbor two houses down, their generator humming in the quiet afternoon. we've always had an affinity for rooftops; something about being a little far from the rest of the world but not quite inaccessible. we had another rooftop on the other side of the city, a wide slab roof on the top of a steep staircase. i've climbed those steps half-drunk to join you on the roof to stargaze, dreaming of barbecue nights and sleepovers that never happened. we haven't been there in five years.
II. this house always felt like it was built extension upon extension upon extension. this time, one of us walked us through the sections he would've designed differently. we've watched a horror movie here once, cramming nearly a dozen people into the living room as we did in the car on our way here. we hung out in the bottom floor bedroom, jammed songs as practice for a performance at first before inevitably doing it for leisure, clowned boys for their stupid actions and cried from laughing afterwards. the bedroom has since moved upstairs, tucked in a quiet corner of the second floor. it's a less cluttered room with only half the things, no more posters; only half the books, no more instruments. it's a desk with a minimal set up, a TV playing white chicks, a soft carpet, and a bed.
III. same people, different rooms, years apart. same topics, different perspectives, circles apart. updates on people we once knew, then on people we were getting to know. offloading heartaches that bothered us, then the giddiness of infatuations. the feeling is the same even when so much has changed. we talked lives, relationships, people, places, and careers—all of which we talked about before but with less certainty as we do now. in a blink, we've grown into adults now, but i still remember walking the street down our school to get ice cream after a tough quiz. how is it that we barely noticed we're closer to knowing each other for a decade now than being newly acquainted?
IV. we were supposed to head home about an hour ago but i don't think neither of us want to leave. green day plays the perfect farewell song on the speaker as the clock strikes 9, but we miss the window to make our exit. instead, we spend the last hour perusing through a memory box filled with old photos and memorabilia. then, discontent with reminiscing, we go digital and browse camera roll backup files on the computer. glimpses of the foundation of our 7-year friendship lied waiting—youthful faces, boisterous laughter, jokes that no longer made sense. the best of our 7 years, tucked away into folders sectioned by months—saving only the most important bits.
V. then as he continued to browse, gone were the pictures of us. a new set of faces, a different city, scrolls upon scrolls of academic notes. he is leaving again tomorrow. it's not the first time, but i still remembered when it first happened. i remembered each pre-departure meet up i went to until i grew numb. we'll get used to the separations but the melancholy that follows will never get easier to navigate. messages will be sent back and forth for a while before the group chat goes quiet again as we slot back into our lives. i'm dreading one more goodbye, but we've both pre-emptively grieved. this time, i'll be the one to do the bidding farewell, leaving the last of us behind to follow into the busier world of the capital region. and i guess i'll meet the rest of us there, battling the bouts of homesickness on a baywalk overlooking the cityscape, waiting for the next chance to be young again when we get back home.
excerpt. “i loved her hard and at a distance, which made it easier to do, experienced brief but powerful compulsions to hug her and almost never did.” - our wives under the sea, julia armfield.
pairings. mark lee x gender-neutral reader, (slight) na jaemin x gender-neutral reader
genre. angst, slight fluff, best friends!au, one-sided pining
warnings. swearing. mark is so...whipped...it’s almost pathetic.
word count. 4.6k
soundtrack. drunk text - henry moodie
notes. i haven’t written much this year and if i did get around to writing, it was either self-indulgent (read as written to appease my delusions) or nothing good. | taglist. @mosviqu @by-moonflower @lovesuhng @emvrd
Your name was but a whisper in the wind; minute against the rustling of crisp dry leaves as the breeze picked up and blew down the sidewalk, but he spoke it loud enough to be heard over the distant bustling of the city night, half a world away from where they were.
“______,” he called out, the name spilling out of his mouth long before he could think of what to say afterwards. The impulse trigger had left him, just as suddenly as it came and by the time his mind had caught up, she’d already stopped and turned to him.
“What?” Your eyes met his and all the words he’d bottled up inside him fizzled up right when he needed them most.
“Leaving?” Mark watched as a blur crossed the room, moving past him on the way somewhere he—in his sorry state of insobriety—couldn’t quite figure out just yet. The blur is you, on your merry way to take the unconventional route to the kitchen to fetch more drinks or heading for the backyard to take a dip in the pool.
Or leaving, because you stop by the doorway, picking up the sneakers you came in with as you bid you goodbyes to the others around you. “Already?”
The room Mark was in was a clockless one and with his phone dead, he had no way of knowing how late the night had gotten. Was it late enough to warrant heading home or just another one of the days you were up for hanging out until you weren’t? Either way, he still pushed himself off the couch, anticipating the nauseating world-spin that came with the sudden jerk of motion and waited for it to pass. Then he was fine—the world stilling momentarily—and he’s saying his ‘goodbye’s and ‘see you next time’s until he was out the door.
You hadn’t gotten that far yet, less than a house away when he stumbled down the front porch steps and trampled the front lawns of the Lees. He was debating calling out to you to wait when he noticed you slowed your steps to match his, waiting until you walked side by side on the sidewalk.
He wasn’t sure how far down on the way home his thoughts shifted from keeping his walking straight to the rabbit hole he’d fallen into. Ever since the seed sprouted in the depths of his mind, he never was able to get away from it—tangled in its grasp and dragged down every time he was reminded of it. It was hard not to think of it when he saw you almost everyday, your image ingrained into his eyelids with the permanence of all those years of friendship.
Tonight, the thoughts loomed just beyond the horizon; from the moment you ran out the front door waving to your parents by the doorway, to the bus ride you spent standing together and trying their best not to fall over, to enjoying the party all the while looking out for where the other had gone.
It was always like this between you, a seemingly mismatched compatibility outlasting the average lifetime of a pair with a dynamic like theirs. People like you grew into something more or diminished into nothing, unable to withstand the test of time. Not you, though. Your friendship mirrored the way the tides shifted through the months, reaching far into the shore only to pull far back later on. He was the static sand of the shoreline and you were the tide, moving with the push and pull of lunar gravity; growing closer to each other until you overlapped then backing away but never entirely apart. Nothing more, nothing less and Mark was content with that.
Until one night—mid-summer—in a drunken haze he wondered if it would be wrong to want something more than just this and nothing had been able to quell the thought ever since.
It spread through his mind like a plague, an obsessive fascination of this possibility happening because it wasn’t off the table. They might work. And he would think of what it would be like to call you more than just a friend, to hold you closer than their current unsaid boundaries allowed, to feel your warmth against his—chest to chest with your hearts beating in sync.
The thoughts led him here, verbalized in the form of your name for the first time since its inception in the recesses of his mind.
You were still looking at him, arms finding their ways back to your side after pretending to keep your balance on levelled ground. It took one glance at your face, your curiosity warping into impatience, for him to remember what he was really up against. Every con listed itself in bullets in his mind, matching up against his established list of delusion-fuelled pros. What if you didn’t feel the same way? He’d thought about it before. People have taken bullets to the chest and lived to tell the tale, so why couldn’t he? But he knows it wasn’t just about the ache of the potential rejection, it was about every ripple and repercussion following the confession because...
What if he lost her?
And somehow that was enough to snap him out of the deluded trance, every inch of mustered courage dwindling as he weighed the possibilities—his losses always heavier than the probable benefits. Certainties, such as your being a part of his life, would remain as such until factors that could potentially affect it would surface, and uncertainties will, well, remain uncertain until further evidence would prove it closer to certainty than the former.
So, Mark shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Just be careful.” It was a stupid excuse but he knew you’d never look into it more than the fact that a man just tried to dictate your actions.
“How about you be careful and start minding your own business?” you answered, keeping a feisty fit until you broke into a laugh, filling the air of the silent evening. When he didn’t laugh along with you, you stuck out your tongue, leaping onto the next square on the pattern across the sidewalk with your arms stretched out.
You were right though. Between you and him, he had more chances of falling over even if he wasn’t hopping around. And if that happened, he’d be more than happy to lie there gazing at the semi-starry night sky—the road not taken lingering as a daydream in his mind.
In the same way recent thoughts sometimes slip into dreams in the form of ridiculous symbolism, anything the senses pick up in sleep have the chance of transcending reality and making itself known in dreams in some wild interpretation the mind comes up with unconsciously. In Mark’s case, it was the crescendo of banging on his bedroom door that intruded the peace of his slumber and turned its peaceful air into a full-blown apocalyptic nightmare.
In the dream, he was making his way down the sidewalk of a busy highway, still in a filler part of his dream. He had no recollection of where he was or how he got there, just that he was headed somewhere and that events would pick up from there. Unfortunately for him, he won’t be asleep long enough to find out what awaited him.
The first of the crashes was faint, loud enough to draw his attention but far enough to not worry him. It sounded like a bomb exploding from underground, muffled but powerful. and as his mind registered the connections he made, the second boom came—louder and closer now—shaking the ground where he stood.
Fear surged through his system, adrenaline pumping into his veins as he broke into a sprint. Then the crashes came first, as if seemingly sensing his fear and coming for him. There was a third, a fourth, and a fifth, all barrelling closer and closer towards him until one detonated behind him, finally knocking him out.
Mark Lee woke up with a start. He's alive, breathless right on his first waking minute. A thin layer of sweat glazed the skin of his upper torso, the dream vivid enough to leave remnants in reality. He turned to his side, reaching over to his bedside table when he heard it, the same loud crash that killed him in his dreams and it was right outside his door. He sat up, startled, slowly realizing that it wasn’t a bomb but knocking loud enough that it might as well be.
“I'll be down in 10, mom!”
Bthe knocking persisted. what it diminished in volume it made up for in its frequency, coming in half-beats.
He groaned, throwing the covers off of him to walk over to the door. “I said I’ll be there in 10!”
The door swung open. It wasn’t his mom knocking dents into the wood.
“Happy birthday!” The candle goes out with a concentrated exhale, a thin line of smoke being only its remnant that it was ever lit up.
The cake was simple; store-bought chocolate with a Happy Birthday, Mark! scribbled in red icing, held up by someone who looked up at him expectantly. What were you expecting?
“Oh shit, sorry.” Mark fought the urge to laugh at your little fuck up, leaning against the doorway as you fumbled your pocket for the lighter. You found it eventually, striking it twice until a steady flame relit the candle. “Happy birthday, Mark! Make a wish,” you greeted again, holding the cake out further from your face and closer to Mark’s.
He doesn’t tell you that his wish had already been granted. “Thank you,” he took the cake from your palm, killing the candle’s light a second time. “You really woke up early for this?”
“I did,” you answered, hands on your waist like a superhero; proud. Mark could tell from the shadows beneath your eyes that you’d probably forgotten the date and panicked the second you realized it was his birthday, bought the cake right as the bakery was closing and somehow forgot to bring a lighter on your way here.
But there was always plus points for effort.
He could feel the corners of his mouth twitch up, the telltales of a smile making its way to his face no matter how hard he tried to keep it down. “Thank you, ______.”
He’d done this a hundred times before but this one felt different. Pulling you closer, he wrapped you in a half-embrace to which you melted into. Your own arms curled languidly around his frame, slowly enclosing him in your own squeeze. Pressed chest to chest, he was conscious of every muscle twitch. He felt as if his arms would lock and keep you there, where his lips could brush your temple if you wanted him to, where your perfume was too strong it was all he could inhale.
“You’re old.” You mumbled and he felt the vibrations on his chest as you spoke.
“Your birthday’s in a few weeks too, idiot.” Did you feel it in your chest too?
He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself, the moment too fragile in his hands. So he left it in yours even when he knew you’d be quick to drop it, pulling away from him right before he could beg you to stay a little longer.
You stood at a fair distance away from him again. “Get changed and come down. Breakfast’s ready.”
Breakfast was omelettes and a mug of coffee. Before him were two plates of the same meal, one more overcooked than the other. It was easy to point out but he opted to keep his mouth shut, glancing over at you.
“Go on, try it!” you said, beaming at him with an air of confidence.
So he does, slicing a portion with his fork before shoving it into his mouth. Surprisingly, it’s better than he expected it to be, but judging from the few too many egg shells on the kitchen counter, it took a few tries. “Good, but not as good as my mom’s.”
His mom’s hearty laughter filled the room, warmth spreading where the sunlight couldn’t reach. “You’ll get the hang of it someday, _____.”
It wasn’t the first time you tried it but this was the closest you’d ever gotten to getting it right. Across all his birthdays and the mornings you dropped by, this was the first time you didn’t burn the eggs completely. Just slightly, just enough for Mark to notice the difference. But his mom had the edge, what was 20-something consecutive years of practice to several tries months apart?
The rest of breakfast is spent in small talk, filling in the gaps between the last time they’d been huddled together and today. Mark spent most of his time listening, the information exchanged no longer anything new. But he’d speak in the silences, when his mother attended to other things or when you had your head down, smiling at something but telling him nothing when he asked.
Oh. That.
Mark knew for a while now, he was just waiting for you to admit it. The gradual shift was subtle but enough for him to notice; this wasn’t the first time this had happened, the last time being a lifetime ago. Shortened, occasional replies and half-distracted responses meant you were hiding something or budgeting time across people and failing to keep up. He would know, because he’d done it before. But unlike you, his temporary fixes proved to be temporary and he’d somehow find his way back, retracing his steps and ending up on your doorstep with a story of a lifetime you’d be willing to hear out on the front porch. But he was rarely on the receiving end of these stories, never the one to keep the friendship alive despite the growing distance.
He first noticed it on a weeknight mid-semester, when he was staying up late to finish something. He camped in a server with a bot playing music in the background when he heard the ding, an intruder entering his safe space, but it’s you so he doesn’t bother. It’s half-past 3AM and,
“You never sleep do you?” you asked.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked.
Mark answered work and you answered nothing. Nothing was an avenue for a lot of things, just not something you wanted to say out loud. Just not something you wanted to say to him.
Your camera blinked on, the same old familiar face greeting him—the dim light of your laptop screen reflecting on your skin. The pixels that made up your eyes stared back at him, which meant you were staring at the black orb of your camera just to look at him directly. Then you turned away, laughing.
“Something funny about my face?”
He expected some sarcastic reply. But you only shook your head, looking elsewhere. He could hear the keys clicking as you typed, your eyes scanning across the screen that, as Mark realized, isn’t just composed of him.
“Are you talking to someone?” Mark asked, even if he wouldn’t like either response. No, I’m not talking to someone—a blatant lie. Yes, I’m talking to someone—the truth he didn’t want to hear. But he asked anyway, getting a firm answer would be better than mere speculation. He just didn’t get why the thought of it stung.
On his screen, you cocked your head, your heads now side by side as if they were leaning against each other. At least, that was how it was on his end. He noticed your lips, the way the edges curled when you fought hard not to smile. Mark heard about Na Jaemin for the first time that night.
Mark got out of his shift a little past midnight, bursting out the door in a frantic rush straight into the empty streets of the city. His mind had been locked onto one thing since he got the voicemail: to get to the pub as soon as he could. Hi Mark, your best friend’s voice came through the speaker. I know you’re working, But could you pick _____ up after your shift? I would drive them home but I came with Jeno and I don't think they’re in the right state of mind to be riding a motorcycle right now so... The line goes silent for a while, the talking distant before he overhears ‘Is _____ here? Are they ok?’. I know, I’m sorry, it’s so late. You don’t have to do it, I’ll just call up their dad.
No, he replied, not even thinking of how he’ll get there. I'll come get them. Because they both knew calling your dad was the last of all last resorts. Your best friend replied with an okay and an address that was on the other side of the city.
Mark walked into an unforgiving downpour, raindrops thick enough to blur the rest of the avenue. His jacket wasn’t enough to shield him from it, the thick denim soaking in not even seconds in. It offered some form of protection but it wasn’t a coat nor an umbrella and the closest bus stop was still a block away. He dashed head first into the pouring rain, down the sidewalk and across the street, straight into the bus shed.
The few people who rode the bus along with him cast glances of disgust, keeping an unrespectful distance away from him as if the rainwater that drenched him was some vile toxic liquid. He stood the whole way, not wanting to dampen dry bus seats and risk getting ejected off the bus. His bus card was declined thrice and he ended up paying in cash before hopping off, only to find himself on the wrong street. His phone shut down somewhere along the way and he spent a few minutes walking in the wrong direction before he eventually turned around and found the pub.
For a pub, it wasn’t crowded enough for him to get more lost than he already had been. In fact, it was relatively empty. He spotted familiar faces close to the back, Jeno specifically who had a beer can in hand—ready to offer it to him. They welcomed him as he approached, asking where he was, why he only arrived now and why the fuck he was drenched. He ignored everyone, though he would soon regret not taking the can of beer from Jeno’s hand. “Where’s ______?” he asked.
“Mark, you’re here!” Your best friend came up from behind him, eyes running over his figure. “Oh my God, what happened? Didn’t you get my text?”
Mark fished his phone out of his pocket, showing the black screen and the useless effort of trying to turn it back on. Whether it was drained or drenched beyond repair, he wasn’t sure.
Your best friend chewed the inside of their cheeks before speaking. “_____’s fine now,” they said and he noted the hesitance in their tone, as if they knew something he didn’t. After a quick sigh she resigned and continued, “Jaemin came. They’re still here, I think, down the hall by the comfort rooms.”
He wished your best friend didn’t notice when his expression hardened from worry to a stoicism meant to keep his emotions in check. But their lingered, pity and concern dancing across the glossy surface of their eyes. He thanks them as he excused himself, thanking them a second time for saying the truth instead of shielding him from the truth he’d uncover on his own eventually.
A cue stick hits a cue ball, scattering the multi-colored balls across the table. The crowd erupts into cheers, the music playing in the background drowned out by the amused laughter. It’s a lucky shot because a few make it into the holes, the player earns another opportunity to strike. One of their friends called him over and he glanced, suddenly torn between stalling or confronting what was waiting for him.
He holds a hand up, opting to come back for them later. He'd need the distraction, anyway. The short walk to the bathroom ends at the mouth of another hallway, a narrow one that led to the lavatory and the comfort room doors that stood side by side to each other.
You sat with your back against the wall, somewhere at the end of the hallway. And across you sat Jaemin, cross-legged on the same floor, mirroring the way you were curled up against the corner because it made you laugh. Mark feels like he’s interrupting something, feels that his presence—though not yet acknowledged—was not welcome in their little space.
“_____?”
Jaemin is the first to look over, dark eyes bearing down on Mark’s. and though the man was seated on the floor, Mark suddenly felt small. When he searched the blonde’s face for a sign of hostility, he found nothing but mere indifference, nothing beyond how someone would treat a stranger. Jaemin leans forward, closing the distance between you. Only then do you glance over at Mark—head spinning instantly, eyes wide like a doe in headlights. You always moved that way when the alcohol overtook your system. Where others found their actions dulled, yours became sharper. Mark found it comforting that you weren’t too far gone yet to lose the snappy movements.
The blonde man rose up to his full height and they finally saw each other eye to eye. Then he turned to reach a hand to you to help you pull yourself up with a firm grip on the other man’s wrist.
In that moment, Mark slipped out of the hallway and into the recesses of his mind, revisiting the last time he’d seen you—that night in his room, the altercation. He remembers the way you beamed at him when you walked in, the brightness of your presence permeating the thick air of his room. Whatever reasons he had, he could no longer remember. Why was he that irritable that day? At what point could he no longer bear to listen to you? And why did he have to say what he did?
You talked about your day, at first, and just like every conversation since you introduced Jaemin, the topic inevitably steered to him. How you went from passing glances at each other, to exchanging socials, to talking all night, to hanging out in person—and Mark listened on for the justification as to why his own messages had gone unanswered for longer periods until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
He shouldn’t have scoffed but he did. “Are you even sure that he likes you?” he said, cutting you off as you spoke. He regrets it the second it rendered you silent. You didn’t look hurt, no, it was disappointment and the weight of your gaze that made the guilt surge within him.
“_____,” he tried but you were already slipping off the bed, passing behind him as you picked up your things and slamming the door without even looking back. He should’ve stood up right then, ran after you before you could leave the house and apologize. Say that he didn’t mean it that way, say that he didn’t mean it at all. But he just sat there, his guilt gobbling him whole and his pride keeping him rooted there.
Like clockwork, he eventually apologized and you eventually told him it was fine, even when it wasn’t for the sake of dismissing it. Nothing was the same ever since; the rift evident, as if you hadn’t drifted far enough already.
But there were times like this when pride was an easy thing to overlook. You had done it for him once or twice before. He recalled running late one too many times for a class you had together; and you, despite not being on speaking terms with him, took the blame for it. And your friendship was always fixed that way, non-verbal ways, as if to prove that actions spoke louder than words if they failed.
“What the fuck happened, Mark?” you asked, slurring through your words before bursting out in laughter.
Mark raised an eyebrow, “What the fuck happened to me? What the fuck happened to you?” he watched as you stumbled over, wobbly as you stepped.
Behind you, Jaemin leans to mumble something in your ear. Something about letting him know if you were ready to leave. Mark didn’t mean to eavesdrop on it, nor could he help butting in.
“It’s fine,” he says, to the blonde’s surprise and his own. “I’ll take her home. Sorry for bothering you.”
“Not a bother at all,” Jaemin replied. “I don’t mind. I’ll take her home. Besides, it’s raining. Glad I brought the car instead.”
And Mark debates whether it would be worth sparking an argument with the man. Didn’t he know that the rain had stopped? Maybe he would’ve known if he wasn’t busy flirting in a pub bathroom. And did he really have to shove it in his face that he had a ride after seeing him drenched?
But Mark noticed you looking and he bites his tongue. You were no longer looking over with eyes glinting with both worry and amusement at the same time. You looked at him imploringly, as if begging for him to take the hint. If he was honest, Mark didn’t want to. And it wasn’t because he tread through a storm just to get here but because it was an opportunity to make things up to you, to finally apologize and break the ice. But it seemed you were taking apologies in other ways today and it didn’t necessarily involve him.
Mark sighed and hoped that his voice wouldn’t betray him as he spoke. “Alright, be careful both of you. Her dad’s kinda strict.” He even mustered up the courage to wink at the blonde man.
Jaemin chuckled lightly and he watched as your face flared up in a blush. Mark stepped aside to let the pair pass, looking away when he noticed the blonde resting an arm over your shoulders—like he used to. But he sees you through the mirror hanging over the lavatory and that’s how he noticed that you looked over a final time. Your eyes met on the glass and for the first time since your little quarrel. You looked at him warmly; he missed this. You mouthed a little thank you before you turned back, walking away and disappearing into the main room.
By the time Mark joined the others, you had long left the place for a night out on your own. Everyone knew better than to bring it up. Beer bottles were passed, along with cue sticks and unlit cigarettes. He hoped the alcohol would dampen out how he felt even just for that night.
They were at the pub until it closed in the early AM, saying their goodbyes when they were out on the street. Mark’s house was far from everyone else’s, close only to yours, but because you were no longer around, he ended up alone. He would’ve sent you a text to ask if you got home safely, to tell you that he walked all the way home again, to say what he’d been meaning to say for years now. Good thing his phone was dead long before he could do so.
description. in which you plunged face first into the horrors of a world left abandoned for three centuries in search of your only friend, na jaemin, wondering how you’d fare in a world where the species perched on top of the food chain were no longer human.
pairings. na jaemin x gender-neutral reader
genre. angst, post-apocalyptic!au, dystopian!au, childhood friends!au, best friends!au
warnings. mentions of bullying, mentions of injuries, graphic descriptions of violence, character death(s), swearing, non-sexual nudity, mutual pining, mentions of loss of weight and gradual decline of health. reader’s discretion is heavily advised.
word count. 30k
playlist. no longer human.
notes. this is long overdue and i'm really sorry. this was just hard to tackle alongside a freaking law subject i had a million readings for. belated happy birthday, new year, and valentine's, allex! good luck with school and your 348209382 orgs! ily :] @hannie-dul-set | taglist: @baekybaeky @jccv @taem-min @doiefy @tyongishs @rae-blogging @cavaree
From the window of the space shuttle, the Earth seemed so minuscule in the emptiness of space. The black void stretched as far as the eye could see, littered with bits of stardust and clumps of gas that shimmered in the distance. In the center of it all was the blue sphere your species once inhabited and it was the only touch of vibrant color for light years.
You found it hard to believe that something so vibrantly blue existed naturally in space, let alone at a distance that wasn’t unreachable. The swirls on its surface made it look like the marbles the other kids rolled on the floors during recess. But again, natural. It made you think about bigger beings; did they ever look down and view the Earth and the moon as nothing but mere marbles?
At times like this, you liked the unknown better than the things you already knew. The unknown wouldn’t tell you that you weren’t cut out for the job no matter how hard you tried. They’d never tell you that you weren’t good enough.
The hallways of the space shuttle were quiet now, free of the chatter and laughter of the other kids who were in the same training room you were in half an hour ago. You had the hall and the bench with the enormous window all to yourself. But you were just as alone with the view as you were with your thoughts.
You tore your eyes away from the void, looking down at arms you could still surprisingly use. Both were coiled with bandages, one ran up to your wrist while the other coiled even your fingertips. Your limbs felt sore all of the time from overuse, dull pains shooting through your system whenever you stretched too far or too sudden. Sometimes the skin beneath the paper stung, other times they itched uncontrollably. Both were tell tales of the wounds that lay beneath, sometimes fresh and others healing. Either way, you couldn’t win. None of those were considered valid excuses from the training that caused them in the first place. Today, you walked out with a slash on the last spot on your left hand that was left uncovered.
Masking your disappointment was hard when you saw your name below the red line that separated the excellent kids from the bad ones. You were only above the line for a few weeks then you were sent back down to what they called your rightful place. The other kids celebrated maintaining spots, some others were vocal about their gratefulness that they weren’t you.
Perhaps you weren’t cut out to be a fighter and you did make the worst mistake of your life when you signed up for it a few months ago. Combat training, weapon wielding and gun firing looked more interesting than having to sit in a class for hours on end every single day. But books didn’t break bones, nor did they give you bruises.
“There you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
A brown-haired boy popped out of the end of the hallway. A sparring helmet was clipped between his arms and he was dressed in the same pair of white clothes every trainee wore, a plain t-shirt and track pants. Except his shirt wasn’t stained with crimson spots from bleeding palms.
Na Jaemin was at the opposite end of the spectrum and he was good at everything you weren’t. He was a naturally gifted fighter; fast reflexes, high stamina, and strength that could knock out people much larger than he was. Rumors had it that his parents might’ve been part of the prior troops that were sent to scout the Earth and he was right where he was destined to be, while you were fighting to fit into a puzzle that you weren’t sure you were even a part of.
Envy was hard to fight off whenever you were with Jaemin. He had everything you wanted to achieve in the months that you’ve spent in training but you could never bring yourself to turn your back on him. And even when you did, he always came back. Jaemin was your only friend aboard the shuttle. Unlike the others, he never scowled whenever you were grouped into his team. Whenever your name was announced and you were sent to his team, he’d be the only one applauding while the others would beg him to swap you with someone better—someone who was an asset to the team rather than a burden.
Jaemin easily befriended everyone. He could’ve chosen to eat anywhere at the cafeteria and he’d be welcomed with open arms. Being at the top of the ranks, people either flocked to him in admiration or made it seem like until his back was turned.
“Move a bit, will you?” he said and you scooted, leaving a space on the bench for him to sit on.
He sat on the edge of the bench, placing the first aid kit he had been carrying in the space between you. It popped open with a light press. The aluminum lid split into two and the plates slid apart, revealing the supplies inside, before retreating to either side of the kit. You’ve been injured a hundred times over the past few months, yet the mechanism of the kit has always intrigued you.
“Hand,” Jaemin demanded. You’ve protested numerous enough to know that it was useless to refuse his aid. He insisted and insisted until you eventually gave in just so he would shut up. Now, you saved him the effort and willingly gave him your hand.
Jaemin turned to one of the shuttle chutes. They were like vending machines but they dispensed items from a central storage room somewhere in the ship. Unlike their ancestors, they offered a wide variety of items. Food, drinks, office supplies, medical kit needs, and the like. Jaemin tapped one of the buttons and in seconds, a bottle of water shot out of the chute and into his hand.
He caught it before it could land on the ground with a loud clatter. He poured a bit onto your hand, washing away the blood around the wound. Thankfully, it was no longer bleeding. Pulling a bandage out of the kit, he began to wrap your hand in it. Gentle and done in no time.
Prying eyes often wandered over to your direction whenever they passed. Apparently, the friendship between the top fighter and the weakest link earned a few curious onlookers and eavesdroppers. Rumors spread like wildfire on the shuttle; some said you were dating, others said you were holding him against his will. All the other twelve year olds knew to do was talk nonsense, they never knew how to mind their own business.
The talks often got to you. Most times you purposely avoided Jaemin just so the talks would die down. They never did, the Shuttle thrived in gossip. It would spark more and more rumors until you were ultimately back at Jaemin’s side, letting him convince you that they’re all bark and no bite. For the most part, he was right. When he wasn’t looking, it was a whole different story.
He had a fair share of admirers, all waiting to sink their teeth into your skin at the next opportunity. Being one of the weaker ones in your batch, you were an easy target and the training system gave them an upperhand all of the time. The higher you were on the list, the more respected you were; the lower you were, just prepare for the worst.
They were ruthless fighters whenever it came to you. They kicked your ankles with boot-clad feet and cut your skin with the sharpest of swiss-army knives, excusing the abuse as a part of training even when they were clearly taking out their anger on you.
It might’ve escaped the trainer’s notice, but it didn’t escape Jaemin’s. Feeling guilty that you suffered at his expense, he’d spent his post-training hours nursing your injuries and patching up wounds, pressing cool compresses on your bruises and making sure that you slept comfortably afterwards. On days that you weren’t too battered, Jaemin dragged you back into the training rooms.
The trainers never taught you how to fight, they only coached you during ring fights whenever you were too busy getting beat up to acknowledge what they were saying. Your only take away from the drills they put you through was the stronger body that came with the harsh exercises.
Jaemin shared the secrets to his success and by the end of the month you thought he might as well be a trainer himself. He gave you extensive drills he’d found on the internet. Not only were they more effective than the ones they forced you to do for hours on end, but they were also more practical. You spent hours training together in the dim training rooms and other times you’d practice stealth for fun in the paintball rooms. Jaemin always won but every time you survived longer without getting caught, he celebrated with you. He taught you the secrets behind the perfect way to land a headshot.
As the days flew past, you got stronger and you slowly rose from the lower ranks until you no longer had to worry about your name being under the red line during monthly evaluations. As you rose, Jaemin rose higher.
In your fourth year as trainees, he was granted permission to cross space—among the youngest of all time to be deployed to Earth. You were both sixteen then and awaiting your awards as trainees. You were among the top 50 trainees, Jaemin had remained on top consistently for the past four years. Even among the troops, he easily stood out. On the expeditions to expand the domes he often covered the most land, be it with a team or on his own. He rose up the ranks like a mad man, putting longer troops to shame with how quickly he was promoted. It must’ve hurt other people’s pride to call a younger man a captain.
His visits home were few and far between. Of course, he tried his best to keep in touch and he always looked for you first whenever he came home but there was the inevitable shift of two people no longer being on the same plane. You understood it anyway; Earth was where he was destined to be, back on the frontline to reclaim the lands that once belonged to the humans. Jaemin was the best man to lead quests into the Wastelands and a member of the Elites—the top trainees back in the shuttle. He spent more time at the dome setup on the land that was once called South Korea, one of the few oases that have been set up on Earth.
Jaemin was the youngest of his rank, labelled captain of the Elites, the best troop of your generation. Of all the people you expected to go missing on an expedition, he was the last person on your list.
The Shuttle’s main hall had only grown more crowded with every gathering. The air buzzed with the chatter of hundreds of trainees all gathered into one enormous room. The hall spanned an entire floor, the sole place where everyone could be gathered without tipping the balance of the ship.
Today was Judgment day, the day of the month when the fate of trainees young and old were decided. Whether you were stuck for another thirty days in space or ready to be deployed to Earth was up to the higher-ups ‘unbiased’ judgment. You’ve been in troop training long enough to recognize the looks on everyone’s faces. Some looked just as they did, unfazed by the unchanged rank, while others had their shoulders slumped in defeat. Deployment announcements came directly after the weekly ranking, anyone who dreamed of being deployed had to be above the red line. From what you saw, someone didn’t quite make the cut. Having been in their shoes, you almost felt sorry.
The double doors at the back of the room opened and a silence veiled the room, leaving a hush so quiet in its wake you could hear a pin drop. You didn’t need to see who they were. There were only so many people in the Shuttle that could quiet everyone like that. Younger kids straightened their stances, others who’ve trained long enough only raised their hands in flimsy salute. The three men walked a straight line down the center of the hall, parting the sea of people the way Moses did the water from that story thousands of years ago.
Commander Suh climbed up the platform, the other two soldiers flanking him. He adjusted the microphone on the podium before he took a good look at his audience. He held a hand up in salute which the crowd returned, greetings roared by pliant soldiers still hoping for a chance to be deployed. Hope for you has fizzled out long ago, the dream to see the Earth dimming with every month that passed. These days, you spent your days convincing yourself that life as a trainer on the Shuttle wasn’t too bad.
Feedback echoed through the speaker making you wince. Commander Suh tapped the mic twice before speaking. “Good day, troops. This month, there will be no new units to be deployed,” he cleared his throat. “The replenishment unit members have not been picked based off of the troop ranking but were rather hand-picked by the commanders in charge back on land.”
Where mutters should’ve broken out, there was only silence. News of units unable to come back wasn’t uncommon. In fact, it was more rare for troops to be deployed in a brand new unit rather than to be deployed to fill in spots. The creatures outside the dome were feral, rabid, a bite away from turning you into something like them. Thinking about them made you shudder, the ultimatum that your life in training ends in coming face to face with terrifying creatures making the Shuttle life seem like paradise. Snap out of it, you told yourself, shaking your head to rid your mind of the images of the yasaeng.
Suh’s voice broke through the thick wall of your thoughts. “Half of Unit Zero have been reported missing Wednesday, Week 23.”
Zero. Gasps escaped the mouths of troops in the crowd but they weren’t hushed by others, just as you piece together the information in your mind. The cream of the crop soldiers, the military’s pride and joy, the famous Elite unit did not return. In all four years of training, no member of the Elite unit has ever been reported missing. The only time members stopped coming were when they were promoted to higher positions in the military like Suh.
The Elites always paraded back after months away, all eight of them clad in the special uniforms that made them distinguishable. Up front, you recognized that one of the Elites stood alongside the commander. He had his head hung low, avoiding scrutiny and judgment from the other troops. He wasn’t Jaemin, so you prepared yourself for the worst.
“The members that have not returned are the following,” Suh read over their serial numbers. The numbers would’ve bored anyone to death but they were lucky numbers, memorized by most and almost prayed for like saint statues. 2319-0205, a scrawny boy who didn’t look his rank but proved himself worthy with his cleverness; 2319-1122, a feisty fighter who was rumored to have bought himself to the top; 2319-0724, second-in-command and the sole girl in the team; and 2316-0813, their ace—Jaemin. The last series of numbers replayed in your head and you see Jaemin again, holding up his ID card when he was first deployed. 2316-0813, Jaemin was missing.
Impossible. But with the gloom casting over the other Elite member’s face, you knew Commander Suh didn’t make a mistake reading the serial codes. Murmurs you couldn’t make out spread like wildfire through the hall with no one bothering to put it out. Some were wondering what could’ve crippled the best team, others were already excited to be slotted to take their place. You fell into the former like the other older trainees. The training center must’ve been unfazed with the announcement of deaths, others even rejoiced with the opportunity to be deployed as replenishment. But the Elites were supposed to be untouchable. If they were cut half in a blink, what chance at survival did other trainees have out there?
“Replenishment unit,” Suh’s voice thundered off the walls and the room fell silent once more. Focus didn’t come easy with the thought of Jaemin being lost gnawing at the back of your mind. “2321-0323, 2321-0606, and 2321-1130, at attention.”
You stepped out of your line in the formation, fighting the urge to turn your head and find your other companions. Everyone’s eyes turned to you, or brushed past you to look at the other two troops; furrowed eyebrows, worried gazes, poker faces. You didn’t let your curiosity get to you, too overwhelmed by the pace things were going. Keeping your gaze straight, you stared ahead, at the commander who called your attention and the soldiers glaring down at you.
“Proceed to Commander Lee’s office and await further instructions. Dismissed.”
“Sir! Yes, Sir!” The chant felt faint with only three people saying it. The silent hall didn’t help any better. You kept your eyes away from everyone else’s as you turned your heel and walked down the aisle. Two troops reached the door before you; both, you recognized, joined the training corps around the same time you did. You exchanged a glance and when you were all gathered at the exit, one of the boys brushed the sensor. The back door slid open and you marched out together, feeling numerous pairs of eyes boring holes into the back of your heads until the metal doors shut closed.
With most of the trainees still in the general hall, the rest of the Shuttle was quiet. The walkways seemed to narrow, like the white walls closed in around you—eyed down by everyone who passed by. Whether they were out of pity or envious, you didn’t look up enough to know. Your mind was elsewhere; already halfway across space wondering where on the ball of rock Jaemin could be. And why the replenishment team was made out of mere people ranked above the red line instead of the highest ranking troops.
Commander Lee’s office was on the highest level of the ship where the white walls turned into glass panes, revealing the black void of space. The level was off limits to trainees unless summoned by the higher ups. Jaemin frequented this floor so much he might as well have lived here.
Two guards stood guard by the doorway at the end of the hall. One of the boys stopped abruptly a few steps away, sending the other boy tailgating him into a stumble. You stopped in time, saving everyone from toppling over like a bunch of dominos in front of higher ranking officers.
The guards didn’t even bat an eye, locking all five of you in a stalemate staring contest.
“Well,” the boy upfront turned around abruptly, eyes bright as he looked at the both of you behind him. “We can’t just wait forever, can we?”
You agreed. The lack of violent reactions from the guards let you know that your arrival was expected but their silence meant your unit was meant to move first.
“Who was called up first?” you asked
“Me,” the other boy answered. “I’ll go ahead.”
606 stepped aside to let the shorter boy step forward, clicking his tongue. “What took you so long?” he remarked. A surge of panic rushed through you when 323 glared at the other boy. First day on the unit and there were conflicts already. But 606 laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “Take a joke, Renjun.”
You figured the two went way back. Only more acquainted people addressed each other by their real names. 323 ignored him, stepping where the sensor could detect him. The plates slid open and you caught a brief glance at the office. It looked like a golden vault with the sole touch of color being the table in the middle and the man who sat behind it. Then the doors clamped back shut.
Huang Renjun was an infamous trainee, a hothead whose emotions were both his strength and his weakness. He ran on fury like it was gasoline, fueled by deep hatred towards yasaeng and a master in holographic training sessions. But it was often his own fire that wore him out; turns out the biggest flames weren’t always the hardest to put out when he lacked something he couldn’t control. One element short, he switched from combat training to medical wielding both the gentleness of an aid and the strength of a soldier. 606, on the other hand, shared spots below the red line with you back when you first started. What Donghyuck lacked in physical capability, he made up for in brains. He was better known as a strategist during practice exhibitions, an ace in mind games and an asset to team infiltration drills.
But the replenishment unit still felt like a motley crew of who shouldn’t be in the Elite team. None of you were on the top ten list of troops; nothing but average trainees when there were others that could be more fit in the expedition. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, yes, but it didn’t feel like you deserved it.
When Renjun reappeared back in the hallway, a grim expression clouded his face. He didn’t look up when Donghyuck called him, nor did he say a word about what had happened inside. It was for you to find out on your own. At the end of the hallway, he turned the opposite way, to the elevator leading to the dormitories.
You reverted your gaze back to the menacing set of metal doors, wondering what secrets they kept behind them.
“I’ll get going,” Donghyuck said, smiling politely before heading in, leaving you alone with the company of two stoic guards standing post.
Their army green uniforms stood in contrast with the white suits troops were made to wear. The camouflage print stood out against the smokey greys and pristine whites of the ship, ironically against their initial purpose to help soldiers blend in. They weren’t soldiers stationed on the Shuttle, they were soldiers who were once deployed to Earth.
Your eyes darted over to the one you recognized, having seen his face around back when he was still a trainee. 423 stood unflinching, gaze focused down the hall without the slightest interest towards your presence. He was the second best in your batch, always a rank lower than Jaemin but wasn’t assigned to the Elite team until a year after Jaemin was. Being grouped with him was always a nightmare. He despised anything that hindered him from overtaking Jaemin’s rank, and he never hesitated in letting those nuisances know.
But tides have turned ever since he’d been deployed to the Wastelands. He came back unrecognizable; both physically and with the matter he treated everyone else. Humbled by the yasaeng, they called him, sparking a new fear across trainees that the monsters out there were terrifying enough to knock even the strongest off their high horses. You wondered what kind of talk the Elite unit’s vanishment would spark now? Would a portion of the trainees quit the way they did last time?
“What are you looking at?”
Blood rushed to your cheeks when you were called out, snapping back into focus. You felt the heat of embarrassment all over your face then the chill of nervousness that came whenever you heard 423 regard you. You’re stronger now, you reminded yourself, keeping your head up and forcing yourself not to hide back in your shell. You simply shook your head.
423 studied your face. It made you wonder if he remembered the words he said as much as you did. Then he cleared his throat, “If you want to ask about Jaemin, I don’t have the answers either.”
You glared up at him, doubtful. But his face held no smugness, unlike the 423 you’ve grown used to seeing in the training rooms before. Maybe it was true that the Wastelands changed him, yet for all you knew he might just be faking it. Right as you opened your mouth to speak, the doors slid open. Donghyuck stepped out, less agitated than Renjun was. He gestured for you to head in and you followed, forgetting your conversation with the soldier outside as soon as the door shut behind you.
Unlike the rest of the shuttle, the office wasn’t painted bright white. It had the original colors of the plates that made up the ship, the steel grey you could faintly remember way back when you first came aboard. It wasn’t a gold room, but gold lined the walls, reflecting on the plates making the room shine.
Commander Lee Taeyong raised his head when you walked closer. “Take a seat, 1130.”
You crossed the room, taking your place on the chair directly across his table. No matter how hard you resisted it, your eyes wandered over to the various papers that were littered across the glass of his desk. He flipped through each one with the precision of a robot, the showcase of a perfect Shuttle trainee. Skimming through the papers, you finally caught sight of the one that had your name in particular—the list of troops assigned for the replenishment unit.
“Commander.” It slipped out of your tongue before you could think to stop yourself. His fingers stiffen, seizing to shuffle the papers to spare you a glance. You swallowed. “Don’t you think there had been some kind of mistake, Sir. I can’t possibly be on that list.”
Lee sighed before he continued sorting through the files he had in hand, like he’d heard the same thing too many times before. “Oh, but you are,” he said. “The pod would be departing in 12 hours time. I hope that’d be enough time for you to pack up and say your goodbyes.”
He said it like you were headed on a one-way trip. In a way, he might be right. Whatever enthusiasm you had left for the expedition flowed down the drain at the realization, the harsh truth behind the excitement of finally setting foot on Earth.
“Sir, don’t you need the second-best troops out on the expedition?”
“I do,” Lee replied. “But the mission isn’t to expand the charted territories outside the dome. The Elites are too valuable to lose, hence we’re sending a rescue team to go fetch them.”
The commander slid a folder across the glass. Clipped onto its cover was a familiar face. Jaemin, but without the warm smile that often adorned his face. You flipped the cover open, reviewing the contents of the front page. It was a signed waiver dated back to earlier this year. You skimmed through the page until your eyes spotted a particular portion of the page that caught your eye.
“Don’t you think that the people with the driving forces strong enough to brave the Wastelands blindly would be the ones who suffered the greatest losses?”
You grimaced. The higher ups were vile in their ways but their ways were effective both in training and keeping their hands clean. Written at the bottom of the page was the person to be contacted if the signee ever went missing. In the space provided was your name, written in a penmanship you knew too well to mistake for someone else’s. The blame of being put in a suicide mission teeters between Jaemin and those who made him sign it.
You looked up at the commander who had his chin propped over clasped hands. “I can’t say no, can I?”
“Do you want to say no?”
The question hung in the air between you and your eyes trailed back to the piece of paper again. Stupid Jaemin, you thought. Your own conscience would never let you sleep a wink if you said no, it meant letting him down for what could be the last time. Your silence was enough for him to take the hint.
He let you sign your own waiver, inputting his name at the bottom where yours was in Jaemin’s file. If the mission fails, he bore the fault and you thought it was a good enough exchange. After inking your signature and sealing your fate, you left the room without sparing a glance. Now you know why Renjun looked grim when he left.
For someone who always dreamed of being deployed, you didn’t expect it to come so soon and under circumstances like these. It wasn’t half exciting as you thought it would be.
The whole walk back to the dorms was a drag, unbothered even with eyes following you down the hall. Before you knew it you were back in the solace of your dorm room and you didn’t know where to begin.
The tiny room, barely wide enough for you to stretch both arms without hitting the other wall or a cabinet, has been your home for as long as you could remember. White walls, white furniture, it was no different than the rest of the shuttle. But it had a tinge of color in the areas you touched. They never allowed vandalism but they stopped checking the dorms of older trainees. You allowed yourself a little free space, obscured from the view of anyone who would walk in unannounced—on the side of a cabinet near your desk. It had a few post-its with your favorite quotes and lyrics inked onto pastel sheets of paper, hung beside photographs you had developed a while back.
You were only allowed one enormous suitcase each. Another perk of coming home as a troop meant you were entitled to all the benefits heroes of the country had. The commander reassured you that there was absolutely no need to carry much clothes with you. New uniforms would be provided for you tomorrow before you left. And if you were successful with the expedition, you’d get enough monetary compensation to buy a whole wardrobe. Assuming you’d survive the Wastelands, anyway.
Still, you tossed a shirt or two in, one being the most comfy one you’ve ever worn; something Jaemin bought from one of the stores in the Oasis. You were never allowed to wear it out due to the obnoxious electric blue color so you kept it in the confines of your room. You realized that most of the unusual things you had in your room were from Jaemin, either trinkets from past adventures or peculiar things he discovered on the internet. Packing them for your trip to Earth would be undoing their purpose.
When you finished clearing up your desk area, you moved to your bed. Your eyes found the device that rested atop your side table. It was one of the things Jaemin bought from an antique store. The device was no larger than the size of your outstretched hand; a music player that required a disc to be mounted on to play anything. Your hand tapped the side of your side table, picking a CD out of the shelf. Queen, it said.
You pressed it on to the player and watched the disc spin as the music began to play. Ancient music from three hundred years ago, you somehow found it better than today’s synths. According to Internet history, everything’s been moved online since the Earth was abandoned. People flew to outer space with little to no physical belongings in a futile escape from the creatures taking over the lands that were once theirs. Everything became digital and technology only advanced further since then. Now, everything could be accessed with a snap of a finger, a swipe of a hand, a mere voice activation. Everything was virtual. But you liked not having instant access to things sometimes. In your case, it was with changing the track playing.
When Jaemin came home with the device after an expedition a few months back, you spent the entire night researching how it functioned. The player came with a bundle of CDs that could be played, others scratched out the music hiccuped. When you figured out how it worked, you danced to the tune of old songs in the cramped room and hit furniture every time you moved too much. A part of you thought what Jaemin would’ve brought with him this time if he made it home.
What if you brought something to him for a change? You just hoped he’d still be there to receive it.
The trip to Earth was limbo.
You were told that the Shuttle was always in constant movement as it stayed in an orbit between the Earth’s and the moon’s though it never felt like it. But now, strapped down to one of the seats inside the pod, you could feel your body being flattened against the leather. It was heavy enough to make you think a part of you was left behind thousands of miles away.
Earth still looked like a marble on the pod’s sole window, a vibrant splotch of color in the all black canvas, spreading every time you looked. The sun’s rays bounced off the sphere’s surface, glazing it with a layer of light that made it look like it glowed. 423 called it a trick of the eye, the Earth didn’t actually glow. To him, it was ridiculous. Maybe because he’d travelled countless times back and forth he’d come to hate the view.
Still, it was a sight to behold. Beneath the swirls of white and grey clumps of water vapor, the blueness you’ve only admired from afar was more vibrant now, fading into a darker blue around the edges away from view.
“The Earth is beautiful, isn’t it?”
You turned your head and saw Donghyuck who had his eyes glued to the view in front of you. You managed a nod and returned your gaze to the Earth. He was right, it really was beautiful. It was such a shame that the humans had to flee it all those years ago.
From your periphery you saw Renjun peek from behind the pocketbook he held up. “Shouldn’t it be ‘the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?’”
Donghyuck's soft smile contorted into a frown, leaning forward to look past you to eye the other boy. “Renjun, does that look like the moon to you?”
You snorted, biting your lip to keep the bubble of laughter at bay.
Renjun’s ears tinted and he hid behind the comfort of his pocketbook again. “Aren’t you trying one of your pick up lines again?”
“No, I’m merely pointing out that that planet looks amazing,” the other boy replied and the pod fell silent.
There were no extra people sent on the voyage to Earth; just you, the two others selected for the suicide mission and the Elite member meant to escort you—the guard outside Commander Lee’s office, another Lee you couldn’t catche the name of. The pod’s interior was no larger than a dorm. Up front was an enormous windshield with a concave control panel. On the other end of the pod was the couch that made up the other half, a concave of soft leather that had exactly four seat belt straps. A round table was rooted to the middle of the room and when you pushed the surface down, a mini-fridge popped out with snacks and drinks to last you the whole ride. If you weren’t heading towards imminent death, you would’ve thought it was luxurious and indulged in one of the snacks. But the occasional bumps the pod came across made you nauseous and the thought of the Wastelands and the creatures that dwelled there kicked out your appetite entirely.
Space travel had improved so much in the past thousand years that the voyage to Earth didn’t take as long as it used to. The moon could now be reached in half a day now as opposed to the previous three days and the travel time from the shuttle to the surface of the Earth was half of that, more or less but most of the time faster. The past few hours were spent in the quiet, each one attending to their own businesses. Renjun carried on reading, Donghyuck couldn’t keep still despite the belt strapping him down, and 423 picked the furthest spot to busy himself with his VR glasses.
“So, we’re nearing Earth. Can we do a little ‘introduce yourself’ to get acquainted?” Donghyuck’s proposal hung in the air and you exchanged glances, Renjun rolling his eyes. The proposer pursed his lips, “Like if we’re going to the Wastelands together, I’d be more comfortable if I knew the names of who might feed me to the yasaeng to save themselves. Wouldn’t you guys feel the same?”
Donghyuck turned to the boy sitting beside him..
“How ‘bout we start with you, Elite?”
423’s glasses retracted with a tap of his temple, splitting in the middle before folding on itself. The glasses disappeared behind his ear as if they were never even there. If you hadn’t looked closer, you wouldn’t have noticed the earpiece tucked behind his helix. His eyes came into view, glaring daggers at Donghyuck with irises so dark they almost looked black.
You thought he’d be the first to say no, but he swallowed and opened his mouth to speak. “2317-0423, Lee Jeno, Elite, First Lieutenant.”
The bitterness was hard to miss, his rank more a burden than something honorable. Did he feel like he didn’t deserve it? Was it because it was still a rank lower than Jaemin’s?
Jeno crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the leather couch. “Your turn, loud mouth.”
Donghyuck whistled, eyes wide from the snarky comment. “Didn’t need to be rude, Sir. I’m Lee Donghyuck, definitely not related to hot-head over here.” The Elite didn’t react. “I’m in search of seven!”
“Seven what?” you asked.
His eyes flickered for a sliver of a moment, the mere mention of a number capturing all stray thoughts. He opens his mouth, closes, then opens to say something else. “Nevermind. Proud to announce that I’m 2321-0606. How about you?”
Despite the odds that landed you here, it made you smile a bit. You were just as proud to finally change your code from just your date of birth to your date of deployment. Somewhere in the midst of your anxious thoughts, you forgot the bright sides of the situation. Your days as a trainee were over, at long last. It was hard to see the pros when the cons out-weighed them so much.
“I’m __________, 2321-1130. Not that glad to be here but I don’t have a choice, don’t I?” You bit the insides of your cheek as soon as you spoke. You didn’t mean to sound so pessimistic about the situation. Now, the pod slipped back into the uncomfortable silence it had when you first boarded. “That came out wrong, I’m sorry.”
Renjun slotted a paper between the pages of his book and set it down on the table. “Calm down, you were just speaking your truth. I’m Huang Renjun, 2321-0323. I’m just as upset about being here as you are.”
You smiled at him even when he didn’t. You found it funny that the people in the pod could possibly be the first and last people you would consider friends that weren’t Jaemin.
When you broke the upper layer of the Earth’s atmosphere, you all braced yourself for the pull downwards. Jeno mentioned that it could be different from the Shuttle’s gravity, a bit disorienting too. But you were holding up just fine as the pod made its descent.
The surface of the Earth stretched out before you in hues of brown and blue. Beneath you were the transparent plates of the dome that slowly opened as you got closer to its surface. The fall was slow and steady, barely noticeable even with the warping outside the window. Soon enough the window goes dark, the majestic view disappearing and replaced by a familiar shade of dull grey. You don’t notice when the pod finally stops moving.
“Where are we?” you inquired, turning to Jeno.
“Headquarters. The pods dock here when they arrive. We’ll be let out in a few.”
Before he could even finish his sentence, the door to the left popped open. Fizzing for a second as the air from the inside escaped through the miniature gap. A pair of men in uniform pulled the door open, taking a step back as an officer walked over to greet you.
“Greetings, Unit Zero. Welcome to Earth.”
Unit Zero. You felt like an impostor parading around with a mask that isn’t your own. It still had a ring to it, one that you couldn’t bear to carry.
All your safety belts popped off, the pod’s lights powering off along with its engine. Jeno was the first to stand, walking out the door without waiting for anyone to follow behind him. Donghyuck stood second, clutching onto the railing but managing.
It couldn’t be that hard, right? You bit back the thought as soon as you stood up. Earth’s gravity was a lot different than the Shuttle’s but you were trained to combat it for years. Still, it was your most hated activity. Having weights wrapped around your extremities and legs made it impossible to get drills done in the record time you were required to. At least you now learned the reason why it was necessary. Walking on Earth felt exactly like that but there were no weights, just an invisible force pulling you down to its source.
You followed the others out of the pod. The top floor of the so-called Headquarters wasn't much. Just the pod and its garage and a glass elevator at the opposite end of the room.
“To the elevator please,” Mark, as indicated on the nameplate pinned on his uniform, said.
You slowly filed into the elevator, squeezing into the tight space like a bunch of sardines in the tin cans you saw in photos. Mark came in last, tapping a few buttons on the control panel before putting her hands back to her side.
The elevator’s doors close and you begin your descent to the real world.
Suddenly, it was bright — you had to squint to slowly adjust to the light. The Oasis was like the cities you’ve seen on the internet. Skyscrapers of different heights appeared like spikes on the levelled terrain. Hover vehicles appeared like white ants mazing through the asphalt streets of New Seoul. Beyond, the sky was a vibrant shade of light blue, stretching as far as the eye could see as with its counterpart, the land. From here, you could see the end of the dome but you couldn’t see where the land ended.
The Headquarters building stood at a block equidistant from all edges of the dome. It was a historical building, one of the first man-made buildings after nearly three hundred years. It only grew taller and taller until it reached the last layer of the Earth’s atmosphere; puncturing a hole through the clouds.
The elevator ride was short and soon you disappeared into a building, the main Headquarters. People and AIs alike shuffled across the room, paying no attention to the glass elevator you were descending in. It resembled the Shuttle cafeterias but busier, bustling with all sorts of people — all with various destinations in mind. The elevator docked at the bottom floor and the glass doors opened.
“This way, please.”
You all followed Mark silently, barely keeping up the pace with Jeno who was clearly accustomed to the gravitational pull of things. Suddenly, you missed turning the gravity off inside your dorm room and being able to float about. Even the gruesome zero gravity training would be better than having to walk with a weight shackled to your feet.
The hallway you walked down narrowed into a tunnel and that was when you realized, you were being escorted to another pod. The pod was held up by two enormous metal claws on either side, clutching the pod in grip above the ground. Its glass front of the ellipse was drawn back and a portion of the control panel had been inverted to act like a staircase into the pod.
“This pod will take you to the outskirts of the city, around the edge of the dome.” Mark said it so lightly, making you forget the nightmare awaiting you.
Yet you boarded the pod anyway, wordlessly taking the same places you did earlier. Mark didn’t follow you inside. He bowed as the control panel reverted back to its original place, the glass clamping back shut and sealing you inside. The lights inside the pod flickered on; it was similar to the one you travelled in earlier in many ways but it felt smaller and lighter.
The pod powered to life, humming beneath your feet as it lodged itself off the claw machine. Then you shot backwards into the tunnel. If you weren’t tied down by a safety belt, you would’ve fallen off the couch easily and hit your head on the glass table. There was no engine, the pod simply ran on the magnetic repulsion between the tracks and the pod. It was one of the greatest discoveries several centuries ago, further modified with the advancement of technology in outer space. The darkness dispersed as you shot out of the Headquarters’ lower levels and into the streets of the Oasis.
The city was both everything and nothing like you imagined it to be. The top of the skyscrapers were too high, your neck started to hurt from leaning backward. The others beside you shared the same astonishment. Cars moved quickly across the roads, running on the same magnetic energy the pods did. You zoomed past the streets of New Seoul. The buildings you’ve only seen in hologram screens were bigger and better when you saw them in person. Everything was in neutral shades, grey making up most of the skyscraper’s palettes with their glass panes. The effects of the supposed global warming weren’t felt behind the walls of the Oasis. With its moderated weather, it remained cool.
The further you traveled from the center, the less skyscrapers you saw in the vicinity. At the outskirts of the city were made out of housings and subdivisions where the rich folk spent their days on Earth. Soon, there were no buildings at all. There was a clear distinction between the first area the dome covered. The row of houses ended abruptly, like it sat at the edge of something and was never meant to go on. A portion of the original dome had been kept up around the border where it was first established, leaving a transparent wall between New Seoul and the Wastelands that were recently cleared after expeditions. The city moved further away from view. From where you sat it looked like paradise. It stood out obnoxiously. The dead lands beside it giving it more emphasis.
There is another area of limbo between the first area the dome was established on and where the protection of the dome rests now. There’s a stretch of a few kilometers, untouched by the modifications of the new world. The Old Seoul stands barren and abandoned. Skeletons of buildings are half-buried beneath webs of vines, steel weakened with rust. Over the years, deployed units have gone on expeditions clearing out this area of possible yasaeng in hiding. For years, there had been nothing. It was only a matter of time before the Oasis expanded again.
The outer dome was arched over a stretch of land from the previously established dome; cleared of any buildings from pre-abandoned Earth. You’ve heard that the whole area has already been auctioned off to the richest folks back at the Shuttle. Soon enough, more structures would stand and the area would expand yet again. The same tedious process until the entirety of the island would be absolved of the yasaeng.
Jaemin once told you about the pod that raced across the field all the way to the border. When you arrived, officers and patrols awaited you. The further you got from the center of the dome, the less the modifications. The border looked nothing like the Oasis and it was your first realistic glimpse one what the world had been before humans abandoned it. It was a vast expanse of brown stretching as far as the dome reached before eventually reaching the edge where it stopped abruptly. The pod stopped when it reached the end of the line and you all got off one by one. The ground crunched beneath your feet, specks of soil sticking to the soles of your white shoes. Compared to what was outside the dome, the ground here was dry and withered. Trailer vans were arranged in an array of rows bordering the curvature of the dome like a village at the edge of the town.
You followed Jeno as he mazed through what seemed to be the camp for troops sent out to the expeditions to the Wastelands. Doors didn’t open automatically, Jeno did the honor of holding the door open as you filed into one of the trailers. It was hot and crammed, a single electricity powered fan blowing wind panning from left to right. You could already feel the sweat trickling down the side of your face and your back but you chose to keep steady. The suit you wore wasn’t helping.
A military boy walked in, flanked by others under his command. You were each handed a pack of things — thinner clothes, a bag to take into the wild. You were then asked to sit on the couch by the desk but you wanted to think otherwise. Jeno stood at the side, leaving only the four of you to sit on the couch. It wasn’t as soft as the ones inside the pod but you knew you wouldn’t be staying there for long.
The office wasn’t as extravagant as the ones in the Shuttle. The scent of Earth seeped in through the cracks and the windows, a rich heavy scent that was more a bother than relaxing. The third commander stood with his back turned, facing the wall of the trailer where awards and photographs hung on the windows. Generations of Elite units, you realized, because Jaemin and Jeno stand side by side in one photo while the commanders stood in the other.
When he turns toward you, you try not to show any reaction. A black eyepatch ran across a quarter of his face, the scar it was supposed to hide running from over his eye down to his cheek.
“I can see you’re all exhausted from the journey so I’ll keep the briefing short. You know why you’re here, and I don’t get why Lee didn’t send the best troops in to replace the Elites.” Commander Nakamoto spat and the shame made your skin prickle.
You flinched. You could feel your comrades tensing beside you but you showed no bitterness, shrugging the bitter welcome off.
“Do you know what’s out there?” he asked, glancing at each one of you. “Y’all mute?”
“Yasaeng, Sir.” It comes from Donghyuck, a half-thought blurt brought about by the stirring tension.
The commander grimaced. “Do you know what they’re like?”
“Zombies,” you answer when Donghyuck fails to find his words. “Feral, brainless.”
“Wrong.” Nakamoto leaned against his desk. “Not brainless, just no longer capable of thinking the way we do. They were once human after all.”
You recall the images of the yasaeng captured by previous expeditioners and their striking resemblance to humans. They were far more skinny, skin greyish or pale, lanky and fast with bubbles spilling down the corners of their mouths — always hungry.
“At some point, the infected stopped dying when the last of our ancestors abandoned the Earth. With no one to kill them, their species spread across all corners of the now vacant world. They started adapting as the years went by; still humanoid but feral. However, they seem to be less active during the day.
“They can be knocked out with a gunshot to the head, or to the heart. Their skin is harder to pierce but we’ve learned that long ago and today’s weaponry has been modified to make the kills easier.” Yuta continued, refreshing what had been taught back at the Shuttle. A rack of weapons were rolled in, trays of guns, knives and ammo like the ones you had back in the shuttle. “Let me remind you again that whatever’s out there, they are no longer human. They’re predators and they will tear you apart every chance they get. They’re rabid, any salavial contact will make you susceptible to infection. The only way to win against them in their home court is to be a clever prey.”
You pick a packet of daggers, silver hilts glinting in the flickering light of the trailer office. They’re lighter than the ones you trained with back at the Shuttle but it wouldn’t take long to get used to. Donghyuck and Renjun take their own weapons off the racks until all that’s left are the ones you chose not to pick. Only then do you realize that the rack was personalized for the three of you.
“Take your weapons,” Yuta said, as if he noticed your hesitance. “Get a night’s rest, you leave at first light.”
You were ushered out of the office before you could say anything, ask anything about the other members of the previous Elite teams. Night has fallen outside, the only source of light besides the waning streaks of sunlight were the lights hanging on wooden posts, enclosed by upcycled plastic. Your quarters for the night were still a few trailers down the line.
The room wasn’t half as good as the ones you had back at the Shuttle. Two bunk beds sat against opposite walls, one shared bathroom was enclosed in a wooden wall in the corner. There’s a mini-kitchen with empty cupboards and a single dirty sink. A ceiling fan hung next to the sole object illuminating the room, a flickering lightbulb flocked by little buzzing bugs.
The boys offer you the chance to freshen up first and they leave to tour around the trailer village to give you some privacy. The bath was kept short under a faulty shower, no choice but sheer cold water to wash yourself with unlike the Shuttle’s variety. You slipped into the clothes they provided, light thin clothes that could almost guarantee you sleep with tonight’s heat.
Still, your mind wanders to the sound of water pattering on the trailer’s floor. If there was a whole colony of soldiers waiting at the edge of the dome’s border, they could’ve sent a rescue mission for the Elites days before you arrived. Speculation bubbles in the back of your mind, saying it out loud was defying head orders — almost treasonous. It didn’t stop 323 from asking anything, though.
“You know something don’t you?” Renjun’s voice is quiet, non-accusatory. “How the other Elites disappeared and all that. Did you desert your unit?”
The room stayed quiet but you were sure everyone heard him well. There were no pointed fingers, just the mere curiosity of wanting to find out how he ended up where he was now. It was a relief you weren’t the only one thinking the same thing.
Jeno cleared his throat, avoiding the shorter boy’s heavy gaze. “Say what you want, punk. I know why I’m here and I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“I get it though.” You say and the boy’s gaze turned to you. “We’re not that much of a loss if we get killed in action, huh?”
Jeno’s eyes lingered on you, cold but with a twinge of some other emotion you couldn’t put your finger on. You have a feeling that you’re right.
You don’t know if you could call it sleep at all.
Most of the night was spent staring at the bottom of the upper bunk, listening to how it creaked and groaned beneath 606’s weight on top of it. You think of Jaemin at 16. You had been more fearless at 16, unknowing of how terrifying the creatures outside were. The footage didn’t scare you enough, you kept your head up that with Jaemin’s help in training you could brave anything you’d come across if you ever got deployed.
But then he returned from the Wastelands, a shell of who he used to be back when he was a trainee.
“Again.”
The word had come to haunt you, sessions you couldn’t wait for became something you dreaded. Jaemin turned harsher and colder, a splitting image of the trainers you once despised for their cruelty. He left you no time to breathe between spars, didn’t wait for the third count before he lunged at you. He struck harder. And harder.
“Again.” He would say if he knocked you down in five moves or less.
Again, again, again.
You found out that a member of the Elite unit turned right in front of his eyes on his first expedition out to the Wastelands.
You awoke to a throbbing headache, nothing beyond the normal searing pain you’d suffer after a night without enough sleep. But you were moving regardless, muscle memory kicking in, waltzing across the room to snatch your clothes neatly piled on the counter. By the time you’ve finished dressing in camouflage uniform, the others have risen from their beds and started preparing for the venture outside.
There wasn’t much to be nostalgic about when you left the trailer so you left the room without turning back and the others followed behind you. Rows of troops lined the way to the barrier, mixed glances boring holes into your skin. Pity, envy, fear. You shrugged them off.
As you get closer you hear it. The humming of the metal surface as electric currents pulsed through. The dome was made to be see-through, a barrier from the horrors outside it while offering a glimpse of what the Earth used to be before it got abandoned. But it instilled more fear than joy, yasaeng bashing their heads against the sturdy surface leaving splotches of dark red across the pristine panes. Ultimately, the barrier’s panes were altered with the first expansion of the dome, a glass-metal hybrid was made to serve as screens, allowing control over the weather and the view within the dome.
An alarm blared as you walked to the edge of the border. Ahead was one of the four gates leading out into the Wastelands. The exit is a toppled over cylinder, half buried to the ground with its other half cut through the plates of the dome. The tube ends were barred with the same material you’ve seen back at the Shuttle — hard, impenetrable steel.
The first door lifts from the ground, groaning as the metal folded in on itself by the ceiling. Cool air flurried in, the scent of iron and newly wet soil mixing in. Uncontrolled and raw, fresh from nature itself with still a single barrier between you and the rest of the world. The simulations were nothing compared to catching it in the wind firsthand.
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
The commander called from behind you, a flank of soldiers clutching guns pointed at you as if you were queued for a firing squad. Jeno gazed back, his eyes narrowing on the troops. If his rage stirs, he doesn’t show it. He turned to the three of you, nodding once as he urged you into the tube and into the chamber between life and death.
“I hate that son of a bitch.” Jeno kept his back turned as the door clamped back down behind you. “Wish the yasaeng gouged out the other eye too.”
You don’t say a word fearing that the eye-patched man would hear you. The lights of the chamber powered down one by one as the final exit began to draw open. It creaked as it opened, like the jaw of a thousand pound robot drawing open for the first time in years. The heavy brush of metal against metal is sharp and deafening in your ears.
“Helmets on.”
Jeno tapped his ear once, visor projecting out to cover his eyes then extending to his whole face. You followed and the out-ear machine whirred — activated. “Greetings, 1130.” The mask is a thin layer against your face, almost weightless. A wave of light scans your retinas then your face until an image of you appears on the corner of your viewing screen. Information flashes every now and then, details of the troops hovering over their figures when your eyes go over them. Up ahead it says ‘DOME EXIT OPENING’.
Your arms are up, guns held in place and pointed at the gaping hole in the wall. The musty scent grows stronger the further the gate opens, a 7-foot gap between the floor and the gate’s rim leaving them open for any yasaeng to target. There is nothing but stillness and the pulsing of the blood through your veins as you anticipated signs of movement. Nothing. Jeno’s voice comes in through the helmet’s built-in speakers. Move.
Trails have been cleared by previous teams, but weeds have begun to crawl at the bottom — covering the asphalt. The vines ate away at the skyscrapers and you wondered how many of the creatures hid, lurking, waiting for anything to prey on. Only remnants of Seoul City remained, skeletons of old buildings worn out and long defeated in the battle against nature. You could hear them groaning as the winds picked up, swaying with the breeze as leaves would in the spring. It was hotter outside the dome, unregulated by high-tech machinery. But researchers said the world was cooler than it had been when humans inhabited it, the lack of ozone-depleting elements in the atmosphere mending the layer of protection around the Earth — keeping temperature cool enough that it didn’t burn skin on contact.
“Eyes forward.” Jeno commands and you snap back into focus, eyes straight ahead.
Donghyuck’s laugh breezes through his mic and into your ears. He looks back, “And if anything comes from behind?”
“Hyuck!” Renjun clutches his arm, yanking him to face front.
A shriek pierced the air and your head turned, your mind recognizing the figure leaping through the vines before your helmet could. Your hands find your dagger and it flies past Donghyuck, its sharp edge slicing the air and straight into the creature tumbling towards you. It cries as the blade digs into the skin of its neck, hands curling as a sanguine liquid leaks out where the dagger pierced it. The creature slows, conscious of the blood it was losing but it didn't stop. Another blade lodged itself into its body and it finally fell limp — hitting the ground with a muted thud, unmoving.
You all stood still for a moment, adrenaline still coursing but the situation barely sinking in. On the ground lay one of the infamous yasaeng, similar to the ones brought to the Shuttle for study but seeing it move and jolt made your skin scrawl. It was humanoid, skin morphed and grey, pale in comparison to the human body. All skin, bone-thin, clutching onto the frame of its skeleton. And it was dead, leaking and inky substance leaking onto the ground where it lay.
“Lieutenant,” you call, but he ignores you, stepping out of formation and towards the corpse lying on the asphalt.
He swung his leg, flipping the corpse over. Its body followed, rolling onto its back — lifeless. Still, he kept his hand on the grip of the gun by his belt, precaution or bloodlust, you couldn’t tell. The yasaeng didn’t move or twitch, it laid lifeless with two daggers buried into its body.
“Make the kill quick. Any more shrieking and it’ll attract the attention of others and we’d be cornered.” Jeno plucks the daggers out of the body, blackish ink staining the steel grey. He wipes the blood clean off his pant leg, barely visible over the camouflage print. He offers your dagger back as he tucks his own back to its scabbard in his belt. “Let’s keep going before its friends show up.”
You moved forward, wading deeper into the jungle of buildings. It was hard to imagine a civilization working walking here, but their traces remained, the familiarity of the buildings within the Oasis. Every step you took deeper into the Wastelands made you miss the relative comfort of your bunk bed back inside the trailer. At least you didn’t have to have your guard up all the time.
“You okay?”
You startle, hand reaching to grab the hilt of your dagger. Renjun steps away, cautious, and you exchange apologies.
“A bit rattled, I guess,” you mumble, the gun hanging over your chest.
Renjun nods as you pass another junction, your formation shifting to guard each other's back in case another thing leaped out of nowhere. “I wish I moved faster.”
“So you could defend me?” Donghyuck asks, hands pressed against his chest. Behind the sheet of thin glass of the helmet, his forehead is creased, still in mid-gasp. “Renjun, I’m flattered.”
The short boy frowned at him, moving aside and returning to his position. “Next time we run into something we’re feeding Hyuck.”
The trek through the wild continued in intervals of silence. Some of the spots were familiar, some you’ve seen through other troop’s feeds and others you’ve seen from Jaemin’s very own. You found yourselves on a bigger clearing hours into the trek, a break from the towering heights of the abandoned buildings. The asphalt road opened into a bigger path, an intersection, a criss-cross of roads leading to other parts of the city.
“We’re heading due east.” Jeno announces, urging everyone forward. A hologram floats in front of you, intangible. It remains undisturbed when you wave your hand through it. The image zooms out into an overhead view of your route, a long line straight across the river and into a crowded neighborhood where a chapel sits at the foot of a hill. “We have to reach the church before sundown.”
“No breaks?” The heaviness of Donghyuck’s breaths are clear, the only one stalling them throughout the trek. Jeno shakes his head and the image disperses, minimizing into a mini-map on the upper right corner of your helmet’s screen.
“It gets easier when we get to the top of the overpass. Hold on, 606.” It’s the first show of concern from the Lieutenant. You share glances, brief and unnoticeable.
Cars were littered on the bridge, but it’s far from enough from the ground that the vines haven’t crawled up to the pavement yet. The asphalt faded here, directly exposed to the rain. Only bits of the chalky black remained.
“Are you sure it’s safe to cross the overpass?”
Your question hangs for a second. Centuries have passed since it was last renovated and repaired, for all you know it could give way any time. The trek across the famous Han River was quite a long one, over a kilometer of walking on what could be eroded concrete and posts that could break with the slightest agitation. The bridge wasn’t tall, you could handle the fall. But if it fell upon itself, you’d be sucked beneath — drowning in the water.
Jeno is the only one who didn't seem nervous crossing the bridge. “If we all die, you can blame me.”
“Can’t blame you from the grave, stupid.” Renjun says but follows after the team head.
“Not when there’s no grave to blame me from.”
You walk on the sidewalk flanking the wide road, free of the cars blocking your path. It was the first time in the whole adventure that you seemed to be able to relax. You had a clear view of everything; the sky, the river, the road. If anything came at you, you’d see it from a mile away. Beneath you, the vast expanse of blue gently carried away by the wind. The gloominess of the place didn’t seem to touch the banks of the river. It was ever blue, free of pollution unlike the photos from 300 years ago that you’ve looked up.
“We’re not here to sightsee.”
You push yourself forward, feet brushing against the concrete even when you wanted to stay behind to enjoy the view a little longer.
“Ignore him. I think he’s getting tired of the view because he’s down here all the time.” Donghyuck says from behind you. “Want a photo?”
“You brought a camera?”
“Didn’t you?”
You catch Donghyuck blinking at you, hand stretched out and waiting. The device doubled its weight in your pocket, the team’s awareness of its existence threatening your hold on it. It was one chuck away from being lost forever. But Jeno didn’t even look back.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let him take it from you.”
Fishing the cube out of your pocket, you toss it at him. It lands square on his hand and he turns the lens to you, squeezing it to capture your photo. When he smiled, you mirrored it, a little memorabilia from your first trip to Earth — something you could show to Jaemin if you got the chance.
When he had his fair share of snapping, he hands back the camera to you and you tuck it inside your pocket again.
“If my shots are bad, I’m sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.
You smile at him before you break into a sprint to catch up to the other two. “The camera’s got you, buddy. No worries.”
Hwagokro was one of the many mile-long bridges crossing the Han river. Even beneath the heat of the afternoon sun, the sunlight felt weightless on your skin. The seasons were changing, the summer heat finally giving way to cooler days.
You were getting lost in the view, lost in the breeze and relaxing that you don’t notice the blur of movement that moved inside a car. A yasaeng stirred, its face hitting the glass of the car and making you jump. Renjun is the first to reach his weapon, pointing his gun at the car window, and firing. The glass shatters, raining on the asphalt as the creature careens backwards inside the car. It was a clean shot to the head.
“Great job on revealing our location, stupid.” Jeno growls.
If the car still had a battery, it could’ve sounded an alarm. You just hoped the sound of shattering glass and the gunfire was carried elsewhere by the blowing wind but it didn’t work that way. You all had to move now. You couldn’t have a mob catching up to you here.
Renjun’s mood worsens, his frown more permanent now than it was earlier that day. Exhaustion creeped through your bones and every step called for a break. You were running out of daylight, you couldn’t be stranded out in the open. You gave Renjun a nudge as you passed him, giving him a reassuring smile before walking on.
The rest of the cross was spent following Jeno who grumpily walked ahead of the rest, a radio in hand trying to reach out to the other team. Your stomach churned, expectation and anxiousness stirring into one enormous weight. You were inching closer to your goal — closer to Jaemin, but a part of you couldn’t shake the uncertainty. What if he was no longer there? The chances of them surviving with little to no resources in a place crawling with predators were slim.
But he was Jaemin; you could toss him into the wild and he’d come back as the leader of the pack. He was the ace troop for as long as you could remember, hailed by both seniors and juniors alike. Still the youngest captain in centuries.
And yet your fear never subsided. It surged every time you saw what you were up against. They were fast and stealthy; you’ve never had the misfortune of seeing them in hoards and you wish never to. Sunlight was waning, you still had a few more miles to trek.
The descent back to land was slow. You were walking on mossy fields again, yet another intersection swallowed whole by nature lay useless as you passed. It was hard to see down the roads with grass clawing at your ankles. The buildings were laced with vines that seemed to gouge out the windows. Places fallen into ruin, lambasted by calamities and claimed by nature, just as the world should’ve been. Humans were nothing but parasites.
“The church is down the block. We should be safer there. Be quiet, we’re in a more congested part of the city. They could be anywhere.”
The fear in Jeno’s tone was unmistakable. You didn’t think the buff boy feared anything, back as trainees and as a full blown Elite. But here he was, ears perked as he walked. The rifle hanging off his back was finally put to use and he held it with both arms in front of him.
You followed suit, grabbing your own weapon. The assault rifle was heavy as opposed to your usual gear. You liked your body light, quick. It was your only advantage against Jaemin when you sparred back in the day. But you learned long ago that close combat wasn’t recommendable when facing the yasaeng. You eventually learned about the big guns, the one-hit K.O. weapons capable of eliminating the enemy with a single curl of a finger.
Specializing with little knives, you had steady fingers, the light hands of a sniper, a surgeon. It was always a debate where you’d be of better use but you always chose the troops, no matter how many times they tried to wear you down with discouragements. Their words fell on deaf ears, one comment from Jaemin would be enough to get you back on track — motivated, immovable. All you needed was Jaemin’s encouragement, a light nudge to keep you going again. Jaemin’s. Jaemin. You shake the thought of your mind before you could let your guard down.
You arrive at the church undisturbed. It’s red block walls have darkened with time, coated with moss that made it look nearly black with the contrast. Vines crawled up one of its spires but its doorway was free of anything. Jeno climbed the steps leading up to the front door, leaving the three of you at the bottom to watch his back.
The houses were more congested here, the roads slimmer and thinning your view. Another pathway led deeper into the maze of houses right beside the chapel. Fear crawled up your body, thoughts of spending a night in the heart of yasaeng territory almost unfathomable. The darkness far off warped wherever you looked, forming figures even when there was nothing there.
The chains holding the chapel’s doors shut rattled off the metal rings as Jeno tugged them. Jeno pressed against the metal, light from the sun’s last rays seeped into the room. He froze, you all did because the church wasn’t empty. Crouched over the floor at the center of the room were a dozen of the yasaeng, grey backs turned to the entrance as they busied themselves with whatever was piled there. All their heads snapped to the entrance, their shadow domain shattered with the bright light. Other yasaeng hissed, snarling at the light and clutching whatever they had their hands on. A limb of an animal, a human’s? You didn’t look long enough to find out.
A shriek pierced the air as the first yasaeng charged, the others following its lead. It didn’t take their long legs long to close the distance between. Jeno shot first, switching aims faster than you anticipated. The yasaeng crumpled before it reached him. Donghyuck and Renjun had both their weapons up, firing at the other charging yasaeng.
Four against a hungry hoard, probably a family. Their snarling scratched on your ears. One stumbled backward into the darkness, creeping to the stairs and leaping over the banister.
“Shoot,” Jeno commanded and you followed, swinging your rifle up and firing. Headshot, it tumbled backward down the stairs before stopping at the foot.
Realizing they were in for a losing fight, some of them retreated, backing away from the entrance. Others ran for dark corners, others retreated back to a stairway. Jeno’s eyes followed the file of yasaeng as they fled.
“They had a way in. Find it, seal it.” Annoyed as you were having to follow orders from someone arrogant, you followed like you were trained to do.
Renjun trailed you as you headed up the room. Donghyuck and Jeno stood back to back, scanning the bottom floor for any sign of remaining yasaeng. You swung the rifle’s strap over your head, leaving it on the ground floor.
“What are you doing?!” Jeno shouted before another gunshot fired.
“Too heavy!”
You leapt up the banister, Renjun in suit with two pistols drawn. Your eyes found an axe resting in a corner and you made the quick swipe to fetch it as you rose up the steps. A yasaeng waited for you at the top of the staircase. Renjun fired, making it fall backwards. He led the way up.
“Duck!”
A yasaeng bolted from the shadows, catching Renjun off-guard but not you. He leapt out of the way, stumbling close to the balcony, and you swung your axe — slicing the air and beheading the yasaeng. Its body crumpled to the floor, blood flowing on the second level floor. Renjun proceeded to snipe the others as they rounded the corner. From your spot, you found the opening — a window still casting the glow of the afternoon sun through its opened flaps.
You bolted, gripping the hilt of your axe as you ran. A yasaeng charging straight at you spun as a bullet pierced its skull. It fell to the ground by your feet as you made the last charge towards the last of them. It was backed up against the corner, repulsed by the sunlight but unsure to make the leap out the window. Then it turned, screeching at you as it barrelled forward. You wound your axe with a swing of your arms, gaining momentum until the yasaeng stepped into range. You brought hell down on it, its shriek dying as the blade lodged itself into its skull. Its voice died out in seconds, its body still by your feet.
“Sometimes I wonder why you were never a candidate for the Elites.” Renjun muttered behind you, tiptoeing past the bloody corpses.
“Found something?” Donghyuck called from below, hands on his waist with his forehead glistening in the sunlight. Jeno, on the other hand, was busy dragging corpses across the marble floor, their blood painting a mosaic on the floor.
“Just an open window,” you answered, leaping over the axed head and walking over to the window.
Donghyuck’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s how they got in? That’s one high window.”
“That’s why we don’t underestimate them,” Jeno answered, chucking something in Donghyuck’s direction which the latter absent-mindedly caught — a lighter. The lieutenant glanced up, “Bring the dead down.”
It was easier said than done.
As you brought each corpse down, it got harder and harder to maneuver without slipping on wet ground. The stairs were narrow and every trip back up you had to clutch hard onto the railing to avoid tumbling down. You cursed the bloodiness of your own killings, bigger wounds meant bigger pools and a lot more oozing substance. But you got them down eventually with help from Renjun. Their stains on the floor was a problem for another time, or for the next batch of troops sent into an expedition this far out from the dome.
You piled the bodies on top of one another. Jeno went back and forth to pick up the remains of the supplies the yasaeng were gnawing on. You muttered a silent thank you that it wasn’t a mangled human body, even with your experience from killing the yasaeng seeing one of your own would be too much for your system to handle and you would’ve added another mess to the floor.
The last thing Jeno came with was a fuel container, bright and new — a huge contrast from the worn out nature of the other things around.
“Thank God they left a few liters.”
“Thank Him yourself. He’s right there, you know.” Donghyuck muttered, pointing back into the church. Jeno didn’t spare him a glance.
The latter turned the lid to pop it open, the heavy scent of gasoline sharp when you caught a whiff of it. He spilled the content on the pile of corpses, emptying the whole can onto until their bodies sagged from the oil. When he stepped back inside, he gestured to Donghyuck.
“Light it up.”
The other boy followed obediently, striking the flint twice before the flame caught onto the gasoline and spread across the pile. The fire roared to life in seconds, engulfing everything wet by the murky substance. You all watched before Jeno asked all of you to step back. He shut the doors, no-longer chaining them, turning to ask Donghyuck to light up the candles scattered about the first floor.
“What’s the fire for?” you asked. “I thought fires catch their attention.”
“True.” Jeno answered. “But fires as big as that terrify them.”
You all watched as Donghyuck walked over with a candle stand that looked like a pitchfork with fiery tips.
“Small flames are pretty but you wouldn’t walk into an enormous one right?” Jeno looked around. It wasn’t something they taught you back at the Shuttle. You were taught to avoid fire as much as you could, leaving no trace of your presence anywhere. It was something he learned on his frequent trips here, a risk the Elites took to survive — either coming up with a successful breakthrough or dying as they tried. “That fire should last us until the next watch. There are jugs full of gasoline at the back, go fetch them if you need to reignite it. Don’t ever let the flame die out.”
You rearranged the pews of the church, forming a hexagon of wooden benches around a center cleared of any yasaeng blood. You walked around igniting small candles you picked off from a sanctorium full of statues in the west wing of the church, lighting the perimeter of the circle until it looked like you were in a seance.
“Anyone injured from earlier?” Renjun called out. For all his fiery nature, you never expected him to be a healer.
You checked your arms for anything, letting the system scan through your whole body before you stripped off the suit and retracted your helmet. Your palms were a bit unfamiliar with the wooden grip of the axe but your calloused palm from years of training didn’t seem to suffer too much. You recalled if a yasaeng managed to make contact with you but nothing came to mind.
You shook your head. Jeno however walked over with an outstretched hand.
“Bite?” The alarm in Donghyuck’s tone was unmistakable.
The laugh that escaped out of Jeno’s mouth was a deep one, nearly lost into the crackle of the flames burning outside. “Of course not. Just a past stitch opening again.”
Donghyuck shuddered. “Okay, shut up.” And he got back to work, lighting a series of small candles to make a makeshift stove to boil water in.
You sat in an uncomfortable silence as Renjun worked. What the smaller boy was doing looked painful but Jeno kept a straight face, as if he’d gone through worse pain than having to get a wound sewn back shut without a bit of anesthesia.
“I have a feeling that you have something to say, 1130,” Jeno said, tearing his eyes off the void and turning to look at you. “Ask away.”
The calmness in his tone caught you off guard. You half-expected him to say something akin to ‘fuck off’. Walls thinning, maybe the Wastelands brought out different sides of people.
“Do you,” you started, at a loss for words after finally saying what you’ve kept quiet about since the night before, “Do you have a hunch as to why they didn’t come back?”
In the darkness of the room, you could see him frown but he composed himself immediately, like the fragment of emotions was nothing but a trick of the candlelight. He glanced at Renjun who was still mending his skin, the skeptical, cold gaze the smaller boy sent him was enough to let the truth spill. “If you still think I’m jealous of Jaemin the way I was back in training, I’m not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” Jeno answered. “Out here, you don’t get to be petty. Every time we’re deployed, it’s a battle for survival with a superior species.” He glanced at you. “No matter how I despised that bitch back at the Shuttle, it hurt losing a team — let alone half of them. When they didn’t come back, I insisted on finding them but headquarters wanted us back. What remained of us anyway. If I set them up, why would I be back on this mission to get them back?”
“Because you don’t have a choice?” Renjun spat, tying a bandage too tight that it made Jeno wince.
“Renjun,” Donghyuck called, shaking his head at the other boy.
“You think they were in favor of losing another Elite?” Jeno rebutted, drawing his hand back and pacing the room.
“So, do you have a clue as to where they might be.” You cut them off before Renjun could say another word.
Jeno’s expression darkened. “In the heart of Seoul.”
The silence hung heavily between you. Back when the domes were first set up, previous capitals were the designated locations and staring points. Point Zero used to be Seoul, but the city was too congested with yasaeng. Streets were swarmed with yasaeng during the day, even worse at night. The concrete jungle made it harder to weave through the streets without running into a hungry hoard.
There was an attempt to built a headquarters there, and for the first few years of the expeditions between Earth and the Shuttle there was a facility there — a small building for mission control and an area for pod landings. When they encountered the same problem with the yasaeng with every trip, they decided to move to a different place. Still near the capital but far enough to not be as congested. They landed at Bucheon, a few kilometers west of Seoul. On the last trip out, the surrounding area was bombed — creating an empty moat around the facility to preserve its structure from the yasaeng that liked roaming.
“What makes the Elites special anyway? Harder missions? Things other than clearing operations?” Renjun asked.
“We do clearing operations but not for places. Yasaeng nests, breeding grounds where they cluster during the day to recuperate or reproduce.”
“So you bomb their motels?!”
The joke slipped over your heads, everyone too engrossed in the thought of what you were up against. Donghyuck apologized.
“What if they didn’t make it to the facility?”
“I refuse to believe it,” Jeno’s tone was nearly enough to convince you. “They may be backed up to a corner, but they’re alive.”
You ate your meals in silence. As soon as your stomachs were filled, you got ready to rest. Donghyuck decided to take first watch with you, sitting at opposite ends of the circle of pews. A part of you kept glancing up, rethinking if you’ve shut the window or if they could manage to pry it back open. If a yasaeng would leap off the balcony, would it leap to its death or manage to bury its teeth on Renjun and Jeno’s curled up bodies.
The fear of being out here, being the prey and being outnumbered, kept you awake. You considered taking the whole shift but you had a valley to climb and an indefinite chance of your goals being reached. It was a game of circumstance, they could still be alive now but with another night in the open, the chances grew slimmer.
Donghyuck on the other hand opposed your spiral of negativity but remained silent out of sensitivity. If he had a chance he’d never stop talking. But Renjun already threatened to throw a shoe at him twice in the first hour of the shift. He resorted to other things, candle wick, broken plastic utensils that came with the cup noodles you had for dinner, the stations of the Cross hanging from the posts of the chapel, the locket hanging from his neck.
He’d unlocked it several times, popping it open like a booklet to reveal a gold cover on one side and a picture on the other. You never thought of him to be the romantic type and you’ve never seen the loud boy be this close to melancholic, almost sad.
“Who’s that?” You asked, immediately wishing you hadn’t as it violated the one rule you had for yourself during missions. Keep it professional, personal details were off limits just to make the worst case scenarios hurt less. But Donghyuck talked too much, even back when you were on the pod from orbit to Earth. Even if you didn’t mean to, you were listening. You’ve heard enough about the guy that if anyone triviad you for proof that he was your best friend you’d answer perfectly even if you weren’t.
Donghyuck stirred, sitting up so you’d get a better view of the locket. “Chil,” Donghyuck said, “Seven.”
A memory stirs at the back of your mind when he introduced himself the first time on the pod. He came in search of seven. Seven with a capital S, not seven people. Seven didn’t have the kindest expression, glaring at the camera when the photo was taken but it was the photo Donghyuck kept in his locket. Whether he did it to spite her or if it was the only photo he had, you didn’t know. Seven was another troop who you trained with, stronger than most and landing one of the Top 10.
“She doesn’t say her name to anyone, only her serial code. 724,” Donghyuck recited each syllable with a fondness you couldn’t mistake, as if he was trying to embed the number into memory. “724 is too lengthy so I started calling her Seven. Il-gop.” You snorted, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. “She didn’t like it either so I call her Chil now.”
You smiled, “Cute, 6 & 7.” Chil, Yuk. Hyuck.
“You noticed?” Donghyuck beamed, eyes wide before he pouted. “She didn’t notice that.”
“Tell her when you get the chance,” you answered. And the light conversation reverted back to the grueling reality you were distracting yourself from. “You think Seven’s out there?”
“Of course, she is. She’s headstrong against anyone who dared cross her, how much more when it comes to things that want her dead?”
Donghyuck answered it so confidently, it made you wish you had much confidence when it came to being asked about Jaemin.
“You don’t trust Jaemin?”
“I do.” You blurted. “It’s just hard to convince myself that he’s okay out there in a world like this.”
For a moment Donghyuck was silent, probably making peace with an anxiety he’d long been trying to hold off too. “Come on, _____. He was our top trainee for years. He wasn’t that competitive but he had an ego the size of the moon. You think he’d let himself die in the Wastelands?”
Jaemin’s achilles heel had always been his ego, you figured he’d die from it someday. The thought left a more dull ache than comfort. Looking around in the chapel made you miss him more. You found it hard to believe that not even a month before, he was pacing under the same roof. The signs of life were everywhere, the charred crumbs on the floor, the nudged pews, the leftover supplies.
You remembered the way Jeno shook his head when he saw you dragging the axe behind you. You asked him what was so funny, turns out Jaemin had been the one to put the axe by the stairwell. He hacked away at the yasaeng that were inside the chapel like a whack-a-mole. You had to learn it from somewhere, you told him.
“No.” A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “I don’t think he’d like the idea of dying like that.”
Donghyuck felt a tad bit accomplished but he could do nothing else to ease your overthinking, he knew that. Still, he mustered to smile back at you. “Neither do I.”
You woke up to the sound of the doors drawing open. The smell of charred corpses, mixing into the flurry of gasoline and other shit. The pile was reduced to nothing but ashes staining the steps leading up to the chapel. Donghyuck was still asleep in the next bag.
The sun had risen and the streets were beginning to light up. There was a certain quiet whenever it was morning, the way your voice was lost into the emptiness of the air. The soft touch of the sun, the chirping of birds. You’ve only experienced it through virtual stimulation.
“Good morning,” Renjun muttered when he noticed you were awake. He was geared up, just as he had been a few hours ago when they took watch. His eyes were bordered and he’d yawn every now and then as he paced the grounds.
Jeno was outside, kicking soot off the steps. He was all geared up and ready to go already. He had a radio in hand, what they once called a walkie-talkie.
“Got anything?”
He shook his head. “I hoped we’d get something by now.”
You looked around. “We’re surrounded by woods. Maybe that’s what’s disrupting the signal.”
You were hopeful as if there was a chance Jaemin and the others would still be out there. But what would happen if you crossed the mountain and the otherside was barren — or worse, swarmed with the yasaeng. Jeno thinks it was right that they brought close people along. He would’ve given up after a few hours of getting nothing but radio silence. You began cleaning up, leaving the room the way it was before you arrived minus the pile of ravaged supplies. When you were on the way out Jeno turned to you.
“I know what I said about close combat but you did well with that axe yesterday,” Jeno uttered. “Take it with you. Jaemin wanted to do the same last time we were here.”
You stared dumbfounded before you raced back up the stairs, past the dried blood splotches on the staircase and took the axe where you dropped it the night before. Jeno bolted the door back shut, chaining it the way you found it the night before.
The trek continues, this time through the winding streets of outer Seoul. The roads were narrower and the yasaeng came more often. Weapons of choice were changed. More silent ones were brought out. A silencer, pairs of knives, the axe. You cleared through waves in no time. They weren’t swarming. They’d occasionally be in hooded alleyways but nothing beyond that, nothing beyond what you could handle. But it was exhausting still, having to trek and fight every now and then.
The winding road started sloping upward and the climb became more dreadful. It was just a hill to climb, but it was exhausting sapping you of your strength as you pushed upward. You just need to get to the crest, do another check and hope it will ease a bit of your worries. Half a dozen yasaeng and a pair of sore legs later, you reached the crest that winded down into Seoul then you saw it. There it was, far off into the west. A building standing on a plateau of land around a dry moat of shattered rock and earth — the original headquarters.
“Try it again now,” Renjun said, more demanding and eager at the sight of the building.
Jeno uttered his script into the microphone, reaching out to whoever could be on the receiving end of the airwaves. But there was nothing but static until the line goes dead.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Battery’s used up. Do you have any spares?”
“You can use my radio instead.” You reached behind you, plucking the radio from your back pocket and tossing it his way.
“Hello, hello.”
The voice on the other end was distorted, but even with the scratchy signal, they sounded more bored than worn out. They yawn audibly. “Hello, hello. This is Unit Zero requesting for rescue at the—” The voice trailed off. “Ah! You already know where we are. HQ 1, Seoul City. It’s hard to miss actually.”
For moments you all stood dumbfounded after hearing a voice. Jeno’s helmet retracted, the shock on his face showing through his stoic expression. He blinked, turning on the microphone on your end of the line. “Unit Zero, this is the replenishment unit, dispatched to rescue you. May I ask for your coordinates?”
“Lee Jeno?!” The voice comes sharp, cracking at the end it almost makes you laugh. “What took you so long?! Screw coordinates, you know where we are.”
Seeing Jeno smile sent more chills down your spine than the yasaeng did. “HQ right?”
The other end of the line rustles but their voice comes again. “Yeah. We’re running low on supplies and batteries. Thanks for coming to get us.”
The line went silent.
“Be careful, we’re surrounded.”
Be careful. Jaemin always wished it on you when you went sparring, after injury. It was something you traded. You, whenever he left for expeditions, and him, whenever he had to patch you up. All you could think about was Jaemin, how he was on the other end of the line. It took physical effort to stop yourself from snatching the radio, demanding the radio on the other end be handed to Jaemin. But a chain of command needed to be followed, neither of the others acting for their own loved ones so you kept it in.
The answered call, it was a beacon of light, a lighthouse at sea finally turning in your direction.
Beside you, Donghyuck couldn’t stop smiling, even long after Chil ended the brief correspondence between their unit and yours.
The trek down was a lot quicker with a clear goal in mind, you couldn’t be any less ecstatic. They were still out there, any second spent away was one minute they were exposed to the dangers surrounding them.
“_____, slow down!”
But you're quick on your feet, hacking away at the yasaeng daring to approach you long before they were in the vicinity of the others. You couldn’t contain your excitement; the houses blurred past you and the buildings that creaked no longer gave you the shivers. He was out there, you couldn’t call his situation the safest but he was alive. That was enough.
Sweat trickled down your face and your back was drenched. They caught up to your pace anyway and the trek to the edge of the crater was achieved before high noon but the sun was high up, mirages forming in the distant roads, and you wondered how the puddles seemed to evaporate when you got there.
Jeno kept a stoic face, used to the burning sensation the sun's rays left behind. Renjun thinned your water supply every few blocks. Donghyuck sneezed ever so often that you wanted to clog his mouth up with cloth. You didn’t mind the cruel sunlight, even as it burned through your suit.
Ahead, the city stopped abruptly. Towering skyscrapers stood side by side with each other until there was nothing but the vast expanse of the sky for miles. Ahead, a singular building stood surrounded by nothing. The city seemed to continue on the other side, too far off you knew you’d never manage to step there.
You reached the edge of the crater, a kilometer stretch of nothing but the headquarters on its center and a sudden hundred meter drop into a pit of...
“Don’t tell me we’re heading down there.” Donghyuck said as he gazed down at the cliff.
You walked over to the ledge, glancing down at the empty moat and your breath hitched. Your hand flew up to your mouth, clamping over it to stop any other sound from escaping.
The whole valley looked like a mass grave. Hundreds of yasaeng were laid out on the bed of the crater, each one a few feet apart from the next. They were either curled into a ball on themselves or sprawled out on the ground. They were sleeping now but you couldn’t imagine how it would’ve been like lasting the nights here. The piles ran through the circumference of the plateau, the biggest breeding ground you’ve ever seen. Even Jeno froze where he stood.
“I don’t think we have a choice.” Renjun said, tapping two logs buried onto the ground at the edge of the crater. Ropes were coiled around and a ladder snaked all the way down to the valley’s bed.
“They really cut off the bridge. It’s like they didn’t want to be saved.” Donghyuck stepped away from the edge, feeling safer on higher ground.
“Of course they would,” You answered. “Having it up would be a sign that ‘Hey, we’re here! This way to your next meal!’”
Jeno moved around, locating a safe route to traverse that didn’t require immediate contact with the yasaeng sleeping around. “We’re heading down now.”
“For real?”
“You want to stay out here for the night? You can stay.” He snapped. “There’s a path down that’s away from the yasaeng. When we cross, we have to do it quietly and if we want to reach HQ before sundown we need to start now.”
You didn’t like the way down. It was steep, uneven, and it took every ounce of your focus for you not to step on the wrong place. Ever so often the rock would crunch beneath your feet, sending pebbles off the edge of the cliff and on to the ground. Jeno would glare before he’d make the same mistake. Thankfully, the yasaeng were heavy sleepers. The trek down was long but it was manageable and you reached the bed of the valley alive but not for long.
You clutched your weapons closely. Everything was a last resort unless you could kill quickly. Guns were out of the picture, a shot would ring through the entire valley and awaken a lot more than you could handle. Jeno stayed behind, letting you stay up front as a head fighter with your axe. You remained tight together as you walked down. You tried not to turn your head a lot, there were sleeping yasaeng on either side of you. There was a patch of land where there weren’t any yasaeng, you could see faint traces of charred something and it must’ve been what kept them away from the path.
The path was straight but far. You wanted to sprint but you thought it would make too much noise. You walked fast anyway, briskly walking with light footsteps with only the climb up in mind. The plateau loomed tall before you, its edges shaped in a way that made it hard to scale without fighting the forces of gravity. At the other end of the path was a rock path leading up to headquarters — leading up to Jaemin. You thought of that and prayed you wouldn’t trip over your own feet and doom everyone.
When you reached the end of the path, you nearly sighed in relief but there was still a long way up and the sky was turning orange. The trek up was slower, adrenaline waning as you grew more tired after another day out in the open with little to no rest. You were starving and parched.
Somewhere behind you, the rock beneath gives way. Renjun slipped, nearly off the side of the cliff if he didn’t clutch to the edge immediately. Jeno rushed to aid him, you were a bit far ahead to help. From your vantage point, you see that this time — you didn’t get away with the noise. Below, they’ve begun to stir, early risers from where the shadow of the valley made it dark enough for them to wake.
“Shit! Hurry! They’re coming!”
The rock that gave way was large enough to crush and awaken a few of the yasaeng that lay beneath. One shrieked in pain and the others startled awake. The yasaeng, no matter how far they functioned, still had the brains of humans — capable of piecing two and two together. They glanced up and you caught each other’s eye. Your knees go weak but you hold your place.
A shriek pierces the air as their eyes look on their target and you’re running, skipping steps at a time and hoping the rock won’t give way the way they did beneath Renjun. You were still halfway up the trail and they were catching up with faster hinds.
“Go on! I’ll cover!” You heard Jeno shout behind you and the first gunshot fires. It echoes the valley and for a moment you thought the ground rumbled with it.
You covered more space in a minute than you did in the past ten. Maybe the ground did hold if you were quick on your feet. Even with your lungs burning along with your thighs, you weren’t fast enough. You could hear them crying as they scaled the cliff.
We’re not gonna make it. From your vantage point, you couldn’t see the yasaeng scaling the wall until they were at the ledges. You had your gun ready. They were getting closer. You needed to get up to the part of the cliff that defied gravity to lose them but those steps were still far up.
A yasaeng launched itself upward, catapulting to the upper steps of the trail. It snarled at you and you staggered backward, bumping into Donghyuck. Facing yasaeng had never been more terrifying with a 70 meter drop threatening your life. One misstep and you were dead, whether it was forward or sideward it didn’t matter. Donghyuck recovered quicker, holding up his gun and pointing it straight at the yasaeng then fires.
“Now we’re even,” he said.
You take a moment to glance back. Jeno was a few steps behind, holding off as many climbing yasaeng as he could with his back unguarded. Renjun was limp, still recovering from the fall.
“Take Renjun! I’ll help Jeno!” you ordered, moving past Donghyuck and aiming at a yasaeng closing in on Jeno. “Jeno, move! I’ll cover for a bit!”
Jeno didn’t have the luxury of putting his pride first. He leapt up the stairs as you put more distance between him and the incoming yasaeng. When you were confident they wouldn’t be coming up any sooner, you sprinted up again. You were getting closer to the top now, the end of the staircase a few steps away. You caught up to Jeno easily, the latter slowing down to keep you guarded. You stuck close to the wall of the cliff, listening closely to the snarling that could jumpscare you any minute. The sun was setting, there would be more of them any time now. You could only wish the doors of the headquarters were stronger than you imagined.
A bullet whizzes past you, striking true to its target behind you. You turn and catch a glimpse of a yasaeng teetering backwards, clutching the side of its face that was hit by the bullet. It lost balance and fell off the edge of the cliff. You didn’t want to see it hit the bottom with a splat.
“Come on!”
The voice you hear is different and you find yourself looking up to the person waiting for you at the top of the steps. An outstretched hand grabbed on to yours and you’re yanked up the remaining steps — stumbling across a flat surface.
“Jaemin,” you breathed, quick and disbelieving. He doesn’t turn around, focused on dragging you across the field separating you from the protection of the headquarters walls. Two people held the doors of the headquarters open and you could see Jeno slipping in before he disappeared into the darkness.
You felt like you were finishing a lap, your lungs barely registering any oxygen. Your whole body was on fire and you were slowing as you neared the end. But you couldn’t stop now, the chase wasn’t over yet. Your vision blurred and your steps grew heavier.
“_____!” His voice came clear and you were pushing yourself to your limit in a haze until you crossed the doorway and slipped into the safety of the headquarters.
You nearly crashed into a wall when you entered but Jaemin cushioned you, slamming into him instead of the cold surface. Your muscles lose their power, whatever drive they had to keep you upright and sprinting earlier dispersing. You could feel yourself weaken and give in, legs first. Only then did you realize that you threw your gun when you knocked yasaeng off balance when you ran out of ammo. You were breathing hard, the spots barely let any light seep through your vision. The heavier your breaths, the drier your throat went.
“Water,” you croaked.
“Get them some water!”
A bottle was tossed to him and you try your best not to down the whole thing too fast. Jaemin, a hallucination in your haze, kept you propped up, a fraction of your weight shifted over to him.
“_____, you’re safe now. You’re safe now,” he whispered, brushing hair off your face.
The racing of your heart began to slow, cradled in his arms and standing this close. You stare up at him, disbelief dawning on you. Your palm cupped his face, his bones more prominent now than before. But his eyes were still soft, incapable of staring at you in any other way that made you feel unsafe. He smiled, rows of pearly white teeth greeting you.
“Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”
Jaemin laughed, quiet enough that only you could hear it. “_____,” he said, and you wondered how long it had been since someone said it so endearingly. “You’re not dreaming. I’m here, you’re safe.”
If you had tears to cry, you would’ve. You could feel the sting at the back of your eyes but no tears came gushing out. You melt into his embrace, all the exhaustion from the hike up washing over you as he kept you upright. He snaked his arms around you, wrapping you in a warm welcome you didn’t want to be free from, even when he hugged you too tight you were gasping for air when he finally let go.
Behind you the doors have been shut close, air-tight and sealed. You were plunged into temporary darkness. Behind you, a flint is struck, sparks twinkling in the air in front of you. A fire blazes after a few strikes of the lighter. Jaemin stood by a desk right by the entrance, hoisting a thick candle up to light the wick before setting it back down inside a glass jar. He hooked his finger around a wiring holding up the makeshift lantern to illuminate the way.
In the silence of the narrow hallway, you could hear the yasaeng shrieking outside. But the walls were thick, along with the iron doors that were bolted. Their voices were muffled. You didn’t realize you were alone in the hallway, the two other Elites that kept the door open earlier already gone.
“Let’s head to the lobby,” Jaemin glances back at you, ushering you to follow him down the hall.
The lobby looked similar to the one back at the chapel. It was a wide empty room with a relatively low ceiling, others huddled around a fire at the center. Renjun sat with an elite whom you knew was exchanged with the Elites from another dome, speaking in a tongue you couldn’t understand. Jeno sat with the other Elites while Donghyuck rambled on beside a girl at a far corner. Chil glances up when she sees you, waving a hand and beckoning you to take your places around the fire. The light burned low, dancing with the shadows around the room.
Jaemin hangs the lantern on a hook mounted on the nearest wall. He takes his place beside another Elite, turning his head around when he sees that you didn’t follow.
You thought that it was surreal, seeing him again. He had a hand raised as he waved you over. Your skin tingles where it's pinched between two fingers but you don’t jolt away like you used to. The long nights of wondering whether he was still alive were over, finally. Your mind could be quiet for once. Oftentimes you’d lose focus, anxiously thinking of the next day and the hike with it drilled in your mind before you realize that you’ve done it, Jaemin was by your side, alive along with the other Elites.
Dinner was shared over the fire. Surprisingly, water wasn’t the hardest resource with a stream closeby. But it struck a question in your mind. If they could cross the valley like you did, then why hadn’t they trekked home? You didn’t get enough time to butt in. The Elites were strong and the highest ranking troops next to the heads. Questioning them always felt like overstepping, even when it came to Jaemin.
After a catch up in hushed tones and story exchanges, you were left to stand watch with Jaemin as the others got ready for sleeping. You hadn’t realized how long you had your guard up until you were alone with him, feeling safe even when you shouldn’t be. Some of the others opted to stay at the ground floor with a different pair assigned to keep watch in case anything happened. You could hear them faintly as you climbed up to the top floor.
The second floor had a window spanning the entirety of the other wall, indestructible panes flanked beside one another where steel should’ve been. Though scratched, there were barely any cracks, made out of the same material the shuttle panes were. Four doors were scattered around the room, one on the far wall and the other three equidistant from each other on the opposite wall of the window. What were offices then have been turned into bedrooms now.
With the lanterns out, the view outside was clearer. The moon casted the empty lands with a faint glow. As pretty as the view was, you didn’t want to risk stepping out.
Jaemin nudges you when he notices that you’re looking out for too long, barely hearing what he’d begun to say. “Jeno mentioned you brought the axe with you,” he said, to which you replied with a small nod. The silence hangs between you, a tinge of awkwardness where comfort should have been. Maybe it was the change of setting, or the trek here that made things different. The ice would thaw, you hoped, convincing yourself you were the only one acting awkward and not him.
So you continued, “Lost it to the yasaeng too.” You remembered bringing it down the skull of a yasaeng that tried to climb up the cliff. It fell to its death before you could pull the axe back. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”
His eyebrows furrowed, play-hurt. “Don’t you have a little faith in me?”
“I do,” you defend, though you owed it to the others who kept their hopes up when yours dwindled.. “It’s just that everything seemed to be looking down for miles and we couldn’t contact you until earlier today. I thought you were done for.” Your thoughts pour out, one honest secret at a time until finally you muster the courage to ask about the suspicions you couldn’t shake off. “The valley didn’t seem to be the problem so why hadn’t you come back?”
The moonlight glinted back on Jaemin’s eyes, illuminating his face with a faint white glow. “It was a mistake to continue searching for the breeding grounds at night. We were exhausted, heading nowhere unaware that it was right under our nose. I thought the breeding grounds would be a cave carved into a wall, a building swarmed with yasaeng, not a crater full of them. Thank fuck the bridge was intact, we never would’ve made it here safely.
“We had enough supplies for our needs for a while but we ran out of ammo. We expected the headquarters to have spares but the boxes we searched were empty. The next day we tried to plant as many bombs as we could, clearing a path where yasaeng wouldn’t dare step on until our ammo ran out. We weren’t even halfway done but as Elites we were never welcomed back until our missions were finished. We had more bombs to plant, yasaeng to fend off and we were armorless and trapped on this plateau with the undead knocking on the doors every night. We tried our chances in melee but that nearly resulted in one of us getting bitten so we stopped and gave up.
“Chenle,” Jaemin smiles, “this kid. He said we’d be too much of a loss for the government, they’d never leave us alone. He was confident the first night, and the second, until he was just as hopeless as the rest of us. Everyday we took turns waiting up here for any radio to contact us, any chance Jeno’s team was still out there. You weren’t the rest of the Elites we were hoping for but I was thankful for any rescue mission.” He tears his eyes away from the ground, turning to face you. “I just hate that it had to be you.”
“You were the reason I was sent here,” you say, catching the way his expression darkens at the mention even when you didn’t mean it to.
“I know,” he answers. “And I’m sorry for putting you through—”
“Nana.” The nickname is enough to silence him, his mouth falling back shut. His eyes are glassy in the moonlight, studying yours as you glance back at him. “It’s fine. I’d do anything for you.”
He breaks the stare and turns away, looking out into the darkness beyond the window. A part of you wished he’d say the same thing back, that he’d sacrifice just as much to get you home safely if it came to it but he doesn’t.
The night was quiet, as quiet as the thick barriers allowed it. And that’s when you hear it, snarling. Too close for your own liking.
You were on your feet in seconds, scanning the room for any signs of movement. The scratches were faint as if someone was trying to muffle it but it’s unmistakable, too familiar to not spark a fight or flight response from you. “First door,” you point but you know Jaemin figured it out long before you did.
You close the distance in steady shallow steps, daggers drawn. Jaemin turns to you slowly, his own hands wrapped around a pistol. “Wake the others up just in case,” Jaemin orders and you nod before you head for the other doors.
Jaemin had his pistol up, the comfort of having a loaded gun making his stance more leveled — more confident. The other doors open one by one, the others filing out bed-headed but armed with their own weapons.
When you were back at Jaemin’s side, he glances back, holding his hand up and counting down with his fingers before he knocked the door down.
Holding a finger up to count up to three before he knocked the door down. The kick knocks the door lock off its hatch and you’re greeted with a horrific scene. The window on the back wall casted a light inside the room to illuminate the scene. Donghyuck was sitting on the floor, backed up against a wall with a hand over a bloodied shoulder while Chil — or what you assumed to be Chil — was on all fours, heaving, snarling.
Her head snaps up, leaping forward but never reaching her target. Jaemin disappears from your side, tackling Chil and knocking onto a desk at the far end of the room. She was pinned to the floor now, still weaker in strength compared to the other boy. She was writhing, gnawing on empty air. It made it hard for you to register that she had just been a human eating dinner with you hours ago.
“Donghyuck, shoot her now!” Jaemin shouts but the boy sat frozen, even when he had a gun in his hands.
You were about to move in when Jeno pushed past you, aiming the gun at Chil. You could hear Donghyuck’s cries. “No, no, please.” But he’s unable to stand, wincing when he tries to push himself up and Jeno fires — missing Jaemin but striking his target.
Chil shrieks and Donghyuck leaps out of his place on the floor. You’re quick to stop him, accidentally yanking him back with his weak arm. He fell back to the floor in front of you. Jeno fired twice more until movement seized. Even in the dark, you could see the silhouettes of the holed chest, shattered skull with a pool of blood staining the ground beneath her.
This time you were too weak to stop Donghyuck from standing. He walks over to Jeno, pushing the older boy against the wall with whatever strength he had. Tears were streaming down his face, his hair disheveled and his voice breaking.
“Why did you do that? Why?!” It was an irrational question. Everyone knew why, even Donghyuck. But in the shock of it all, everyone else remained silent. He knew the truth but it wasn’t sinking in yet.
Renjun steps in from behind you, pushing Donghyuck back gently before speaking in a hushed tone. “She could’ve doomed us all.”
Donghyuck was glaring, eyes bloodshot as he met everyone’s gazes. The wound on his shoulder was a painful reminder that he was different now too. Things were different now, the reunion short-lived.
“Patch him up,” Jaemin says as soon as he got up. Renjun mutters something you couldn’t make out, guiding a dazed Donghyuck out the room. The others by the exit cleared away, keeping their respective distance.
Jeno was the sole person who hadn’t moved from his spot yet besides you, staring down at Jaemin as he walked past him. “If you’re just going to endanger us like this then I shouldn’t have shot—”
“He isn’t one of them yet,” Jaemin cuts him off. The air in the room buzzes and suddenly the office isn’t big enough to hold both of them. “We’ll keep him locked up until morning. We’ll figure out what to do with him tomorrow depending on which state he wakes up in, sane or not”.
The other boy relents and you’re all dismissed. Jaemin offers to take the night watch by himself. You walk over to where the boys were, the one that was supposedly yours for the night. The lantern you carried found its place on a desk nearby, illuminating the room in a flickering orange hue. You pick a flashlight instead, spotlighting Renjun’s things and Donghyuck’s shoulder. The effects of the bite didn’t show up immediately, you knew that much. Donghyuck would last over 48 hours without feeling anything but the tingling of his wound. At least, that was what you hoped for his case.
You let Donghyuck walk freely, feeling it was inhumane to have him shackled and restrained when he was nothing but wounded. He sat down on the bed, the mattress sinking beneath him. The room was quiet, except for your exhales and the shuffling of Renjun’s kit.
“We need to wash that up first.” Renjun looked around. “Is that a comfort room?”
You walk over, prying the door open. The door swung and you kept alert, your gun up even if the door didn’t lead outside. You were met with a tiled floor and a sink, glancing back to give the boys a nod to come over. Renjun worked silently, asking Donghyuck to take his shirt off. You half-expected Donghyuck to make a joke about it like he always did but he remained silent, compliant.
It hurt to hear him mutter to himself, asking them not to blame him for keeping quiet. It was hard seeing the light of the room lose its vibrance. You knew how long he’d been looking forward to this day only for their reunion to be cut short.
And you finally understand why you didn’t hear him scream as her teeth dug into his shoulder to inflict the wound. She was all he had left. If you were in his place, you might’ve done the same thing. What was his will to carry on if she was gone? The back of your mind screamed that it was a stupid reason. But his emotions had been his kryptonite — his driving force to get here, his way to smile in the face of inevitable doom
You waited inside the room instead, giving in to the exhaustion of the long day and slumping onto the nearest chair. The pair walked out a few minutes later, Donghyuck’s top hung loosely over his body with damp splotches.
“_____,” his voice was quiet, nearly drowned by the sound of Renjun shuffling through his equipment. “Could you tell them not to burn her body? I want to bury her tomorrow if I make it through tonight.”
It was a big favor to ask, all three of you knew as much. But the troops honored the last wishes of the fallen, but whether it applied to turning soldiers you weren’t sure.
Renjun patched Donghyuck up with you keeping watch for any sign of turned activity. But Donghyuck remained the same, the only odd thing about him was his silence. The room was dead, cold and silent without his hearty laughter. You’ve only been in his company for a number of days yet his inevitable demise was heavy, the waiting only making it worse.
When you walked out you delivered the news to the remaining Elites, reaching an agreement to rest Chil in a body bag until sunrise with someone to keep watch over it. Chil was kept in the room closest to the building’s wall, on the opposite side of Donghyuck’s.
When you first saw Jaemin staring down at the body bag, you were silently thankful it wasn’t him. But your stomach twisted, selfishness overlooking your morality. Everyone was glad to have survived the Wastelands these past few days, Donghyuck of all had been the most excited. No one deserved to have luck that worse.
“He let her bite him.” Jaemin listened as you talked but his eyes remained glued to the closed body bag.
“Did Chil ever show any symptoms?” you ask.
The boy shook his head, making his way out the room and into the second floor lobby where you both had been mere moments earlier before the commotion started. He found the nearest wall, slumped against it and you followed. You had a clear view of both rooms from here, and you’d easily be able to spot any movement should there be any. You doubted there would be anything, but you could never be too careful this far out in the Wastelands.
“_____.”
You hummed.
“If it comes to that, don’t hesitate to kill me.” He said the words so casually, like the conversation was nothing out of the ordinary. It was in the line of work, and after witnessing Donghyuck’s hesitance to end Chil’s misery and endangering the rest of you, you understood why he felt the need to bring it up. “If you won’t do it as my friend, do it for me as your superior.”
Selfish bastard. You spat in your mind. You had to stretch your fingers to stop them from shaking, feeling your chest tighten, breath coming in short intervals. Yet you kept a stoic face as if your composure wasn’t crumbling beneath your skin. I’m not losing you again. You wanted to think but there was never any certainty here.
You never agreed to him. The thought alone was enough to make your body go stiff, submerged in icy water. But it was the unfortunate reality of 2321. If you wouldn’t make it past this hurdle, all future generations would have to face the same.
“We’re making it back to the Oasis alive.” You claimed, as if saying it out loud would suffice to turn it into a reality.
You stood in front of the door like a SWAT team about to swarm the room. You were gathered in an awkward convex formation outside the door, Jeno by the doorknob and Jaemin directly behind him. You were at the supposed crest of the inverted concave, furthest from the curve with your gun pointed straight at the doorway.
“If you won’t open the door, I will. It’s fucking hot here, I feel like I’m in a boiler room!”
The door swung open and you swore someone nearly fired their gun. Donghyuck let out a rattled scream, barrelling backwards, mirroring the horror in all of your faces.
“What the fuck?!”
“Precautions,” Jeno says up front, waving his hand for everyone to lower their weapons. “It had to be done.”
Donghyuck had his arms up, one raised a bit lower than the other. He ripped out the sleeves of his shirt and his top seemed to be damp. Beads of sweat were trickling down his face and his hair looked like he’d been fresh out the shower.
“He wasn’t kidding about the boiler room.” Jisung, one of the other Elites, said as he fanned himself, the heat of the room pouring out.
Like you expected, Donghyuck’s symptoms haven’t manifested yet, he looked normal to say the least despite the dressing over his shoulder. Everyone was still tasked to keep a close watch on him but the others seemed hesitant to get close, save for you and Renjun. The others backed away when he stepped out into the hall.
Donghyuck glanced over to Jaemin first, eyes lacking the enthusiasm that you’d grown used to. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Back there. Follow me, we have something to discuss.”
You trusted the idea that Donghyuck wouldn’t turn any time soon and Chil was gone but you were still reluctant to leave Jaemin alone with them. The others began to file back down the stairs, called down for breakfast. The ground floor smelled amazing, the scent of a decent meal lingering in the air and you wondered how that was possible with very little supplies. But the Elites were a talented bunch, harnessing skills of survival better than any of you would.
Even as you gobbled down your first decent meal in days, your mind was elsewhere — wondering why it was taking so long for the pair to follow you down . But they eventually reappear on the staircase, Donghyuck dressed in military uniform and Jaemin trailing behind him.
“Join us,” Chenle calls out.
Donghyuck shakes his head and your eyes follow him as he crosses the room, meeting Renjun’s gaze in the process who shared the same confusion as yours did. If you knew anything about the boy, it was his notorious meal snagging and bottomless pit of his stomach.
“Where are you headed?” Renjun turned his head as Donghyuck passed behind him. The other boy doesn’t say a word, heading straight for the door without looking back. No one other than the both of you seemed to be fazed and you felt the invisible barriers between who were Elites and who weren’t built back up.
“Donghyuck will no longer be joining us on the way back to the Oasis.” Jaemin announces, walking down the opposite direction and taking his place beside you.
“But you should’ve at least let him have a meal first before kicking him out,” Renjun says across the room.
“I didn’t kick him out. I told him Chil’s outside and he can bury her now.”
Utensils clatter as you dig into your meals, veiled with a heavy silence no one was daring to break. You were still shaken from last night’s events. You couldn’t say the same were true for the other Elites but they didn’t bring up anything either. But you had a feeling there was something they weren’t saying.
“What happens to Donghyuck?”
Jaemin stills for a brief moment, the others in the room following suit. The only person who was just as concerned as you were was Renjun. The rest of the Elites were unfazed, unbothered, like the same thing had happened a hundred times over. Losing a part of the team must’ve been heavy for them, but you couldn’t see anyone mourning Chil’s turning.
Beside you, Jaemin sighs. “Let’s just say he’s making the most out of the time he has left.”
You had a feeling he was trying to shake off the subject so you didn’t pry any further. It was obvious they didn’t want to talk about it anymore. So you went on with your meal, forgetting Donghyuck temporarily and convincing yourself he was just outside to give himself time to prepare for what was to come.
In time, everyone finished their meals, tidied up the place as if you hadn’t been there. Your bag felt significantly lighter now without the guns and the ammo packed for the Elites. The metal door churns slowly as it was reopened and you got to breathe in the Wasteland atmosphere for the first time since yesterday. The scent of rotting flesh the yasaeng seemed to carry makes you nauseous, lingering where they had been camped the night before. It wasn’t too hot today, winter’s traces already showing. The cold weather worked best. It meant there was a chance the yasaeng were beginning to cluster in an attempt to stay warm.
Donghyuck was outside, sitting on the edge of the cliff, shovel on one side with a disturbed patch of soil on the other.
“Out here without guns?” you say as you approach him.
He squints up at the sky then at you. He shrugged off his uniform now, white shirt shining as it absorbed the sun’s rays. The situation with the bite has gotten worse now, webs of infected veins running down his forearm. “They didn’t seem to mind me. I think they know I’m one of them now.”
From behind you the rest of the team assembled outside, locking the door to the headquarters behind them. There was no turning back anymore. Either they made it back to the dome alive or they didn’t. “We need to get going.” Jeno mutters as he passes by you, the others already trekking down the path down the valley. In the broad daylight, the yasaeng didn’t stir.
“You’re not gonna bid me goodbye?” Donghyuck asks, a hint of his cheekiness in his tone. It made your heart sink.
Jeno turns, face still stoic, but he raises a hand to his temple in a salute before tapping twice. His eyes disappear behind the visor as his helmet assembles over his head. Donghyuck salutes back and Jeno leaps down the path.
You left Renjun and Donghyuck to have more time to say their goodbyes. By the time the former climbed down and caught up to you, his eyes were red. You didn’t bother to ask about it. You tread the path that cuts through the death valley just as silently as you had the first time. This time, you all managed to cross without any disruptions. The yasaeng liked the humid weather, deep sleep as if in hibernation.
You sighed in relief when you made it back onto the main road. Jeno was still leading the way, followed by the easily rattled Jisung whose Elite status you always questioned. Renjun and Chenle walked in silence, matching the others’ steps but not talking anymore. Jaemin stayed behind, a few feet away from you with his own rifle slung over his chest.
“I’m sorry, _____.”
You didn’t look up to meet his gaze. “I know. Protocol.”
The utter brutality of the army corps. Infected people were left behind to avoid endangering the people that lived at the Oasis. Any form of resistance would result in execution. At least, with Donghyuck’s compliance, it hadn’t come to that.
You took one final look back on the plateau and the headquarters sitting on top of it. Donghyuck was no longer where you left him.
“We need to move.” Jaemin mutters beside you when he catches a glimpse back at the place you had just abandoned.
“Are we really in that much of a rush?”
He doesn’t answer, only upping the pace to which he was walking until he reaches Jeno far up front in the formation. Then you remember a snippet of your conversation last night, the very reason they’ve been there in the first place, why they haven’t left.
“No.”
The valley birthed new batches of yasaeng and sent them swarming across the Wastelands. No matter how much land you cleared, if you didn’t pull the problem out from the roots your endeavors would be pointless. Eliminating the breeding grounds became top priority, assigned to only the most skilled troops — Elites. This by far was the largest nest yet. Leaving it undamaged would only put your problem on loop for generations.
You pulled your visor on, the mechanism clouding your eyesight as soon as you activated it. You zoomed onto the plateau. Donghyuck sat outside, vault door open after hauling two enormous cargo boxes outside. You knew what those craters held; grenades, gasoline, all would burst at the slightest agitation. He sat on top of one and pulled something out of the other, a handheld radio.
“Oy, hope you’re far enough.” You hear a scratch of static then the radio blares to life. “Renjun, stop crying. _____, hit Jeno for me.”
“You’re mad, Hyuck.” Renjun says, voice cracking but he manages to laugh.
“You all owe me one. This was supposed to be your job.”
The Elites ignore his light-hearted small talk. “We crossed over the first kilometer mark, Donghyuck. Ready when you are.” Jeno says into the radio’s microphone then he turns to the younger boys who stayed back to listen in on the radio conversation too. “We’re not sight-seeing. Let’s move.”
You try hard to walk forward without looking back, visor aside. Every stride forward felt heavy, every step against your will. But it was protocol, for a better world, you reminded yourself. There was nothing more that you could’ve done. The explosion comes in seconds, shaking the ground where you stood no matter how far. The bombs the Elites installed from days prior, you remembered, the chain reaction waiting for its activator.
Another explosion followed, then another, and another. The wall around the crater seemed to crumble with the explosions, the shrieks of yasaeng audible even from a distance. Gunfire echoed, filling the air between explosions. Jaemin kept you facing forward.
One explosion louder than the rest, rattles you out of yourself — like a bass drum struck right by your ear. You finally tore your eyes away from behind you, the last image of the horizon clouded by a thick dark cloud of smoke from the burning headquarters. The plateau’s structure shattered as another bomb lodged deep into the ground detonated, the whole thing crumbling down leaving nothing but rubble in its wake.
The way back seemed shorter with the trek already familiar, veiled with a heavy silence between the members of the team but walking beside Jaemin seemed to ease your grief. You were walking back with half of the anxiety you came with and that was enough. You reach the church long before sundown, taking it as a time to recuperate after everything that’s happened thus far. A part of you couldn’t wait to be back inside the trailer, at the bottom bunk of the abnormally hot room or anywhere without the threat of waking up to a snarling yasaeng over you.
You had half an appetite for a meal, exhausted and emotionally distraught with the sudden loss of company. But you realized everyone else was grieving just as much as you were, just as closed off as you were. The Elites lost Chil, the replacement team lost Donghyuck, Jeno lost both but he never seemed to show how it affected him.
“My first death felt like that too.” Jaemin says beside you, as if to read your mind. He had his sleeping bag directly beside yours. “Horrible, huh?”
You remembered him coming home the first time, the harshness of the following training sessions before you figured out that the Wasteland experience changed him. He later told you one of the older Elites died, right in his first mission out and spent weeks blaming himself for it.
Camp was a lot more silent without the chatterbox, despite being one of the weaker members in the team. So you dead set your goal on surviving or his death would’ve been for nothing. There were more of you now, attracting more attention from the yasaeng but you’ve crippled an ample amount when you bombed the nest. You had relatively better odds of making it back with no more casualties. The mission was done, all you had to do was go home. You won’t have to spend another day out in the Wastelands after tonight. You’ll be home by sundown tomorrow, before the monsters start crawling out of the shadows.
“You can’t stare up at the ceiling for the whole night.”
Jaemin’s voice shakes you out of your reverie, breaking you out of the hypnosis the darkness was drawing you in. You turn your head, “Is that a challenge?”
He lets out a laugh, a quiet one so as not to wake the others. “No.” He rolls on his side, tucking an arm beneath his head. “You’ve improved a lot. Jeno mentioned you were a fighter on the way here.”
Scoffing, you glance at Jeno who was lying across the room, never thinking he was capable of saying nice things. “The Commander was right. The most powerful driving forces lied within the people who wanted their loved ones to come home safely.”
You never thought that part of the reason that Jeno came back was that he could’ve been another person who had someone important. But you saw him be overprotective of Jisung, an orphaned kid he’d taken a liking to long before they both got deployed to the Wastelands. Renjun and Chenle, Donghyuck and Chil, you and Jaemin. The actions that drove you through what should’ve been impossible situations.
“Loved ones,” Jaemin repeats, “So you love me then?” His voice was quiet, teasing and you could almost hear the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
So, did you love Jaemin then? You thought about it, blinking back up at the dark blank ceiling. Your desperation to get to him, had it only been out of concern alone? Or was it attachment turned to something more? What was love, even? You’ve only seen it in movies, in solemn gazes at one another, in slurred professions after kisses.
When you turned to him, his eyes were already shut, lashes casting a shadow over his face. His hair fell over his eyes, his breathing shallow. You cupped his cheek, brushing a thumb on a scar lining his cheek bone.
You didn’t know how to answer. “Good night, Jaemin.”
There were barely any yasaeng around the rest of the way, it made you think that the bombing of such a vast breeding ground crippled the population of yasaeng in the area. Early the next morning, you reached the river. If there was one thing you heard of that didn’t change about the world, it was the sea. It only got better without the pollution.
The sky wasn’t as dreary as the first time you passed. It was a sunny day but not too hot nor too cold. The telltales of the change in season, the sunlight a warm touch on your face.
“You said you’d take me to the sea someday,” you said, turning to Jaemin who followed closely behind you. He’d been to the shore once on an expedition. “They said the river ends there.”
“It does,” Jaemin answers.“It isn’t too far from the dome. In a few years time, you’ll be able to enjoy it as much as you like. I would take you there today but for now, we need to get back to headquarters.”
“Take me next time.” You muttered. If there was a next time. You were on Earth now. Would they send you back to outer space again when the mission was through? It was successful, would they grant you permission to stay here permanently?
If you were honest, you didn’t want to be separated from Jaemin again. You were stronger now, you could manage staying down here, facing the monsters rather than staying alone in outer space. You wanted to stay. You’d beg the commanders to let you. You wanted to see the beach with Jaemin, dine in one of those extravagant restaurants that didn’t serve the canned food you’ve been consuming lately. If you managed to save enough, you’d buy a room in one of the high rise buildings in the Oasis, a better apartment for yourself.
A fleeting thought crosses your mind. Maybe the prospect of sharing the same space as Jaemin wouldn't be too bad. A future with Jaemin wouldn’t be too bad, and not impossible now too. With you on Earth, what was stopping you from spending your days together like you used to? Did he feel the same way about it? You tried not to think too much about it, slowly coming to and realizing that Jaemin was talking and laughing. You hadn’t heard a word he said.
Looking at the same sun was okay, being under the same sky was better, but breathing the same air was phenomenal.
As you crossed the bridge, the dome got closer and you plunged back into towering skyscrapers and city blocks. You didn’t realize how tall it was with your back turned to it. It loomed at an overwhelming height, far up as the eye could see. The panels mirrored back the light from the sun, resulting in a halo around its bubble. It was close to sundown when you reached the border.
An alarm blared to life as you got closer, the metal gate exhaling as it opened. You were met with guards clad in PPEs, covered from head to two as if coming close to you would contaminate them. You were sprayed by a mist, your things taken and deposited — a literal weight taken off your soldiers.
“Hold it, troop. You’re still subject for the rapid test.” A soldier said and you extended your hand. He pricked your ring finger, drawing blood and storing it in a device. He patched it up and waited for the device to process the information. One by one the other troops were tested too. And while you were sure not a single yasaeng had gotten close enough to you, you wondered if by any chance you’ve gotten infected. There had been cases of slow turns, infection through minimal contact, it must’ve been what happened to Chil if her symptoms didn’t show until it was bad enough. You shuddered.
Then the device glints green and you’re allowed to pass. The guards forming a blockade step aside to let you in. The air of the Oasis lacked the heaviness from the outside, you max out your lung capacity and sigh in genuine relief for the first time in a week. It was great to be back on protected soil and up ahead you could see the shining city of New Seoul. The dome really was an artificial bubble, it didn’t feel raw like the Wastelands. Sunlight here was mediated; hot but not as searing as the rays outside. A part of you wanted to walk under raw sunshine, but at least you were back in the safety of the dome where you didn’t have to be alert 24/7 for a potential attacker from any possible direction. You finally began to relax.
The others were unloading, just as relieved as you were. One of the Elites headed straight for the showers.
“We made it back, huh?” Renjun says, coming up beside you. “Do you think they’ll send us back out there?”
You shrug but after a moment of thought you continued, “I wouldn’t mind.”
Renjun huffed, “I would. Hope they won't force us to.”
You agreed with him and you understood. Donghyuck’s death was heavier to him than it was to you. He disappeared down the path of trailers, heading for the showers. Jeno gave you a small bow as he passed and disappeared with the others. You were busy breathing the old air but the moment doesn’t last long.
Your ears ring as the alarm sounds again, a different sound this time. One aimed to elicit panic, one that captured your instincts in one go. You never wanted to hear this, but the familiarity of it drilled into your mind every day when you trained at the Shuttle. Yasaeng. It was an alert that sounded only if there were any nearby. You drew your gun out of your holster, pointing it behind you where the alarm had come from and found yourself turning at the border entrance. Jaemin stood by the entrance with both his arms raised, flanked by two buff soldiers on either side of him.
Commander Nakamoto stood at attention by them, radioing someone from the headquarters. From where you stood you heard him mutter, “This is code red. 2316-0813, positive at South Border. Send reinforcements immediately.”
Amidst the sound of the alarm you stood silent. Jaemin was whisked away, head down and not sparing you a glance — as if he had known all this time.
The bite didn’t sting the first night. Jaemin had thought it was just another gash he didn’t know the origins of. It was on his right arm, the one he used to block Chil’s pounce. He hadn’t realized that her teeth grazed his skin, spilling rabidity into his system. He blamed his ignorance towards it on his heightened pain tolerance.
When he woke up the next day he felt it numbing, pinpricks over a fraction of his arm that felt like the limb had gone static. He wasn’t sure if it was a symptom showing skin or his own paranoia chewing on him again. The pain grew as the day passed, rendering his dexterities immobile and he knew that when you took his hand in yours and he barely felt anything.
It was only a matter of time but there was no way it would be under two days. It would be more than enough time to get back to the Oasis, ensuring you’re back safely behind the barrier of the dome. He could be blocked at the checkpoint, subjected to research. The pain only worsened as you got closer to the dome and he hoped no one would notice he was holding his gun with his off hand. The weight of his arm was nearly impossible to ignore one. He knew he was endangering everyone just by being there, but he was far from turning. To infect it had to spread through his whole system. For now, it hadn’t mazed past his arm.
Jaemin once dreamt of retiring at an age where he was still capable of doing something. No joint pains, no shortness of breath. Young. When he scored a spot on the Elite team, he knew he’d have the opportunity to save enough money to sustain a simple life at the Oasis. Someday, when you were both through with Shuttle training, he envisioned doing expeditions on Earth together, clearing as much area for future generations as you could. It had always been a dream since you were younger. After you’ve done your efforts to serve, you’d be living the lives of regular Oasis citizens after decades of public service.
And just like that, he didn’t have a few years anymore. Alone in his cell, he was struggling to accept what happened — that was it. No more future for him.
Jaemin once thought that the underground facility beneath the outskirts of New Seoul was nothing but a thing his trainers used to scare him when he was younger. If you turn, you’ll be sent to the chambers. He learned it the hard way that it had been true, they just tried to sugarcoat it. He recalled the first time he had to take someone down there, the scent of formalin thicker than oxygen in the air. The halls were white, just like the Oasis, just like the shuttle. Cells lined both sides of the hall, thick glass barriers separating him and the creatures on the other side. But they weren’t quite yasaeng yet, half-human. He always tried not to stare as they passed, leading the fallen troop into the nearest available chamber and leaving them there until the day they turned. He hated coming down here. It felt inhumane to jail people, to let them feel the infection spread in isolation, to be studied until the last of their moments. But it was a population-wide agreement that experiments and studies could be carried out on them to devise some sort of vaccine against the virus carried by the yasaeng outside.
It hadn’t been long since he’d last been here. The him from days ago would’ve never expected to be on the other end of the journey down. They let him go when they began their descent. He was still flanked by two troops, the commander close behind him. He was asked to walk into the chambers himself. Even in their last moments, troops were awarded more freedom to move. They knew they wouldn’t make it out of the underground facility without bullets drilled onto their backs if they tried.
The glass slid open when Jaemin stepped on to the steps in front of it and he realizes that this was the reason why no turned yasaeng managed to escape. There were two glass walls, one bordering the main chamber and the other lining the sides of the hallway. It allowed a two-foot space for any visitors. The scent of chlorine was still heavy in the air, mixed with a faint scent of iron. Newly cleaned, someone else had just died here — killed here. He was just another soon to be corpse, just another tenant in the room. These four walls would be the last things he’d see before it was all over.
“How?” Commander Nakamoto stood at the other side of the glass. His voice came through the speakers around the room. Rude as the commander was, he always seemed to show mercy towards troops who’ve been turned. Granted their last wishes, kept them company when no one else came.
Jaemin spilled the truth in detail. The rescue team's arrival. Their unknowingness of Chil’s infection, probably contracted mid-way through installing the bombs around the crater. What happened to Donghyuck. The bombing, their escape, the journey back.
“When did you find out?” the officer asked.
“I was only sure of it today.”
Nakamoto stood silent at the other side of the glass, staring down at Jaemin but not saying anything. Jaemin hated pity but he understood why they glanced that way. “It was an honor serving with you, kid.”
Jaemin only managed a weak salute back.
“Someone’s here for you.”
Just like that, he knew that that would be the last time he’d see the officer.
You appeared in his stead. You haven’t changed yet, filthy uniform and worn out face. Jaemin remembered having to nurse you back to health after training when you were younger. You were the only one who treated him normally; unlike the other trainees who were either competing with him, either trashing his name or putting him on a pedestal. You were often subject to comparisons to him, and yet you maintained your genuinity, your kindness without a hint of despising him. He knew you were a keeper since then.
At 16, he was sent out to the field. And so began the long expeditions into the Wastelands, away from what he’d been accustomed to call home for all his life. Homesickness wasn’t an option, he had to get his shit together to survive out there, to keep up with the other Elites. He shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind but they always resurfaced. He missed the Shuttle dearly, he missed you dearly.
Throughout his expeditions, he’d note key places you’d like if you were ever sent on an expedition down here. He documented them in his camera, sent them online whenever he’d be back in the safety of his apartment in the Oasis. He’d bring trinkets with him, against the protests of the hazard committee. They always told him three-century old things would carry three-century old bacteria. He’d douse them in 99.9% alcohol and hoped the remaining 0.01% would be harmless. He stayed alive out there, every breath and waking moment spent in eager hope to get back to the Shuttle, back where you waited patiently..
Then he remembered the waiver given to the Elites when they were first sent onto missions that required elimination of hotspots within the charted territories beyond the dome. It was an honor to be in the cream of the crop, but the tremendous pressure that came with it was often nerve-wracking. He thought he’d break the night they realized they were trapped at one of the biggest hotspots with little to no resources. They couldn’t blow the place up without someone staying behind to set everything off.
Then came the day Chil burst into the headquarters, claiming to have spoken to Jeno, enumerating the codes of the members of the rescue team and dumbfounded when he heard yours. He thought he was dreaming until he saw you climbing up the path leading up to the headquarters. Your hand in his, your face illuminated by the moonlight seeping through the windows. Your reunion was cut short by the incident and by the dull burn of his arm as it spread up his body.
“What are you doing here?”
“When did you find out?” you asked, the same question as Yuta.
“Was only certain today.” Jaemin whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” you said. Jaemin agreed, neither you nor him could do anything about it anymore. “Uh, I,” you trailed off, your voice cracking at first but you pushed through. “I documented my first mission to the Wasteland, do you want to see it?”
Jaemin doesn’t miss the force in your voice, but you pushed the enthusiasm. It was there, somewhere, just overpowered by your grief. You tried for him anyway. He nods and the glass between you lit up like a screen. You were sitting on the floor now, Jaemin mirroring you on the other side.
“I was supposed to show you these back there but we were always preoccupied.” you uttered quietly, swiping the hologram up until what your watch showed was mirrored onto the glass Jaemin was staring at.
Jaemin watched as you swiped through the photos, narrating details about the two-day adventure that you went on. The roads you crossed were familiar to him, and he couldn’t find it in him to tell you that he’d seen it all before. But there was a photo of you, smiling at the camera with your hair swept by the wind.
“Who took this?”
“Donghyuck.”
“Pretty.” He swiped the screen, in an attempt to save it but the air was unresponsive. They were disabled within the chambers. He sighed.
You went on with the rest of your photos, cut off only when your visor got cracked on your trek up the plateau. The glass turns transparent again when the slide show ends and you sat in silence, neither of you wanting to say a word.
Jaemin caught sight of your bloodshot eyes, hearing you sniffling even when you tried to do so as silently as possible. He wished he could hug you one more time but they’d never allow it now with more of his symptoms surfacing.
The events of the upcoming days were left undiscussed, an obnoxious elephant in the room.
“I’m sorry,” Jaemin said. You didn’t reply and walked out.
Jaemin grew weaker as the days passed. The gradual decline of his health, the thinning of his limbs, the darkening of his eyes. As he finished the first week of the 21-day incubation period of the virus, a chain was clamped to his ankle — one too tight in case he’d lose more weight in the upcoming days and slip out of it. For days you leaned against the glass, and he’d sit as close to the glass as the chain allowed him.
Some days he was strong enough to sit up, lean against the wall and talk to you all day about anything and everything. Reminiscing, dreaming of a life outside. But as the days passed, he talked slower, opting for you to talk more. He’d sit listening until he eventually drifted off. He grew tired more easily, the disease eating away at his life. You went to him as soon as your day started and you left when the scientists came. The first few times, you wanted to stay and watch what they did exactly. Envious that they were able to get closer to him than you did. Then they’d flick their wrists and the glass barrier would turn into a two-way mirror, with you on the reflective side.
It got worse as the days passed and he’d spend more time sleeping on the floor instead of the bed provided for him, unable to hoist himself up without his muscles aching. You could only sit and watch, hearing his murmurs to take the pain away. All you ever wanted was to hold him, tell him that he wasn’t facing this alone. You were there, but even that felt like a lie. The pain he had to go through was unimaginable, you couldn’t fathom how much it hurt to have your whole body be overrode by a foreign entity. Losing control of your limbs when you could still see them, losing sight even with your eyes pried open.
You both had your own burdens to carry. His painful death, and the void of his absence. Living the rest of your life without Jaemin was something you didn’t want to think about but was forced to. You wanted time to slow down, have him here a little longer, but prolonging his agony would be selfish. You had to let him go.
The tranquilizers stopped working today.
You were back in his apartment in the Oasis, one with a majestic view of the white city. Your visit today had been short and Jaemin had remained unresponsive. He was nothing but a shell of who he used to be. If he heard you, it didn’t show. He would pace the roam, chain clattering against the tiled floor but he’d pay no attention to the wall where you stood.
You received a knock in the middle of the night. It comes twice before you finally decide to open it.
“Jeno, what are you doing here?”
“The tranquilizers stopped working. As of today, he’s considered turned. They stopped the experiments, it’s too dangerous to send someone in.” You wondered if it ever burdened Jeno to deliver such tragic news because his poker face never seems to change. “He’s awaiting execution.”
You saw it coming but the announcement stunned you silent. You felt your world crumble, the gnawing feeling you’ve avoided that maybe you could just let him fall in the hands of others. His final request had been too cruel, too selfish, and you had to carry the burden. You hated it, you wanted to hate him. But you couldn’t bear the idea of having someone else put the bullet in his head.
Jeno handed you a file, a list of Jaemin’s assets and where they’ll be headed after his execution. Majority of it to you, a significant portion to the various organizations working to find a solution. You left it atop a cabinet, dressed up and followed Jeno out of the building minutes later.
The facility felt more suffocating today. You walked past crying relatives, the faint ringing of a bullet, a dull thud then the deafening silence that came after. Jeno led the way to the chamber, even when your feet memorized the route. The glass slid open as you walked up the stairs until you were looking into Jaemin’s chamber.
“If you don’t want to do it,” Jeno trailed off. The gun rested on his palm, one of those weapons with the sharper bullets.
You looked up at him and you realized that Jeno had seen the scene happen too many times and made the killing shot for others who couldn’t countless times before..
“I’ll do it.” You steeled yourself, taking the weapon and grasping it in your hand. The grip was warm against your hand, but the metal was cold. The killing shot was a bullet away.
When you were ready, Jeno tapped the code and the glass door slid open, just enough to let you slip in before it closed back shut again. The sharp tang of blood hits your nostrils even through the mask they’ve given you, making your nose scrunch.
Jaemin stood facing the wall. This was the closest you had been to him physically since he was locked away. But when he turned around, you realized that it wasn’t him and your best friend was gone. What stood in his presence was a yasaeng. Bone-thin, grey-skinned, sunken cheeks and eyes with no pupils. His clothes were ragged and ripped, his own skin scratched, bloody fingertips leaving a trail of droplets pooling at his feet. All his limbs were shackled now.
He inhaled deeply and before you knew it, it was running straight at you.
“_____!” You heard Jeno’s voice through the speakers. But you knew the length of the chain and just how far he could reach.
The shriek he let out was blood-curdling but cut short when the chain’s stretched and reached their limits and he fell forward. He pushed himself up, body and head pushed forth with his arms and legs hanging back. He had his teeth bared, red substance staining once pearly white teeth. He was snarling at you, his eyes showing no recognition and you felt the last of your hope fizzle out.
You pressed the barrel of the gun against his head and he jerked his head backward. Thankfully, he doesn’t knock the gun off your hands. The chains clanged and he lurched forward, jaws snapping and aiming for your hand, missing your skin by a millimeter. Too close.
Even on the brink of death, Jaemin was a force to be reckoned with. Your body recalls the last time he headbutted your gun in training, long before your mind does. Muscle memory kicks in and with a swift hand, you hit the back of the gun against his head. His body falls limp again, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You aim the gun where he laid and before you could hesitate, you fired.
The sound echoes the room and it rings in your ear. Then you fire again.
Blood pooled beneath his head, leaking out from the holes you’ve punctured through him. You stagger backward as it crept closer to your feet and the realization hits that you’ve killed your best friend with your own hands and you had no one else to console you.
In another life, Jaemin would’ve been proud. In another life, you wouldn’t be here.
You remembered the first time you heard about Christmas. It was nearing the end of the year. One random night, Jaemin asked you to skate with him and bring a gift along with you. He hadn’t been home in a while and you figured this was his way to make up for lost time.
At the time, you didn’t understand the necessity of it. His birthday had passed months ago. But you got him one anyway, the lack of time making you purchase something off the top of your head. You chose something practical, a gift package for this game he’d been playing with the others lately. After doing your research, you picked items for his avatar — skins and weapons that were, according to the strangers you consulted, were the best of the best.
Jaemin arrived a little after you did, clad in a polo and slacks as if he were going to one of those lavish parties the administration threw annually. You barely saw him outside his jumpsuit, mesmerized by how he looked in formal wear. While you, on the other hand, were practical — a puffy jacket for the cold air of the rink. He shivered as he approached.
“You invite me to the rink and wear something thin?” You yelled from across the room.
His laugh resounded down the stadium. “Did you forget to bring the gift?”
You shook your head. “It’s not something I could physically bring.”
You tapped on your wrist, toggling the hologram of your screen in front of the both of you. The screen floated and you swiped through the air, scrolling through your inventory until your eyes happened upon the familiar blue and silver packaging of his gift. You curled your fingers, pulling the hologram out of the screen and hovering it in the air between you and Jaemin.
“You didn’t have to bring it out now. I planned to give you mine first.”
“That can wait,” you said, unable to contain your excitement for his reaction. “Open it.”
He tugged it to him, pulling it to his own screen. He swiped up, the top of the gift popping off and vanishing off the holographic screen. The box shifts and vanishes along with it. In its place was the list of items you carefully picked out to form the package in the form of game cards.
“No fucking way. You shouldn’t have.” His eyes widened, scrolling through the Kwangya merch you’ve gathered. “Rare guns, rare skins, you’re kidding.” He looked over at you. “This must’ve cost a portion.”
“No worries. Take it as a token of appreciation for everything.” Training me. Being friends with me. your list could go on. If you enumerated everything you were thankful for, you’d be here all night.
“So what’s with the random gift-giving?” you asked.
Jaemin tapped his wrist watch, the screen powering off and disappearing from the air. “On our recent mission, I discovered that people used to celebrate on the 24th or 25th night of the 12th month. They called it Christmas. There’s a lot of gift-giving involved in winter.”
You never experienced winter but the ice rink was the closest to your experience.
“Follow me on to the ice.”
You were still wearing modified boots, so did Jaemin. Blades popped out your shoes and you were gliding on the ice. You followed him, speeding when he did and stopping otherwise. He held your hand as you circled the rink, enjoying the wide space only the both of you occupied for the time being. You were too busy laughing that you didn’t feel him slip something into your hand until he pressed it.
“What’s this?” You realized late, staring at the box you now held in your hand. Jaemin let go of you, skating a bit further as you stopped to examine it. “A box?”
“Open it.”
You let go of his hand, prying the box open. A ring was tucked neatly into the foam. “A ring?”
“I found it back there. Well preserved inside a vault along with a stash of other things.”
“You stole this?”
He shook his head defensively. “I asked for the commander’s permission to take one. He has enough to have one around each finger and toe.” You snorted out laughing, tucking the box into your back pocket and wearing the ring around your finger.
Jaemin looped back to you. “Have you heard of promise rings?”
“No. I’m assuming they have promises tied to them?”
“Not physically,” he said as he lowered your hand when you were snooping the inside of the ring, searching for the inscription. He held out his own hand and you see that a ring similar to yours was coiled around one of his fingers. “We make a promise and we’re bound together by the rings.”
“So what’s the promise?”
Jaemin’s expression was somber when you looked up to him. “Can you promise that you’ll stick with me until the end?”
You blinked back. “That’s funny. You’re always the one who’s leaving.”
He chuckled, dropping his gaze momentarily. “But can you promise?” He was insistent, as if he was scared that you really would leave regardless of how impossible it was. You were suspended in space with no other person you held close besides him. The promise was easy to make.
“I promise,” you replied and you let him slip the ring into your finger. “Will you promise the same thing?”
Jaemin glanced at you. “Of course,” he replied. “I promise.”
At least he kept his end of the promise. He stuck with you until the end — until his end.
You found yourself at the beach. The waves rolled up to greet you, the seafoam fizzing as the water retreated back into the sea. The view was amazing and tranquil. The blues stretched out forever, the lighter sky overhead and the other darker hue by your feet. The view remained the same, you just wished the company had been different.
“Are you sure you’re retiring?” Renjun stepped up beside you, squinting at the horizon. He’d been on the same team as you were since the rescue mission and the friendship between you had only grown since then.
“I have enough money to live a good life until I die of old age,” you replied.
Besides, they didn’t need as many soldiers anymore. With the development of the vaccines, there were rarely any cases outside of the dome. The yasaeng walked around paying no heed to the humans passing by. Most cases were born out of provocation, the same way predators functioned in the wild. The population of yasaeng slowly died down and one by one the ships in space started returning to Earth soil. The number of domes doubled over the past few years, growing wider with largely cleared areas. Someday, they wouldn’t need the domes to protect them from the outside anymore. It was the future Jaemin had envisioned and it made you wish he was here to enjoy it with you.
Some days you would nearly forget him. His face; wide eyes, sharp jaw, soft brown crown of hair. His voice and how he spoke with a slight squeak whenever he was nagging. You’d catch a quiff of his perfume on the street and you’d spin around in an instant. He was warm as sunlight when he wrapped his arms around you. You thank technological advancements for keeping tabs of his life but the archives could only hold so much of him. You think you’ve gone through every file it had to offer.
Every happy memory you had of your miserable life was spent with him; you waded through the darker days to get to him only for him to be swept away from you when you thought things were finally going to be okay. You achieved the dream he wanted, to have enough to get himself out of the high risk job and live a quiet peaceful life for the rest of his days. Jaemin still lived in the trinkets he left behind, in the pictures you hung on the walls of your apartment, in your heart and in your mind. He left a long enough mark on you that he might as well be alive. It was almost guaranteed that you’d carry his memory until your dying breath.
Even then, years after, you’d think of him — the long awaited reunion when your body finally succumbed to age. There was a story of a life well-lived awaiting to be told. When the time comes, he’d be waiting for you with a cup of too-bitter coffee in his hand as you gazed into the sea, somewhere away from the darkness, somewhere where you could both be free.
a/n: this took much longer to write than i expected. it’s my longest work yet so i would highly appreciate it if you left your thoughts in a reblog or my asks. thank you so so much for your time and if you made it this far, i hope it didn’t go to waste like mine did.
excerpt. “i loved her hard and at a distance, which made it easier to do, experienced brief but powerful compulsions to hug her and almost never did.” - our wives under the sea, julia armfield.
pairings. mark lee x gender-neutral reader, slight na jaemin x gender-neutral reader
genre. angst, slight fluff, best friends!au, one-sided pining
warnings. swearing. mark is so...whipped...it’s almost pathetic.
word count. 0.9k (teaser), 4.6k (fic)
notes. i wrote this way back when i first heard drunk text by henry moodie on the radio in february but i only got around to finishing it this week. ah, i still feel detached towards kpop but i feel like this would be something my old audience would enjoy :)) also, thank you @sulfurcosmos for helping me decide which dreamie to put under inexplicable emotional suffering HAHA
“Leaving?” Mark watched as a blur crossed the room, moving past him on the way somewhere he—in his sorry state of insobriety—couldn’t quite figure out just yet. The blur is you, on your merry way to take the unconventional route to the kitchen to fetch more drinks or heading for the backyard to take a dip in the pool.
Or leaving, because you stop by the doorway, picking up the sneakers you came in with as you bid you goodbyes to the others around you. “Already?”
The room Mark was in was a clockless one and with his phone dead, he had no way of knowing how late the night had gotten. Was it late enough to warrant heading home or just another one of the days you were up for hanging out until you weren’t? Either way, he still pushed himself off the couch, anticipating the nauseating world-spin that came with the sudden jerk of motion and waited for it to pass. Then he was fine—the world stilling momentarily—and he’s saying his ‘goodbye’s and ‘see you next time’s until he was out the door.
You hadn’t gotten that far yet, less than a house away when he stumbled down the front porch steps and trampled the front lawns of the springers. He was debating calling out to you to wait when he noticed you slowed your steps to match his, waiting until you walked side by side on the sidewalk.
He wasn’t sure how far down on the way home his thoughts shifted from keeping his walking straight to the rabbit hole he’d fallen into. Ever since the seed sprouted in the depths of his mind, he never was able to get away from it—tangled in its grasp and dragged down every time he was reminded of it. It was hard not to think of it when he saw you almost everyday, your image ingrained into his eyelids with the permanence of all those years of friendship.
Tonight, the thoughts loomed just beyond the horizon; from the moment you ran out the front door waving to your parents by the doorway, to the bus ride you spent standing together and trying their best not to fall over, to enjoying the party all the while looking out for where the other had gone.
It was always like this between you, a seemingly mismatched compatibility outlasting the average lifetime of a pair with a dynamic like theirs. People like you grew into something more or diminished into nothing, unable to withstand the test of time. Not you, though. Your friendship mirrored the way the tides shifted through the months, reaching far into the shore only to pull far back later on. He was the static sand of the shoreline and you were the tide, moving with the push and pull of lunar gravity; growing closer to each other until you overlapped then backing away but never entirely apart. Nothing more, nothing less and Mark was content with that.
Until one night—mid-summer—in a drunken haze he wondered if it would be wrong to want something more than just this and nothing had been able to quell the thought ever since.
It spread through his mind like a plague, an obsessive fascination of this possibility happening because it wasn’t off the table. They might work. And he would think of what it would be like to call you more than just a friend, to hold you closer than their current unsaid boundaries allowed, to feel your warmth against his—chest to chest with your hearts beating in sync.
The thoughts led him here, verbalized in the form of your name for the first time since its inception in the recesses of his mind.
You were still looking at him, arms finding their ways back to your side after pretending to keep your balance on levelled ground. It took one glance at your face, your curiosity warping into impatience, for him to remember what he was really up against. Every con listed itself in bullets in his mind, matching up against his established list of delusion-fuelled pros. What if you didn’t feel the same way? He’d thought about it before. People have taken bullets to the chest and lived to tell the tale, so why couldn’t he? But he knows it wasn’t just about the ache of the potential rejection, it was about every ripple and repercussion following the confession because...
What if he lost her?
And somehow that was enough to snap him out of the deluded trance, every inch of mustered courage dwindling as he weighed the possibilities—his losses always heavier than the probable benefits. Certainties, such as your being a part of his life, would remain as such until factors that could potentially affect it would surface, and uncertainties will, well, remain uncertain until further evidence would prove it closer to certainty than the former.
So, Mark shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Just be careful.” It was a stupid excuse but he knew you’d never look into it more than the fact that a man just tried to dictate your actions.
“How about you be careful and start minding your own business?” you answered, keeping a feisty fit until you broke into a laugh, filling the air of the silent evening. When he didn’t laugh along with you, you stuck out your tongue, leaping onto the next square on the pattern across the sidewalk with your arms stretched out.
You were right though. Between you and him, he had more chances of falling over even if he wasn’t hopping around. And if that happened, he’d be more than happy to lie there gazing at the semi-starry night sky—the road not taken lingering as a daydream in his mind.
description. the past ripples in the present, the currents of history crashing on the shores of the new day. in the halls of a place you’ve never been, you and haechan are caught up in a riptide—your paths always destined to meet, forever entwined and doomed to the same fate. is history really bound to repeat itself no matter how hard you try to change it?
pairings. lee donghyuck x female reader
genre. angst, suspense, fluff, established relationship!au, soulmates!au, reincarnation!au, museum!au
warnings. suggestive jokes, major character death(s), mentions of arson and suicide, reader’s discretion is advised.
word count. 14.1k
notes. 2022 really is becoming the year i finish ideas i had way back in 2020. i planned on making a playlist for this but, honestly, i only ever listened to all i wanted by paramore throughout the whole writing process. so go listen to the queen belt out one high note after the other and (try to) enjoy this fic bc i enjoyed writing it! :) | taglist: @rae-blogging @cavaree @late-minhours @soobin-chois @kkooongie @hyunkins @httpmuffin
Places you have seen but never been to hold a certain peculiarity to them, a veil shrouding its exterior in a mist meant to draw the eye in but never allowing anything closer. By virtue of human curiosity, you wonder what it keeps behind its closed doors, what entities fill the hollowness inside. There’s only so much you can draw out of your imagination, images concocted of what you assumed places like these would look like on the inside but you could never be certain.
When you look at places you’ve been, you see not only its windows and the solid walls that make up its exteriors. You see the partitions that subdivide it into layers, into floors, into rooms. You see the patterned tiles that people step on, the boards that line the ceiling, the doors that lead to other hidden nooks. Memories from before keep the place alive, each glimpse sending you back to the past in a half-second as you remember what you did when you’ve been there last. It’s normal, it’s human. Except when it shouldn’t be.
The mansion looms across the street from where the bus drops you off, its roof leveled with the rest of the buildings nearby, even dwarfed. What it lacks there, it makes up for in the way it occupies four lots until the next street—leaving no room for backyard neighbors. As you walk up to the front, past the shrubs that lined its front yard, its presence dawns on you. It was something that has been there long before you have, withstanding more tests of time than its modern neighbors that flank it.
When something is just there, you learn to underestimate it. The mansion turned museum was nothing but a view you passed on the way to the school, a break from the glass panes of skyscrapers and fences. The lot was encapsulated, shielded from the gust that aged the whole avenue through the past few decades. It has stood there since the 80s, built by the then president Na Minju as a guest house for foreign visitors who’d like to stay somewhere outside the capital city. You know little to none of its history, just how it nearly fell into ruin because of an accident and rebuilt for keepsake.
It’s the closest you’ve been to the mansion ever since but it doesn’t feel like it when you walk up the marble steps leading up to the entrance. Everything feels familiar, though you shrug it off thinking it’s because you looked at the mansion’s exterior enough that it’s embedded in your mind. Then you hear echoes of laughter down empty halls, the shuffle of heels and boots across a chessboard flooring, and a glimpse of an enormous chandelier dangling from the ceiling.
The images surge through you in a blink and they’re gone just as quick, vivid as a memory and fluid as a dream. You’ve never seen inside the mansion before but it feels as though you had it mapped out and memorized like the back of your hand. The feeling gnaws in the back of your mind, that unshakeable instinct that you have been there before, you just couldn’t remember when.
The others aren’t at the entrance when you arrive, the veranda empty and quiet. There are no plaid-bottomed people, no chatter of hyperactive kids burning patience to get inside. Your heels click against marble as you walk up to the tall entry way, its wooden doors open but unwelcoming.
“Are you here for the tour?”
You startle at the voice, skipping a few steps away from the direction it came from. The shadows by the door stir as a woman emerges, the pair of glasses balanced on her nose catching the bits of light from the outside. Without them, you would’ve barely seen her at all.
The woman studies you when you nod, her eyes falling on the patch on your left chest. She turns away, picking up a record book to hand it to you, “Fill it out. They can’t be far into the house, the tour just started.”
Nodding, you sign your name beneath other familiar ones. Even with your head down, you can feel her staring, the heaviness making you stiffen under her watch. Her gaze seeps through like she can sense your every motion, every molecule of oxygen that makes its way to your lungs, every pulse that drums against your skin. The heaviness of her stare is bone-chilling, making you just as aware of your actions as you think she is.
When you’re through with signing everything you meet her eyes and it’s her turn to startle when she’s caught staring. “Is there anything else I need to do?” you ask, handing the book back.
The woman shakes her head, “Go ahead.”
Your thanks comes out in a mutter as you turn your attention away from her and into the museum as your own tour of it begins. You still feel her boring holes down your back even long after you leave.
The grand entrance opens to a spacious hall, resembling nothing of a standard home living room. The room alone spans the width of the building with a ceiling too high for your own liking held up by off-white pillars. Blue velvet caked the walls in a muted lapis hue, accented by brown and gold that exuded elegance even at its age. Where standard lights should be are chandeliers, dangling in even intervals off a tiled ceiling, not as bright as they used to and leaving patches of darkness all around the hall.
There is nothing here but an unoccupied sofa set far too small compared to the rest of the room. You move along, your shoes tapping against the mosaic of tiles that made the flooring and echoing down the whole hall. The house is beautiful now, less beautiful than it was in its prime. The velvet walls have been recently refurbished and the pillars repainted, but there are indents and signs of wearing that were beyond fixing. It’s not hard to imagine how it looked back when it was just built, back when the president and his family walked the halls before it was left to rot. The house flickers where your gaze falls and you catch glimpses of how the house was like, what paintings hung on which walls, which doors led to which crevices. For a moment, you wish you visited the house earlier, back when its glory was in full display.
But the feeling washes out just as quick as it came like a wave crashing on the shore for a second before retreating back into the sea. Just as it would cost much to restore it, you knew it took a fortune to build it in the first place. The nostalgia for a place that you’ve never been vanishes, replaced by a twist that makes you sick. The house was built on a graveyard, its foundation the bones of those who were never allowed to step foot inside. It was pieced together, brick by boring brick, by those who worked tirelessly to make ends meet only to never receive the fruits of their labor; all of it funneled into the pockets of the rich and the selfish who never once lifted a finger beyond commanding those they looked down upon.
“You just got here and you’re frowning already?”
The call reverberates through the whole floor, the mansion’s closed structure only amplifying his voice. You turn to the end of the hall where the staircases are, twin snakes of steel twisting up to bite into the second floor veranda. Haechan leans against the railing, his figure standing out against the banister.
“Be careful, I heard they’re repainting.” It’s a white lie but it serves its petty purpose and he backs away from the railing, wiping his arm free of non-existent fresh paint.
“Funny.”
He waits for you at the top of the staircase and you take the time to climb up. The second floor follows the same motif; blue walls and accents of white and gold. On your left, the veranda meets with the mansion’s front wall.
“There’s nothing interesting there, just rooms,” says Haechan.
The pattern of doors and empty walls repeats until the end of the hall, this side of the floor nothing but a mirror of the opposite. “For a family of three, they have way too many rooms.”
Haechan tails behind you, shadowing your footsteps as you walk into one of the bedrooms. “They’re all guest rooms.”
“I can tell.”
“And they all look the same.”
Where you expect natural light to peek through was a window bolted shut, draped with a thick curtain spanning the height of the entire room. It was as if they meant for the place to remain untouched and preserved, mediating the effects of time as the years passed.
A single bed wide enough for two is pushed against the wall, adjacent to a tall cabinet with a full body mirror embedded to its door. The only other touch of life in the room was the low table that accented the center of the floor and the dresser pushed aside. Low things and high ceilings for not even middle-sized people.
You walk a door down, peeking through the doorway of another room.
“See, I told you.”
Haechan is both right and wrong. While the rooms contain the same essentials—bed, cabinet, dresser, table—they are arranged differently. The bed is pushed against the opposite wall, the cabinet sits beside the ever-shut windows. Your patience thins when you reach the third door, finding the same things in different order and you no longer bother to check the other rooms.
“Let’s go,” he points down the hall to the other end of the veranda. Instead of a front wall, the other end is a pair of double doors leading further into the mansion. “They went through there.”
You find yourselves in another central room, one that opens into new rooms in each cardinal direction except from where you came from where a grand staircase led up to the next floor. To your left there is another reception area like the one in the floor below, a ratan set topped with the same signages that asked visitors to not sit on them. Haechan vanishes when you turn back, the central room going quiet with only your footsteps echoing against the marble floors.
“Hey, _____. I’m in here!”
His voice comes from the other room and it’s the giddiness laced in his tone that tells you this is where he left off the tour to come and get you.
Through an arch, the room branches into a closed annex—a conference hall. A long wooden table occupies the majority of the space, flanked with a couple of wooden chairs on each side. You find Haechan at the end of the table. “Sit across me,” he says, slowly pulling the chair on his end, wary of the way it scratches against the tiles.
Your eyes pan over to the other end, the offer tempting, but you catch another ‘Thank you for not sitting!’ sign. “I don’t think we’re allowed to.”
But Haechan’s already making himself comfortable on the chair down the table, the chair creaking every so slightly beneath his wait. “That’s alright. No one’s watching.”
There is no one else but the both of you this far out into the mansion. Outside, the second floor is devoid of any footsteps and the closest you could hear of anyone is the muffled voice of who you think is the tour guide echoing off the walls of the third floor.
Haechan cheers in silence, pumped fist and all smiles as you cross the room to where the chair is, watching as you squeeze yourself between it and the table before you take your place. The chair doesn’t give way when you put your weight on it, sturdy even at its age. Neither does Haechan’s, even as he leans against the back, his figure dwarfed with the chair’s enormity. It’s taller than the rest of the chairs, matching only the one you sat on.
“Do you think people still hear each other this far away?” he asks, and you hear him but that’s only because you were the only two people around.
“I never thought of that.”
You try to imagine a room full of people and then suddenly, you weren’t imagining it anymore. The chairs on either side of you are occupied with men and women clad in fancy suits and gowns, their secretaries coming and going on call but never staying. The image transcends to reality when you look back on the table to find that it’s no longer empty. Gone was the flimsy signage, replaced with a half-eaten banquet touched with only gloved fingers.
Across the table, Haechan is in a suit of his own, his head cocked as he listens to the man on the seat closest to him. The air is warm with the presence of other people, the chandeliers are brighter. Pairs of lips open and shut, their mouths moving as if to speak but their words never reach you. Their voices come faint and muffled, grumbled as if you’re hearing them from the bottom of a swimming pool.
“Haechan,” you call out, expecting your voice to come out just as muffled. But he hears it through the barrier and the water drains out when his eyes snap back to you.
Everything is gone in a blink of an eye; the people beside you, the table cleared, the room plunged back into the eerie darkness the rest of the museum had.
“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Is there a ghost behind me?”
The boy twists in his seat, his head turning a complete one hundred and eighty to study the vacancy behind him. There is nothing there, of course. The lack of a presence comforts him just as much as it bothers you. A second ago, the room felt suffocating with the number of people talking all at once. You hear the laughter, the clinks of metal against glass, the shuffling of people filing in and out.
Clearly, there was nothing there. It wasn’t inherently impossible for a room full of people to appear and disappear in a blink of an eye.
“It’s nothing.”
The conference hall falls quiet when you leave it, back in the still state it had been before you walked in. Haechan follows you out, passing you to peek at the last annex.
“There you are! Where have you been?”
Even the new voice seems familiar when you hear it, your vision floating between the present and the past in a foggy haze that puts you off. Jeno makes his way down the grandiose staircase, his stomps muffled by the carpet running up the steps. For a moment you don’t see him in uniform; midnight black where there should be plaid print, a button-down where his polo shirt was, holding a silver pitcher as he rushes on his way down. Then the vision fades.
You shake it off, looking over your shoulder to call Haechan back to the central room. He emerges from the shadows with a smile on his face, agreeing to ditch the boring annex for the next floor.
Jeno waits half-way up, a sly smirk adorning his lips when you meet him. “What were you two doing?” he teases, his eyebrows arched.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Haechan answers.
You, on the other hand, don’t miss the chance to strike at the other boy’s chest when you walk past him.
The staircase spans the entire wall between the double doors and it opens to an even larger hole on the floor of the third level. The white marble of its steps is blanketed with a red carpet, its railings a brownish-gold. You feel the air shift when you reach the top and you’re unsure if it’s because of the climb up, or the poor ventilation. The air is thicker, humid now that you’re deeper into the house. Sweats beads on your skin but the surroundings keep it trapped in your skin, making you feel sticky.
The marble tiles end here, swapped with a mahogany floor glazed in a top coat that shines in the same way the tiles do. Your footsteps thud against its surface, the wooden bricks knocking when your weight shifts. The others are here, the floor noisier than the ones you were in. Haechan, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen.
You’re left alone in the main room, the voices of the others muffled behind the walls. The right wall is holed with three arches, each one leading into the bedrooms of each family member—one for the president, one for his wife, and one for his only child. Paintings occupied the spaces between the arches, filling the vacancy of the spacious walls.
You make your way to the back of the floor where the main attraction of the room was. It was the sole piece of the house you’ve seen whenever you looked up the house. On the back wall was a scaled portrait of the three family members, framed by white spires drilling into the ceiling. No other light in the mansion illuminated anything else the same way it does the painting, spotlights fixated and shining so bright the masterpiece’s blemishes are drowned out by the light.
Na Yeongsuk sat on a throne chair; her hands bright with gold and her neck adorned in stones that glinted even in painting. She wore only the best, the painter paying special attention to show that the silk she wore was fine even without you having to touch it. Her hair was pinned up in a halo around her head, an ironic show of her rule as the wife of the fifth republic’s president. Her head was tilted to the front, her lips never smiling.
Beside her, the late president stood in full military uniform. Na Minju had a chest-full of medals, each one representing battles won by the nation, each one he never fought. He pressed his cap against his stomach with a gloved hand, the other draped over the throne where his wife sat. Like her, he stared straight forward—stoic, uncaring. The coldness of his stare transcends the stillness of his image, a mirror of how his presence lingers in the present in the shadow of those who remained loyal to him and his family.
Then Na Jaemin, the sole person in the painting with a tinge of a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. But there is no brightness in his eyes, devoid of emotions like the others with him. He was at his prime then, sharp jaw, wide-eyed, and the epitome of a gentleman. He grew up to be nothing like he used to, a shell of the charm of his younger self, a man on strings in the hands of a dead puppeteer.
The main room of the third floor is mostly vacant besides the grand staircase and its banister, but not as empty as the floor below. All four quadrants of the room are alight with paintings and tables, one space even occupied by a grand piano.
When the others file back into the room, Haechan heads straight to it. A sweet melody fills the air as his fingers fall on the ivory keys. It’s a familiar tune but it’s something you can’t quite put your finger on. He picks up, the pace shifting from slow to an up-beat waltz. Before you know it, your vision is stirring again and it feels as if you’re both in the empty hall but aren’t. The past swamps your present, the colors of the walls more vibrant. There is a rush of people around you, people talking with no sound and they’re not in the same uniform you’re wearing.
But Haechan misses a note and the vision breaks. He tries it again, only to find that the key itself was off tune so he leaves it be.
“I’ve said this countless times today but I feel the need to say it again.” A voice booms through the hall, louder than any other whisper. Everyone else falls quiet as the voice fills the room, chatter turning into hushed whispers as a woman walks through the last of the arches and into the third floor hall. “I’m reminding all of you to please refrain from touching any of the items in the house, including furniture, paintings, sculptures, and pianos.”
The woman eyes the corner where the boys were, only to find the piano vacated and the people nearby looking at anything just to avoid her gaze. The rest of the crowd reenters the main hall, their voices no longer muted by walls and partitions. The emptiness of the house is filled with indistinguishable mutters, however only partly. Even with a few dozen people in the same space, it doesn’t feel crowded.
Your friends greet you as they pass, their cameras flashing at the portraits hanging on the wall and at the nimble artifacts that decorate the other spaces. The tour guide points at a portrait of the president and his wife on one of the walls between the archways.
“Yeongsuk, whenever interviewed about their marriage, always answered that it was fated—meant to be,” the tour guide says, followed by a humorless laugh from the back of the room. “She recalls that when they first got acquainted, she saw a red string linking her to someone in the room which she soon found out was Minju. She said that when her eyes met, she knew he was the one he was going to marry.”
“And look where that got us?” Heads turn to the back of the crowd where the boys are. Jeno meets the gazes that watch him fearlessly, an eyebrow cocked with the mixed reactions that stirred his audience. “You believe in that? Maybe she didn’t see a red string of fate, maybe she saw his bank account full of money.”
“Full of money he stole?” Haechan adds, his eyes elsewhere to avoid the stares bearing down on him. Watered down snickers fill the room, even a giggle bubbles out of your lips at his comment. But the joke isn’t funny.
The tour guide quiets the crowd a second time but it isn’t because she had something to add to her description of the paintings. When you turn to look back at her, you know by her eyes she took offense to it—the joke scarring her for all the wrong reasons.
It was during the Na regime that the country saw one of its biggest recessions. Corrupt practices went by unnoticed under the corrupt leadership. While the rest of the country starved, the rich managed to live in luxury, their lavish living at the expense of everyone else’s sacrifices. It was one thing you loathed about the house; the image of their bodies slipping down these wide halls while others roamed the streets homeless, enduring the most inhumane places just to have somewhere to rest.
You can’t help but pity her, the tour guide and her furious stare at the boys who made those light comments. To see these pieces of history preserved disgusted you, to hear the Na regime glorified, even worse. You pity those who have cloth draped over their eyes, blinded by the same people they worship. But what could you do when you’re taught to never bite the hand that feeds you?
The whole floor is divided by yet another wall but isn’t empty like its second floor counterpart. On its surface is a painting, the white base of the canvas completely covered beneath layers upon layers of oil. Unlike the family portrait, there are no lights that draw your attention to it, the image blending into the shadows.
It takes your focus to make out its details and you understand why it’s left as it is. The painting is too grotesque, set apart from the rest of its kind. It paints multiple figures but a single one takes your focus at the center, a limp man being dragged away with a trail of his own blood trailing him. Beside him lie other carcasses, some abandoned and others crowded. It’s the sole one that draws a scene out of reality, where the subjects don’t pose to be recreated. It tells a tale of an underground, a picture painted from memory of someone who had been behind the scenes of a gladiator show. It means to disturb the comfortable, to remind them what expense others suffer for their entertainment. You think the Na’s kept it for solely its history, its purpose brushed under the rug.
The tour guide doesn’t even bother turning anyone’s attention to it and it remains out of everyone’s focus, no one caring enough to ask about it.
“Let’s move on to the next room, shall we?” she says, not even batting an eye its way.
She steers the crowd to one of the entrances to the other hall, and even with the towering wooden doors still shut, you already know what lies beyond it.
“This is the ballroom of the Na’s where they held their parties whenever their guests came to visit.” The massive room makes up the rest of the floor, the counterpart of the grand entrance on the first floor. The ceiling is tent-like, meeting down the center of the chamber and held up with arches spaced out to keep it from falling. The floor is spacious and devoid of obstructions, the walls velvet decorated with paintings like the rest of the house.
But its center-piece is a showstealer, a chandelier with an enormity befitting the rest of the room. It hangs from a web of beams, clawing down on the air like branches of a tree with light bulbs for leaves. It dwarves all the others in the mansion, ominous with its enormity in the middle of the room.
Distracted, you don’t notice it when Haechan slips beside you, hooking his arm around yours before pulling over. “Let’s dance,” he says and the squeak you let out when you lose your balance draws the attention of the people around you.
Giggles and whistles fill the air as you stumble after him. The tour guide lets you be, remnants of what happened in the room before gone completely. Someone in the room hums a tune, the same one Haechan never finished on the piano earlier.
There are no lyrics to it but Haechan sings it like it does. He leads you with a single hand, gently tugging you by your fingers when you don’t fight him anymore. Others join you on the dance floor but you barely make out who they are as he spins you around. When you come right back to meet him, he holds out one of your arms, your hands clasped, while the other rests behind your shoulder blade.
“I don’t know how to dance, Haechan,” you tell him. Your hold on him is flimsy, your posture crooked compared to his.
But he keeps you in the closed position, clicking his tongue as he leads you around. You feel the eyes watching you from the sidelines, seeing how you fall a half-step behind him. His steps are calculated, mapping out the floor even when he’s never been here, while yours are always too short and off-beat. He spins you one way, slowly inching you both closer to the spot beneath the chandelier.
Your hold on him tightens. “We can dance anywhere in this damn hall, just not there!” you say, whispering in the most aggressive tone you could manage without letting the others around you hear.
He peers at you for a moment, smirking and you know he’s only going to ignore your warning, steering the both of you closer and closer to the chandelier. But you drop your arms, letting him go.
Haechan chases after you, grabbing you by the arm when you walk away from him. When he spins you around to face him, you’re met with another face. No, it’s the same face but his hair is waxed in a way that reveals his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced with a black suit with a tie to match it, and so is yours because of the lace lining your arms. The room is cold, the wind from outside sweeping into the room through the open windows. It’s dark outside and the lights in the room shine bright, a ceiling of faux stars over a sea of slow drifting people, all orbiting around the moonshine of the centerpiece.
He keeps one hand clasped with yours, the other resting by your waist instead of your shoulder. And it’s in the slowness of everything around you that you get a better view of the crowd watching, the mumbles they utter and the eyes that follow you as you sweep by. Couples flock around you but something tells you that you’re the center of their attention—you and the boy you’re dancing with.
“_____.”
The air feels humid again, the windows are shut and there are beads of sweat that dot your forehead. The chandelier hangs above you in its ominous enormity, looming overhead like it’s bound to come crashing down on you at any given moment. There are no eyes watching you now, no one besides the classmates who’ve lingered to take photos of the architecture.
You let go of Haechan almost too quickly, your hands feeling clammy from the prolonged clasp.
“You looked like you were enjoying the dance. I didn’t want to spoil it, but the tour guide said she’ll switch the lights off on us if we take any longer.” he explains, a humorless laugh following it.
But you only give him a nod, half-distracted, following the crowd out the ballroom and leaving him behind without meaning to. Still, you feel tethered to the spot beneath the chandelier in the same way a part of you remained seated at the end of the long table. Again, you try to shake it off, but the feeling lingers like an itch beneath your skin that you can’t satiate. It entrances you the same way deja vu does, tricking your mind into thinking that you’ve been in the same place even when you haven’t.
You walk out the ballroom through the other pair of doors, greeted by a wall of photographs—the only part of the mansion completely nonexistent back when it was still lived in. Numerous photos line the blank space, covering the wall from floor to ceiling. The photos are large, its content easy to make out even at a distance. There are photos from trips to other places, family photos of the Na’s along with equally powerful families, photos of the mansion back when it was first built, parties that have been held along with the guests that attended it. Dates and details were written in plaques beneath each photo, ending the series in the year 1984 with pictures from what was labeled as “The Last Party”.
“Trivia,” the woman upfront said, “the mansion nearly burned down in the 1980s during a party. Two people managed to sneak in, light a fire which nearly destroyed the whole place.”
Gasps, a lot of them, they fill the air before the crowd argues to call it an act of stupidity or a show of courageousness.
“While most of the guests made it out unscathed, it was that act that sparked the revolt that eventually put an end to the rule of the Na’s.” The woman goes on to explain why the third floor barely resembles the rest of the building, rebuilt on substandard materials to preserve the mansion’s structure rather than its original glory. The Na’s never set foot in it ever since.
It isn’t new information but it isn’t because it’s the first thing that comes up when you look the place up. You were there, the single thought dawns on you like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head—chilling your whole body and cementing you to the floor where you stood. The fear holds you to the ground, its enormity beyond the eerie atmosphere of the worn down place. But it’s the familiarity of the black and white images, the memories that resurface when you stared at it too long. You remember it like a memory of something that happened recently, vivid in your mind even when you’ve seen only glimpses of it.
There’s a gentle tug on your hand, a feeling you mistake as the images draw you to them. It’s faint, a mere brush and you barely notice it with your attention fixated elsewhere. You’re staring at one of the photos from The Last Party, one taken from the ballroom. The first family sat on two throne-like seats, flanked by their guests for the night. It’s a panoramic shot, women by Yeongsuk’s side and men by Minju’s.
By the first lady, there’s a blurred face, the image of a turned head captured as the camera flashes. Even without seeing her face you feel the tethers tying you to it, an unexplainable instinct that you are the one in the image. Because you can remember what she’s looking at, you can remember the reason why she turned her head in the first place.
“It was said that the culprits were photographed in these photos so we chose to hang them here as a reminder to honor what they had done or at least what they were said to be fighting for,” the tour guide says, humorous and mocking. “It was a rather controversial case at the time but it died out when the other party refused to speak about it on top of the eventual ousting of Na Minju.”
“What happened?” A single voice asks from the crowd.
It’s nothing you don’t know, and if it wouldn’t be off-putting to answer it yourself you would’ve. But you let the tour guide continue, “The culprits have been said to have committed a double suicide to avoid questioning and arrest. One of them was identified as the child of Na’s trusted generals, kickstarting the rumors of a coup d’etat stirring the military. The Na’s, with their dwindling trust in their own people, resorted to taking matters into their own hands. But we all know how that ended.”
The revolution, the inevitable oust, the victory of the people. Even without her dropping names, their faces pop up in your mind. The generals who plotted against them, the ones who turned a blind eye on their crimes as a show of loyalty. You know which general suffered the weight of the rumors of the uprising, the bitter irony that he never once showed any opposition to the ruling family. You knew who was to blame, the one he referred to as a disgrace, and you pick him out of the dozen faces in the photographs.
The tug on your finger comes again, this time earning your attention. A thread was looped around your finger, twisting against the small extremity from another entity’s influence. But you’re not moving, your arm glued to your side. You stood unmoving before the wall of photographs, barely taking in the surge of memories that come one after the other.
A blur of movement sweeps your periphery, a pair coming up to stand by your side. “You see that? I told you he looks exactly like you!” The voice belongs to Jeno and you turn to find him pointing out a face in the panorama.
The thread pulls on you now, enough to yank the finger out of the order it rested against your thighs. It moves on its own volition, tickling your skin as it twists with more movement. The other end becomes visible as another person walks over, the loop tied loosely around another boy’s finger. When you look at him, the thread stops pulling. Instead, it bursts into flames like your gaze had struck a match and set it on fire. It nips at your finger but never burns, licking up the thread clinging onto your hand.
“Donghyuck.” The name isn’t his but it’s what slips out of your mouth naturally. The surprise on your face is mirrored in his, moments before his turn into a look of confusion. You’re unsure where the feeling is coming from, the surge of panic as if your lungs were filling with water instead of air. It burns when you try to breathe, your vision clouding up and your heartbeat erratic, even when you know you’re in open air. Your heart pounds against your chest, loud enough you hear it pulsing in your ear. “Donghyuck, we have to go.”
He doesn’t move but the panic is blinding. Your mind urges you to run, unknowing of what you’re running away from. Around you, the walls are crumbling, closing in on your twin figures standing by the walls marred with fragments of history the Na’s want the world to see. The feeling shrinks, the beams groaning as they lowered inch by boring inch. The flame looped around your finger now stings but it never seems to scorch your skin. It zips across the space between you and Donghyuck like it was laced in gasoline.
“Hyuck!”
It comes out as a hiccup but where the flame touches his skin, he shows no signs of feeling it. You rush up to him, finally freeing your body of your own mind’s prison. You pinch at it, tugging it away, pat it down to let the fire die out but it holds. When you turn to look around, you find that the thread isn’t the only thing burning. The room is on fire; curtains, paintings, carpet, walls. Everything around you is engulfed in a roaring bright flame, crackling as it licks up the spires swirling to the ceiling.
“We have to leave,” you say, adamant, your irritation rising when he doesn’t mirror your worry.
Donghyuck remains immovable, like his feet replaced yours the second you were free from the burning flooring. Like everything else about your visions, you see him talking but his words are gibberish to you, drowned out by your breaths and the pulse drumming your ears. This was it, you were doomed.
The smoke grows thicker as you stay there longer, toxins filling the spaces where oxygen should be. Your hand curls around his arm, your grip tight as you try to yank him elsewhere. But you’re now too weak, adrenaline already dwindling. The staircase down is close yet it feels like an impossible journey. The smell of charred wood is nauseating, feeling it weigh on your lungs with the ashes you’ve inhaled. You cough between your words, your attempts to lead him out nothing but futile.
Donghyuck shakes your grip off gently but it makes you lose what little balance holds you up, your fall prevented when he moves just as quick to catch you. He holds you upright to keep you standing, even as you begin to feel your body shutting down. His hands are warm against your cheek, the finger with the thread looped a tad bit warmer. He’s saying something, another thing you can’t make out in the haze of your dizziness. His face is the last thing you see moments before your exhaustion pulls you under.
The party is in full swing by the time the person you were expecting reappears back in the stock room. The heavy wooden door groans as it’s pushed open, your panic making your blood run cold until a familiar mop of hair pops in through the door.
“Put that damn pan down, it’s just me.”
Lee Jeno slips through the crack in the doorway, pushing the door back shut behind him just as quick as he opened it. The air seals again, stilling now that you’re trapped inside the cramped-up stockroom. It feels hotter now with another presence sharing the oxygen, or maybe it’s just your heart pumping erratically in your ribcage. Still, now with him here, you finally take your first breath of relief in what felt like hours.
Even with Donghyuck’s word that this annex of the mansion would be devoid of people, your paranoia doesn’t fall tranquil. Rightfully so because you’ve heard footsteps drumming against the floor outside, matching the pace of your heart whenever they came too close. What would you do if they found you here? Beat them up with whatever item you could find so you could escape? What would you do then if you stumble upon one of their guards? That’s a problem for another time. You scour the junk pile for something lightweight but hard-hitting, praising whoever was watching over you when you come upon their kitchenware set, wielding a pan for a melee weapon.
Still, things have gone in your favor. The man you were waiting for was here now and the realization of what you were about to do looms over you like a black cloud sinking. The steel pitchers sit on top of the craters, the thick scent of gasoline nauseating but you’ve learned to endure it.
“What took you so long?” you ask. You don’t really know how long you’ve been there, no watches or clocks to tell you how much time has passed. It felt like a while, time stretched as your anxiousness grew with every off-sounding footstep, even longer with nothing better to do but to inhale gasoline. “Did we need to wait for everyone to be gathered in the ballroom?”
But whatever sign the man on the top floor sent you, it was here now—the wait was over. In the minutes you spent isolated, the stunt felt less nerve-wracking; your fear dragged out and lulled into a dull hum in the back of your mind.
Jeno eyes you from across the room, which wasn’t too far with what little space the room had. Things piled in stacks on either side of you, all threatening to topple over with the slightest misstep. “Don’t get mad.”
“Take your chances.”
He purses his lips, braves himself to tell you. It couldn’t be that bad, right? “Donghyuck waited for his parents to leave.”
It’s not as bad as you expected but the news leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. It wasn’t something you'd call off the plan for, nor something you’d hold against him. You take it easier than Jeno thinks you would, the simple ‘okay’ not being the reaction he was looking forward to. Maybe it was the nerve-wracking task ahead that made you think straight, rationality overtaking your pettiness. The difference in social classes comes clear at the final moment. You’ve spent a number of your dates hating the rich, loathing those who have the power to help others yet choose not to because who were they if there was no one to look down upon?
The thought of Donghyuck coming from a family like that annoyed you, even when you knew he couldn’t do anything about it. There was an irritability towards him that you couldn’t explain to his face, maybe even an internalized insecurity fueled by the hierarchy of social classes.
When he first started showing up to the rallies, you were skeptical about it, a lot of you were. Everyone skirted around him, avoiding him entirely whenever he tried to get more involved than he already was. There was an unspoken consensus, that he was not an ally but another attempt tof the government to source out who to question for information, a key to dismantling the growing resistance.
Looking back on it, everyone’s perspectives were valid. But it took guts to be the general’s son and to be openly at odds with their parents’ loyalties. Now, he was the ticket to the execution of your plan, the love-child of hatred towards lavish snobs and a collective worn out patience for a better governance—unachievable under a selfish man’s rule.
“_____.”
“It’s fine.” You tell him, trying to be more understanding of the situation rather than lashing out.
There was no time to police Donghyuck for giving his family a free pass when he was the reason you even made it this far. Far from what you’ve long grown up to, family was still family to him, curse his soft heart for thinking so. But of the three of you, if things went south from here, he had the most to lose. Turning a blind eye to this was the least you could do.
You turn your attention to other matters, moving to the pitchers lined up on top of the craters. One aisle of pitchers is filled with Coca-Cola, fizzled out with how long Jeno took to get back here. The ice you were keeping had begun to melt, the styrofoam boxes’ floor covered in a thin layer of freezing water. You fill the pitchers with ice one by one, the ice numbing your shaking nerves. It isn’t the best way to momentarily calm yourself but it works.
“These hold actual drinks,” you tell him, pointing out the distinctions. “These have gasoline.”
You pop one of the lids up, the smell of gasoline comes up like a fume that jams your nostrils. Jeno cringes. Having two people pouring gasoline around would be too inconspicuous so the other had to orbit around along with the other waiters to serve actual beverages—the both of you switching roles every other pitcher.
The stockroom is adjacent to the kitchen and you walk out to a flurry of service people, coming and going to fulfill their roles. You exit out of the annex, into the central room of the second floor. The grand staircase is decorated, its entryway accented with bows of cloth. You easily blend in and it kills you to bow at every elite you brush into.
Jeno follows you out but you lose him in the hall of gowns and suits, never imagining the third floor to be as crowded as it was. There aren’t that many people, you assume the rest are behind the closed doors—lost in the hypnosis of the ballroom. The guests here are chatting while walking, drinking and talking. The piano is put to use, ivory keys simulated by a man, and a soothing tune fills the room. It’s meant to calm those who've begun to drink too much, to let the mind rest, but it makes you restless.
You begin your roleplay of playing waitress, bowing at men in suits and girls in dresses and offering to fill up their glasses like the other waiters. Across the room, you see Jeno casually making his way around, mirroring your actions of bows and greetings. These rich people are simple-minded creatures, they love having their egos stroked. Any show of submission blinded them with a sense of superiority, everything else goes unnoticed. Jeno pours the contents of his pitcher on the floor instead of the glasses on the table—everyone who’s close to noticing, you sweep away, steering their attention away from Jeno as subtle as you can. Both of you work in tandem, in a harmony you didn’t expect you’d pull off that easily. You weren’t there to pour gasoline in the waiting room alone, the best people weren’t even here.
Some time into the second cycle, you decide to give it a rest, both to recuperate and rethink your strategies. Your sources were diminishing by each round and the ballroom remained inaccessible. You momentarily set the pitcher down on a table in front of you, taking a moment to breathe away from the gasoline.
But when you turn back around to the table, it’s gone—both the pitcher and the table you set it on. The room shrunk around you, the wide hall of the third floor turning into a meter-wide cubicle. A mirror hangs on the wall in front of you, the sink a clean slate of marble laid out where the table was. Your face is wet, water dripping down your cheek where you splashed it. Your blood boils beneath your skin, frustration mixing with your anxiousness that you went this far for nothing.
“If I didn’t come out, I wouldn’t have known you started with the plan.”
You spin around and find Donghyuck standing by the doorway. He leans against the frame, dressed in a manner different from how you always see him. He’s dressed in a suit, the classic black and white elite wear. He’s recognizable but not easily, his hair swept up where it should be patted down.
“The ballroom doors are locked, I don’t think they’ll let just any waiter in,” you answer.
“I got that covered. I’ll get Jeno in, but I need someone in the room along with me,” he says.
When Donghyuck comes into the light, he isn’t empty-handed. A gown unfurls itself before you, its skirts swaying when he lets it go. The dress is almost the same shade as the lapis hue that coats the walls, more vibrant and studded with silver that grint in the faint light. It’s a beautiful dress and while you know it’s something he’s offering you to wear, you’re not sure if you’ll suit it. Your disbelief tumbles out of your lips, your gratitude falling short.
You run your fingers along the bodice, the fibers fine against your skin. “Where did you get this?”
“Connections. I happen to have a lot of them,” he says, scratching his head as you check it out. “Try it, I think it would fit you.”
“I don’t think it would suit me.”
“You look good in anything.” When you look back at him, he isn’t looking. His eyes study the dress as he hands it, meeting your gaze only when you take it from him. You notice the moment he realizes what he let slip out, the dilation of his eyes when it occurs to him that he was thinking out loud. But he doesn’t add on to it. “Meet me inside. I’ll find you, don’t worry.”
He doesn’t wait on you, leaving you alone in the dimly lit comfort room. You strip out of the waiter’s uniform, disposing of it in a garbage chute beneath the sink which was impractical if you didn’t want to leave any traces. But if you succeeded with what you were about to, you didn’t have to worry about anything you would be leaving behind.
There is one thing you keep from it, a small packet in a ziplock bag that you kept in your breast pocket. You pat down the dress for any pockets, surprised to find a shallow one by the side that’s visible beneath the pleats of the skirt. You scramble through the dressers for anything, makeup to touch yourself up with, colors to smear on your lips, anything to make you a bit more presentable than haggard. Your hair isn’t as bad as you think it is, holding its place even after your rounds as a waitress. It takes a knock on the comfort room door for you to rush out.
Unbeknownst to your knowledge, you open the way to the ballroom. The chandelier centerpiece holds much of the decor, the meters upon meters of cloth meeting up in a swirl in the middle of the room. Tables full of guests make up the border around the dance floor, empty with no dancers swaying about. At a corner, musicians play jazz to accompany the chatter that fills the room in a consistent buzz.
When the tune switches from jazz to a more mellow song, the crowd woos. From his family’s table, Na Jaemin rises, ushered by the host to pick a girl in the crowd to dance. But the room is crowded, it isn’t an easy task. His eyes pass yours easily, not even expecting them to linger on you for longer than a second. He picks a girl from one of the tables close to you, noting that the girl hails from a family on par with the Na’s in riches. It doesn’t take long for you to piece that it’s scripted, a chess piece nudged by Na Minju to retain power over fields he doesn’t fully control.
You don’t move away from the doorway just yet, so you notice it when a familiar figure walks in. Jeno was now clad in a black vest, a permit for entry into the ballroom for those who were serving. When he passes, you catch a quiff of the gasoline—one of the pitchers he carried holding it, but you hope that no one else does. You try not to turn to where he slips into the crowd, doing his work in stealth. It feels like walking on a tightrope, how everything could be ruined by a single mistake.
Everyone else’s attention is still elsewhere, on the pair making the most out of the dance floor. It helps that the people here are half-intoxicated, senses dulled and easily hypnotized.
Jaemin, entranced as he was, turned his head too often to the crowd. His head would snap in a certain direction, eyebrows furrowed as howls of laughter erupted from the audience. With his patience thinned, he drags someone out into the dance floor. “If you’re such a loudmouth about it, come here and dance!”
The man he yanks from the seats stumbles, his head bowed in petty laughter. Jaemin stirs himself and his partner away, leaving the poor boy at the mercy of his friends by the table. But right as he’s about to take his seat again, his chair is occupied, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor.
“Looks like we have another young boy willing to dance!” announces the host and the crowd cheers, others laughing while others woo him. “Is there anyone who wants to share a dance with General Lee’s eldest son?”
He looks around the room, lost in the sea of attention. Mothers offer their daughters, never really meaning them in genuine interest in the boy himself, but in the influence of his family. Donghyuck stands at the center, his eyes searching the sea of people. He looks far and wide, turning in directions where you aren’t. When his gaze does eventually pass you, you feel your heart drop when he looks on in the same way Jaemin did.
In the seconds it took him to look back at you, you started rethinking whether he only needed you inside the ballroom to help Jeno with his work—the dress a mere prop to look the part. You feel the blood rise to your cheeks, the sheer embarrassment of getting your hopes up making you want to curl into a ball.
But his eyes find yours again, a second late as if your mind failed to register it was you the first time he looked around. He makes his way to the crowd, eyes following him where he walks until he finds his way to you. You try to drown out the wave of whispers you’re overhearing, the backhanded compliments both from the people around and the host whose voice was amplified by his microphone. He bows, shy and awkward, the way he would greet a complete stranger.
In the eyes of the people around you, you are a new face, nobody’s daughter. It’s all an elaborate act and you’re just there to play along. You’re hoping the Na’s wouldn’t pay too much attention, the strangeness of your face tied with the rationality that you might just be one of the people they knew by name not by face—not someone scheming on something.
The crowd woos as he takes your hand, leading you to the dance floor. The song is slow, befitting for the swaying that Donghyuck guides you in. His hand rests on your waist, while yours hesitantly brush his shoulders, free hands clasped together as the dance begins. You can feel the people’s eyes on you, even with the president’s son on the same floor as you were.
The eyes follow you even as he spins you around, catching you and guiding you as you waltz over the carpet—the ominous chandelier dangling over your heads but out of your worries. Donghyuck still belonged to a prominent family, his charismatic personality a show-stealer in conventions. But who were you? Whose daughter were you?
“Screw this plan, Donghyuck. We’re drawing more attention,” you whisper at him, your voice drowned out by the music.
“That’s the point,” he answers.
From the corner of your eye, you catch a dim figure moving through the crowd like a shadow, behind rows of distracted rich folk. Chatter envelops the room and with the music overlapping it, everything else in between was brushed under the rugs. You stiffen when the Na’s themselves rise from their seats, joining the people on the dance floor.
Donghyuck feels the shift in your hold, adjusting his hand to keep them clasped comfortably. “Keep your eyes on me,” he whispers, never looking. He squeezes you through a closing gap between two couples, spinning you at the next free space to guide you further away from the crowd gathering on the dance floor. But the audience who remained seated still have their eyes drawn to you, the swaying of black and blue still hypnotizing in the sea of dazzles.
You know his actions are calculated and it takes you longer to take into account why he was eager to steal the spotlight. He carries himself with a confidence that exudes his being, though it spills over and splashes on you a tadbit. It’s in the middle of the dance that you realize that he wants their eyes on him, on the both of you—the spilling of gasoline going right under their noses as their eyes are drawn to the subjects at the center. There’s the president and his first lady, the president’s son and who could be his future wife, the right hand’s son and the girl from nowhere.
He knows the controversy that smears his name, the rumors that he befriended one of the leaders of the resistance and became one of them. Of course, that wasn’t the entire truth, but does that really matter if it’s not what the people believe? Their version of the truth, the one glazed with half-truths and scandals made to appeal, would come out eventually—probably sooner than you both think. Your faces will be plastered on papers and shown on TV screens, regardless of how tonight ends.
In that moment, you realize that Donghyuck wants to be seen, your images embedded in their minds long after the night is over. He wants them to know that if this all goes up in flames, he wants them to remember that you’re the two people who planned it. Whatever happens, whether you get out scathed or die trying, you’ve done what you could to fight for what you believed in—for the betterment of the whole at the expense of a few sacrifices. Here, with your hand in his, the fear feels distant, your desire for a freedom withheld from you by the people inside the room clouding the possibility that this might be your last night alive. Then so be it.
A camera from the corner flashes once, capturing the dance floor and the couples locked in embrace. When it flashes again, you’re no longer on the dance floor and Donghyuck is nowhere.
The dance floor is empty, the ghosts of the tipsy dancers the sole things lingering. The air hangs heavy, alcohol mixing with the scent of gasoline. It’s a nauseating mix, the figures in your vision lagging whenever you turn other ways. You stand at the end of a row of women, squeezed against the body of someone you don’t recognize.
“Madam,” the man behind the camera peeks behind the mechanism, “move, if you want to be included in the photo!”
Complaints down the row urge you to move, pressing yourself up against the next girl even when you don’t want to be situated beside her, nor in the shot they were urging you to be in. You never belonged there in the first place. Even with your bodies pressed together, you feel the social divide. What you wore lacked in luster, your entire being not befitting the socialite status. They don’t even know you, but the mystery clouding your being doesn’t even suffice in making you pass off as one of them.
But the photo is the last thing you need to stick around for, the time bomb ticking its last seconds.
Then you hear it, the clink of metal against metal and your head turns. A lamp mounted on one of the tables toppled over the edge, shattering just as the camera flashes to snap the photo and before you know it, you’re running. Jeno’s silhouette slips from behind the crowd, out the door before the people around could realize what happened. The lamp’s glass shatters as it hits the floor, the fire inside meeting the thin coat of gasoline at rest on the floor. An explosion rattles the room, shaking the windows by the corner where the lamp fell.
The whole room erupts into chaos, the air growing hotter as the fire spreads across the floor. Panicked screams echo around the chamber, each person scrambling for the exit—but you’re already there, slipping past the door Jeno left open. You slam it back shut in their faces, hearing the doors on the opposite side swinging shut as Donghyuck comes out.
Behind the doors, you could hear their panicked screams, the exits barricaded by a wall of fire with doorknobs slicked with the same oil burning the rest of the room. You know the fire is spreading but not fast enough, because the hall outside the ballroom remains untouched. The guests outside look at you, their foreheads creased in confusion. The cacophony of screams is distant but audible. You don’t have it in you to act like you managed to escape before the others did, you’re no saint in the situation. You’re not here to clean your name, you’re here to burn the mansion to the ground with everyone in it.
“What’s going on?” a man asks Donghyuck as he passes him. The young boy doesn’t answer, his eyes fixated on you. He holds something in his hand, a gold rectangle fitting snugly in his palm. Without a single word exchanged, you get him and what he’s suggesting, the fate you’ve decided for everyone who chose to attend the ball.
You find the pitcher you set aside from earlier, taking it with you as you march to the top of the grand staircase leading down. It’s half-empty but it’s enough. You spill its contents on the floor by the steps, Donghyuck strikes it just as the doors to the ballroom burst open with a herd of people spilling out.
A single bodyguard catches your eyes, his face twisted in a permanent scowl. His arm is draped protectively over the president, the powerful man reduced to a spitfire of curses. He’s the first to identify you as a culprit, his face knowing that he’s looking straight into the eyes of the one responsible. It explained the stranger in the crowd, one he chose to ignore. And if he survives the night, he’s one of the few whose fates are tied with yours—who was he as a bodyguard, if he let things like this slip? You hope he realizes he’s a mere pawn in a bigger game, easy to lose.
“Get them!” The voice is hoarse and deep, only the first of the series of commands that labeled you as enemies of the state. Seize them! Kill them!
The orders are barked not by the head of security but the president himself. You don’t get to glimpse at him longer, the floor burning up as the lighter hits the floor. You rush down the staircase, never looking back. Heavy footfalls chase after you, thundering across the top floor as they try to catch up. The counterflow of people is harder to navigate but you make it to the annex where Jeno mapped an exit route free of waiting guards.
“Help me with this!” You look back to see Donghyuck trying to push a wooden cabinet to the kitchen doorway, a temporary blockade to give you more time to run. The wood splinters your skin but you can’t bring yourself to mind it. A single gun fires, the bullet completely missing you. It won’t be soon before they rain bullets on the room.
“That’ll hold, come on!”
You make it out of the mansion, slipping out a fire exit, an unguarded back door. The backyard is an empty lot, nothing but a helipad and a stagnant swimming pool. Once you’re off property, the soldiers would be easier to lose in the maze of houses. You try to hold, even as your shoes carve against the skin of your ankles.
Your vision shifts too many times for you to count. The place changes with every doorway you barge through, with every alley you slip past, with every corner that you turn. You run through the trails of a forest, down the sidewalks of city blocks. There are endless roads and confusing mazes, sceneries you couldn’t enjoy in your panic. Your feet throb beneath you, the switches in terrain wearing you down until you would rather chop them off than run any longer.
But finally, you stop somewhere. You don’t know how long you’ve been on the run from the world, unknowing of who to trust and which people to turn to. Donghyuck no longer wore his suit, your dress long discarded. The clothes you wear are inconspicuous, rendering you both invisible to the eye at first glance. Where you got it, you refuse to recall it; the thought of the extent you’d go for your own survival too horrifying.
You’ve dreamt about this house countless times before, the darkness no longer shrouding the face of your companion in a shadow. This part of the nightmare is always vivid, its ending unchangeable no matter how hard you try to change your choices. It happens everytime; word for word, detail by detail.
You’re not sure where you are in the city but you know that you haven’t made it far. The town you live in is small, the borders heavily guarded ever since the incident happened. There are trucks roving the streets night and day. You have nowhere to go, no one to trust, nothing else you could do but wait it out. But you couldn’t hold on another day without food, your throat dry permanently. Your feet hurt when you tried to walk, bleeding whenever you put too much weight on it.
It could’ve just been hours, a few days at most, since you set the mansion on fire. The whole city is on lockdown, searching for the three known culprits of the fire. You haven’t seen Jeno since he slipped out of the ballroom and with the tabloids still looking for three people, you know he hasn’t fallen into their hands yet. You could only hope that he was doing better than you both were.
You were stuck inside a room of an abandoned home, the first place of solitude you managed to find in what felt like days. By the doorway, Donghyuck listens for anything that could indicate that the soldiers were close by. In his hands was a pistol, a single one he managed to snag before you left the mansion. You haven’t had the chance to use it yet, saving the numbered bullets for the worst of emergencies.
You’re seated slumped against the wall opposite to him, your feet unrecognizable with the pattern of blisters on your skin. You lost your shoes today, your soles heavily wounded with the terrain you covered. The mere act of standing is an insurmountable task, shifting your weight even worse. You had no choice but to rest and while your feet throbbed sore, you could no longer feel the pain of the open wounds.
“We can rest for the night,” he says. “Then we can try moving again tomorrow, we might just run into Jeno.”
Or worse, the police. He’s been saying this for days now, his means to cope with the dawning consequences of your actions. You think it’s naive for him to keep believing that Jeno was still out looking for them—Jeno, whose family didn’t abandon him the way Donghyuck’s did. But you think it’s his sole beacon of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel. You don’t blame him for anything, his upbringing in silver spoons and rose-colored glasses clouding how bad your situation had gotten.
After the uproar from both sides, you might as well assume that you were on your own. There was no knowing who were trying to save themselves from the government’s wrath and who were genuinely looking out to help those who needed it. They were hunted down either way, unsafe in unfamiliar territory. There’s an uprising waiting in the horizon, a coup d’etat suspected in the ranks stemming from General Lee’s involvement. Whatever you sparked, it’s not large enough to overthrow the administration yet—the fire doused just as easily as it was started, in the same way the mansion fire died that night despite your efforts.
“We don’t have a night, Donghyuck.” The boy remains quiet, his shoulders slumping as he considers your words. “They’re bound to find us here. If they don’t burst in now, it could be any time soon.”
You know this because you slowed your progress down significantly today, catching eyes with countless military folk in this side of the city. You know they’re watching, they know where you are. They’re only waiting on the perfect chance to make the catch.
Across the room, Donghyuck doesn’t add on to it. It’s been an argument you’ve been having for days now, today worse than others with the weight of your injury. You barely made it through each day without being trailed, it’s a miracle you even held up for this long. But you’ve finally been backed into the corner, your feet utterly useless and you’re both tired fighting off something inevitable.
Tonight, he finally looks helpless—unbelieving of his own belief that you’d cross paths with Jeno and miraculously escaping the clutches of the military. The past few days show on his skin, sunken cheeks and dark under-eyes. You’re both worn out, will to continue going on diminished.
“How about you try to get away while you still can?”
Donghyuck’s head snaps in your direction, “And leave you here? I won’t let them take you.”
His voice fills the room, the first distinguishable sound besides your breathing. It shatters the silence momentarily, falling back into quiet as if it had never happened at all. It was a mistake, a dead giveaway that you were both in the house, in that room in particular if the right ears heard you. But it seems that you’ve come to terms with it, and so did he.
I won’t let them take you. It makes you smile because it used to work. His dad in the higher ranks, regardless of his reputation to maintain, let you off along with the others whenever he could. It was easier done than said, an automatic blind eye. Now that he was suspected for being involved, he was nowhere, not even bothering to look for his son. You figured that if this was the end, there was no way of justifying the means. To what extent did the general love his son, where did his loyalties really lie?
“They won’t take me.” The packet feels heavy against your breast pocket. You pat it out of the pouch, holding the plastic before the both of you. The pills hang suspended in the air in between, three lethal doses of a heart-stopping drug you kept in case the worse happened. “Not alive at least.”
Donghyuck turns the lock, hooking the latch on as the door’s last stand to anyone barging in. Walking over he keeps his gaze on either the floor or you, never once on the packet. The look he gives you is solemn, his face painted in moonlight.
“I can’t force you out of here, huh?” he asks, stopping by your feet.
“I don’t think I can take another step without falling over.” You wriggle your feet, wincing when a wound reopens. “You have a shot out of here, so take it.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” Donghyuck mumbles. “I dragged you into this, I planned the whole thing and you think I’d run away? If you think I’d do the same thing my father did, I won’t. I mean I think about it, but I’m not doing it.”
You find him staring at you in the darkness. The days have worn you out enough that his sadness doesn’t even show on his face. Where there should’ve been a gnawing grief for a life to be lost, there was relief. This was the end of the line for you, the consequences of your actions awaiting you like the jury’s judgment. You’ve reached the point of no return, the ending clear as day with only the matter of getting there.
Even when you know how this ends, you don’t skip through the few moments. The night is quiet, too quiet. The paranoia seeps into your mind and it has every reason to. You know how the night ends but you didn’t know that then, and you had seconds before you hear the first signs of them coming for you.
Donghyuck takes his place, tucking his feet beneath his legs as he sits on the space next to you. It occurs to you that you’ve never had him this close before, or you never cared enough to notice. Your hostility towards nepotism kids is mediated when it comes to him, albeit a little too late.
“I heard the mansion’s fine. Third floor was charred but no one died.” he says. It’s strange to feel relief at the news when you haven’t thought of them back when you doused the floorboards in gasoline. You heard the rumors too, but with the family’s history with lying to the media, you don’t trust their word on it. “Did you regret what we did?”
It takes you a moment to answer, torn between which part you were supposed to regret on—making it this far, or letting your conscience mull over the innocent lives that could’ve been lost if the house did burn up in flames.
Still, you shake your head. “No.”
“Even with the state we’re in right now?” Stuck inside a bedroom of an abandoned house, resting against filthy walls and seated on filthy floors. You haven’t had a full meal in days now, proper sleep for far longer.
Again, you answer with a shake of your head.
“Even if we die tonight?” Donghyuck asks, his eyes glinting in the moonlight as he looks at you. In the pools of darkness lies fear, right in the center of it.
Then you hear it, the first knock on the front door, the arrival of an unwanted guest. The fist rattles the wood, the thuds deep and whole. You can hear the jingle of the lock barely holding, the sound of a bolt falling off its hook.
“They’re he—”
He never gets to finish it, his airway jammed with the pill you chucked into his mouth. His hands fly up to yours as you reach for him, an instinct triggered muscle gripping on your wrist but eventually loosening. He remains quiet, never once shaking his head to get the pill out. You lift his chin up, watching gravity pull the pill down his throat, Adam’ apple bobbing as he swallows.
“I would’ve taken it without your help,” he says and you notice the pill taking effect almost immediately when he breathes slower, his words staggered between breaths that run out too quickly.
“I won’t leave you,” you tell him as his body slowly gives way to the drug, slumped against your upright figure. “Even if we die tonight.”
He never answers again.
You take matters into your own hands, untangling his slim fingers from the gun he held. Outside, the bangs get louder, no longer a singular force trying to break it down. The barrel is cold against your temple when you hold it but your fingers never bring themselves to pull the trigger. You’ve tried this before, always stopping on the second before you put your strength to it. A coward, even in your final moments.
So you resort to the pill, the two remaining pieces finding home in your tongue as you down them. It feels like the opposite of coffee, palpitations in reverse. You feel the drowsiness immediately, the world around you blurring and fading as the side effects kick in. The thud of the front door comes muted, their footsteps muffled as they race up the stairs to the only bedroom that showed any signs of living. If they wanted to, they could’ve stormed you through the windows. Why they chose not to was beyond you.
They try the doorknob once, then twice, concluding that it had been locked the third time. But even with the doorknob detached, the bolt remains intact. You’re thankful for the few seconds of extra time. Donghyuck’s head rests limply against your shoulder and you sandwich him in between—your own head against his. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought that he was just sleeping. But there is no breath fogging up the air but yours and soon enough, that would disappear too.
You die with the secrets of tonight buried with you. You wished you didn’t have to take the pill tonight but it was heaven compared to torture; death by your own hands a thousand times better a death from someone else’s. There is no cruelty beyond your shortened time, but you knew the consequences of your actions long before you agreed to execute the plan. You feel the wave of fatigue pulse through you, almost like the gentle waves that sweep the coast you lie on. You stared at the door until your own eyelids gave in.
You only hear the door being knocked down, the bolt finally giving. The footsteps drum against the wooden floorboards, louder than your heart when the latter was supposed to out do it. Voices fill the quiet room. To this day, even as the dream replays itself in your mind over and over, you still can’t make out what they’re saying.
When you open your eyes this time, the view is different, but you feel just as bad. You wake up with your chest tight, your heart pounding. The bed beneath you creaks as you shoot upright, tears spilling out of your eyes from sorrow you couldn’t quite place. When you cry it leaves your throat dry, your lips trembling. It felt like the first gasp of fresh air when you break the surface, all the while remembering the ache as the water filled your lungs. Your cheeks were damp in a streak to your hairline, you must’ve been crying for a while now—trying countless times to wake yourself up from the nightmare. You remember nothing but the heaviness that weighs down on your chest, the way it tricks you into thinking that whatever the dream was, it was real.
Even when foreign skin touches yours, you still feel alone, stuck in the space that your mind has trapped you in. The cage is further now, its iron bars off in the horizon, but it’s still there.
“Hey, I’m here. It’s over.” Is it?
You wander the fog of your mind, the anchor keeping you steady distant in the bottom but its presence keeps you tethered. The bed shifts as the voice moves closer, the tinge of familiarity sending a wave of relief through your unnerved system.
“I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you.” You wonder if he’s saying it in response to something you were saying in your dream. His arms wrap in a shell enclosing you, melting into him as you let his warmth course through you. He rubs circles against your back, quelling the storm that clouded your mind. He whispers reassurances, each one barely getting to you with the haze you were still trying to navigate through.
But you catch a quiff of his perfume, the muskiness of it colluding your system, and it’s the last tug that pulls you back to the shore. You’re here now, not in the void of the dream you couldn’t piece together.
You peel him away from you, one arm at a time. While your breaths shudder, cut every few inhales, you’re feeling better now. You’ve run out of tears to cry.
“Where are we? What happened?” you ask, brushing the back of your palm against your cheek.
“Outside,” Haechan says, “inside the emergency response team’s tent. You were saying things back there, I couldn’t remember what exactly you were saying, then you passed out. They said it must’ve been the poor ventilation.”
You nod, remembering the feeling of the room closing in on you, the thickness of the air and your chest constricting. A cacophony of voices echo in your ear, too many people talking at once that you’re barely making sense of anything. Even when it makes sense, you feel that the explanation lacks something.
“Why did you wake up crying? Did you have a bad dream?” Haechan’s hand brushes against your cheek, thumb brushing where another tear threatens to spill.
Why did you wake up crying? When you breathe, your airways are clogged, your inhales reduced to sniffles. The tightness of your throat hasn’t gone yet, even as you downed the glass of water handed to you. Most of the ache is still there, the feeling looming like a dark sky over you. Your chest felt trampled upon, the leather soles pressed against your helpless body even as you tried to stand. There is a heaviness you can’t shake off, one weighing your shoulders as you try to piece together the image of your dream from the sand beneath your feet. No matter how hard you raked your mind for the reasons, you just couldn’t remember.
“It was bad,” you tell him, “but I can’t remember what it was about.”
Haechan seems satisfied with your answer even when you aren’t, it wasn’t something that hasn’t happened before. “Maybe it was the place, the whole house was pretty but it gave me goosebumps where we went,” he says. You can’t see the mansion from here, the tent’s white walls blocking the view. You remember how the house looked, the ambiance, the regal majesticness of a piece of the past preserved in the present. The richness of its history bled through its walls, haunting even after decades. “If you’re feeling well enough, we can leave.”
“The tour’s over?” You test your feet slowly, your lower limbs shaking as you put your weight on it. Your soles burn when you press them against the floor, but you manage to keep yourself upright.
“You alright?” Haechan grabs you at the smallest sign of imbalance, his hold keeping you steady. “You want to go back? And if you faint again?”
“What about you?”
Haechan just shakes his head, the subject dropped without another word. You don’t question it then but you realize that you should have. There was something about the place, something about an inanimate object holding just as much personality as a person would—maybe even more. Something about the place and the tethers you feel towards it even when you were a mere visitor.
You walk away bearing a heaviness you can’t put a finger on, the ache in your chest rooting from something you can’t bring yourself to remember. You forget about it soon enough, just another bad dream better off left forgotten. But it resurfaces when you pass it on your way to school, leaving you wondering what about the place keeps you drawn to it.
Curiosity was one thing, a centrifugal force that propels the entire human race forward. But you were no influential person, your curiosity wouldn’t lead you places no one else has ever been. It was something you could shove aside for the betterment of your well-being, even when it gnaws every time you pass the mansion by.
Ignorance is bliss. Like an instinct, something in your mind tells you that things were better left off that way, knowledge locked away out of your reach. You don’t ask him about it, but things have never been the same between you and Haechan ever since.
description. when in doubt, have a karaoke night out. or in which the first real hurdle of your seemingly flawless relationship is finals week (and miscommunication and a tad bit of overreaction).
pairings. han jisung x female reader
genre. fluff, slight comedy, camping!au, established relationship!au
word count. 2.1k
notes. inspired by the jisung’s bit from skzful days in jeju #3 (min. 20:53 onwards). the one and only karaoke prince i will acknowledge.
You can hear him singing from half-way down the path. No, not really singing, wailing.
An exchange of glances with your friends assures you that you weren’t hearing things and by the way they turned your way and not at each other meant they recognized the voice too. So you trudge on, making it to the end of the path and into the clearing—a grass field supposedly for camping bordered by a ring of trees. Lights hang on wirelines over the head of figures moving around a long table. The voices are clearer now; two distinct ones amplified by microphones and a cacophony of laughter echoing in the background. The night was young but they’ve been out here for a while now, half-empty beer bottles and sauce-slicked chopsticks littering the tabletop from the hours they’ve spent in the open. Han Jisung stands over everyone else, gripping a microphone with one hand while the other conveyed what his voice couldn’t. The MR boomed through the speakers, his cries along with it, into the open air of the night as the others howled in laughter beside him.
“Oh boy,” Taehee says beside you, heaving a sigh just before you could.
It takes a while before anyone notices your arrival and even then it barely takes their attention away from the karaoke machine. Changbin is the first to acknowledge your presence, raising eyebrows when his eyes brush over to where you and your friends were. Setting his meal aside, he walks over to greet you, helping you with your things before heading to Saeyeon’s side.
“What’s up with him?” Saeyeon asks.
Changbin only blinks, a story for later. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“We kept sending texts but i don’t think any of them went through with the reception here.” You say. The phone in your hand shows no bars, a notification that your message failed to send plastered on your lockscreen. In your inbox, your messages remained either unsent or unread.
Out of nowhere, the boy bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he leads you to another table behind theirs. The other boys wave over as you pass, playing in on keeping the oblivious Jisung in the dark as Changbin instructed. You think it’s cruel, but nothing beyond the silly pranks they played against each other. He’s preoccupied with singing anyway.
Chan approaches with a plate full of what they’ve been grilling, “Glad you guys made it on time. They would’ve chowed this down in the next hour.”
He sits across you, bright-eyed and waiting on all of you to take your first bites after the long journey. But you know he’s here for something else, you can feel him straining himself from the noise the younger boys were causing. Maybe some kind of explanation, or better yet a way to make it stop.
He opens his mouth to speak, abruptly cut off as Jisung hits a high note, screaming from behind him. You stiffle a laugh, harder to do with everyone else on the table failing to stop themselves.
“Ah, I’m so sorry for that. He’s been like that since the ride here. Played nothing but sappy sad songs in the car I nearly fell asleep.”
The conversation stirs another way as Chan asks about your own trip here but you’re no longer listening, your mind wandering over to the karaoke jock singing one song after the other. Somehow you find yourself smiling at his antics, amused and curious how he ended up that distraught over something you had no idea about. The both of you were fine, right?
Right?
Until you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had any form of correspondence. The utensils slip out of your fingers, dully clattering on the wooden table when you set them down to scramble for your phone. You open your messages with Jisung, the last few being yours all dated today—either failed to send or unread. But before that, during the days leading up to the outing, there was nothing but his messages, your replies too few and too far between.
The whole scroll up are bubbles from his side, streams of messages from varying points of his day. On the other side, all your responses were nothing but reactions to his messages themselves and the occasional readily available emoticons. No proper exchange in over a week, maybe even more, and the length of your replies dwindling as the days passed.
Oh, poor guy.
“_____, is it true?”
The call reels you out of your own thoughts, your head snapping up from your phone. Hyunjin slipped into the space beside you on the bench, his hands clasped. “You broke up with Han?”
The reaction it draws from you is immediate, your eyebrows knitting together in concern and confusion. “No, who said that?”
The boy blinks, disbelieving. “It’s all he’s been on since we met up today.”
The rundown of the day is repeated to you with a few more additions. From Chan’s story about the car ride to Hyunjin’s account on the past few days with Jisung. He tells you that it’s easy to notice the air shifting when it comes to Jisung. Everything turns eerily quiet—too quiet even for their own liking, and that’s how everyone noticed and concluded that something was wrong. But no one has ever had the courage to ask him what was up. Except Hyunjin though, your local gossip boy with an undying curiosity for business not his own.
According to the information he gathered, the past few days were a downcast for the boy. He spent his days trying to understand that you’re busy while simultaneously not understanding why his phone was dead quiet. He tried to stay preoccupied, distracted, But there were only so many options to cycle through. It’s funny because Jisung was never one to take interest in anyone else’s hobbies but he’s been hyperactive the last week. He tries to keep up with Changbin’s workout routine even if it (nearly) kills him, staying after hours in Chan’s studio even when he isn’t asked to. At home he’s cooking with Minho or baking with Felix or developing a sudden interest in photography and painting. Heck, he even tries reading books. Anything to have company.
But the long days end regardless, boiling down into the quiet of his room where he has no one. Sometimes Hyunjin would catch him on the couch in the living room in the early hours of day, watching Netflix on the tv with a dead stare without acknowledging anyone else who enters the room. “He lived his days dead,” Hyunjin finishes.
The table is quiet, all intent on listening but confused on how to react.
Across you, a bubble of laughter escapes out of your friend’s lips. She turns to you, “You’re on finals for a week and this is what happens?”
A resounding smack echoes through the air between you, followed by a hiss from the injured party. “Be quiet!” Saeyeon sneers and Taehee falls quiet.
The retort falls dead on the other girl’s tongue when you glance at her, resorting to rubbing the freshly slapped skin of her arm instead.
“And then what else, Hyunjin?”
“Aigoo, uri Hannie!” The voice belongs to Changbin and heads turn to the direction it’s coming from. Beside you, Hyunjin picks the bucket hat off his head to put it on yours, still in on the prank they were playing.
Still, from beneath the hat you catch sight of him. Jisung walks with one arm draped over Changbin’s shoulders, hair disheveled like an open book on the top of his head. The gloss-eyed boy approaches you with red puffy cheeks that matched the color of his eyes, face obscured every now and then by the arm he uses to wipe the tears he’s been crying.
“Can you tell them why are you crying?” Changbin asks when they’re both standing by the end of the table.
You don’t think that he sees you nor makes out that it isn’t just the boys sitting around the table. Jisung shys away from the others, from you, mumbling something you couldn’t make out into the other boy’s shoulder. And before you know it, he’s a crying mess again, bear-hugging the other boy who couldn’t bring himself to shake him off. Then you hear it first hand, his endless list of thoughts he’d been keeping to himself. It’s the only voice you’re listening to, drowning out the laughter that had begun to erupt from the mouths of everyone else on the table.
Jisung lets the other boy eventually, sinking into a tucked ball on the floor. He sat there like a child who just got their toy stolen, knees tucked in his arms with his head hung low. And it's the last straw for you, their prank be damned.
You excuse yourself from the table, crossing over the bench to walk over to where he’s crumpled by Changbin’s legs. The latter was still muttering words of consolation to dead ears, the crying barely lulling.
“I think she’s going to break up with me. She doesn’t like me anymore. Where did I go wrong again? I tried my best this time.” He says through sniffles and hiccups.
“Who doesn’t like you anymore?”
“_____.”
“Me?” you ask him, “I don’t like you anymore?”
He buffers, the sobbing stopping as he takes in the voice and your answer. Slowly, he raises his head, his arms leaving temporary marks crisscrossing over his forehead. You notice the moment it finally registers, his eyes readjusting as he studies your face. He blinks once, twice for good measure.
He brings a finger out of his closed fit, supposedly to poke you, But you mirror it, forefingers touching by their tips.
“I thought you weren’t coming.” His voice is quiet when he speaks, hiccups butchering his words.
“I kept texting you that we’ll catch up,” you show him your phone where the messages you sent, or at least tried to, remained undelivered. “I even sent you updates, but now I know they never reached you.”
You both end up sitting on the grass, the leaves tickling the skin of your thighs ever so slightly. You hand him a bottle of water you’ve carried over from the table, which he downs in seconds—parched from singing and crying.
“What was it that you were saying, About me no longer liking you? Is that why you’re crying?” you ask him, ducking to try and meet his eye.
He shakes his head. “It’s just,” he starts, “the past few weeks, we barely talked anymore and I think you’re losing interest in me. I don’t want that but I can’t do anything about it either.”
His out of the blue confessions coaxes a laugh out of you, one you’ve been holding back on fear of being mistaken as insensitive of your own boyfriend’s feelings. But it’s a silly thing, a spillage of emotions brought about by the alcohol. “Hannie,” his fingers find their way to yours, intertwining in an odd way but at the very least in contact, “did I forget to mention it was finals week?”
He hides away, head ducked with his hair blocking your view of his eyes. “Yeah, you did mention,” he pauses. “now that I think of it, I think I just let my head get the better of me.”
You leave his hands to hold his face, soft palms on soft cheeks as you raise his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are shining, glinting back the light from the bulbs above like a lens. Carefully, you brush his cheeks, traces of his tears absorbed by the pad of your thumb. “I’m sorry I’m absolute shit at managing my time.”
He breathes out a chuckle, the vibrations jolting down your hands and through you. It’s then when you realize that it’s been a while since you heard him laugh a hearty one. The last few weeks were nothing but a monotonous podcast listening session of lecture after lecture, each one harder to absorb than the last. You didn’t want to fail, maybe that’s why you sacrificed what sliver of stress-relief you had left. But the exams are finally over, your schedule has opened up and you have nothing left to do but to make up for lost time.
Everything has lulled into a quiet that suited the Jeju atmosphere you pictured in your head. Without Jisung on the mic, they’ve moved on to calmer songs—the type that winded down everything until the karaoke machine is forgotten. The others on the table have moved to other things, others leaving to take a walk while some stayed behind to talk over spare grills. You marvel at how easy things could fall back into place in such familiar space, it’s something you never got to have away in university.
“So, there’s no other guy?”
You pat Jisung’s face lightly, a faint reality slap that’s more endearing less a wake up call. “If I don’t have time for you, what makes you think I still have time for others?”
excerpt. “i am afraid i will love you forever and we will never be in the same room again.” - clementine von radics, in a dream you saw a way to survive
pairings. ex!na jaemin x gender neutral reader
genre. angst, lovers to exes to ???
warnings. none, save for the whole thing being dialogue deficient and born out of rusty writing.
word count. 1.9k
notes. for @luvholicz, i know it took so long but it’s out! sorry if it’s a bit far from ‘our last summer’ but here’s the idea i got out of interpreting the lyrics. happy birthday!
You were waiting for something, you could feel it in the way your stomach churned in both dread and excitement.
There was something to look forward to today, enough to make the afternoon seem more dull than it already was. As time dragged on its snail-like pace, the view outside the glass windows proved to be more entertaining than the ink-marked whiteboard. Your subtle glances outside turned into long stares, the minutes remaining ticking by without much notice. When the clouds rolled past, the golden streaks bathed the room in a warmth that countered the ACs chilly breeze, the tail-end of the summer still lingering behind in the fall. The seasons have changed now, early autumn picking auburn leaves off of fragile branches. But there would be the occasional warm days, when the sun came out of hiding from the grey overcast gloom and bleached the afternoon bright. Today was one of them.
The professor’s voice had long turned into a jumble of words you couldn’t piece together. Every time you tried to pick up where you left off, you couldn’t do it—bewildered by how behind you became in just a few moments of spacing out. Your notebook was an avenue of your thoughts, pages mapped with ballpoint ink mirroring the paths your mind was taking. This wasn’t the first time though, the late afternoon atmosphere was more conducive for letting your mind drift than stay focused. With crossed arms and your head turned, you focused on the view instead.
The bell rang eventually, but your mind was long out of the classroom before you were. Your friends catch you down the hall, inquiring on why you weren’t walking in the direction you normally would. In your mind, you didn’t know why either, but you answered that you were headed somewhere. Someone wanted to meet up with you, someone you knew but couldn’t pinpoint. They showed no surprise and they waved you off—no one prying, no one teasing, no alarms raised. Almost as if they knew who you were meeting with even when you didn’t.
You wound up at a cafe, one you’re not quite familiar with on the other side of the city. All white walls with touches of beige, the air full with the buzz of conversation and the thick scent of beans brewing. Your drink rested idly on the table, stirred but barely consumed, beside your laptop and your textbook. All of which taking up only half of the table space, the opposite side left untouched and barren.
The doorbell chimed as someone walked in, drawing no one else’s attention but yours. He’s only half way in when your mind clicked, certain that it is him that you were looking at. You recognized him by the way he moved, all too familiar to mistake as someone else. He greeted the staff as he passed the counter, clad in the same cool calm demeanour as he looked around. But a part of your mind knew he wasn’t here by coincidence. He wasn’t searching for an empty seat, no, he was looking for you.
Jaemin caught your eye the second time he scanned the view, eyes wide with recognition before he finally made his way over to you. It’s him again—just like the daydreams from years ago, but there was no stunned silence when you greeted him, as if you were already expecting that he would be the one you were meeting. Why he would want to see you after so long was beyond you, but you couldn’t think of that as he slipped into the seat across the table. His movements were robotic, almost laughable, it’s how he’s always been around you. The same satchel was draped over his body, worn out leather and rusted rings, the only change being his sweater.
There is no bitterness where you expect it to be, the blood boiling beneath your skin calming on the moment you needed it most. It felt like disrespect to your past self, to fold your cards on the one time you were so close to winning. You’re unsure if it’s a change of skin, emotional growth in the form of letting go instead of holding grudges. You felt your anger lifting off of you, dissipating into nothingness in the shared space between you.
His stoic face broke when you met each other’s gaze again and just like old times, he smiled. For a moment it felt like time hadn’t passed at all.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said and you never realized how much you missed his voice until you heard it then.
“It’s alright,” you reassured him, because 3 years were nothing compared to a few minutes off 5 o’clock in the afternoon. “I don’t mind.”
Things are different this time just like he promised. You’re not seventeen anymore and it’s been a while since you both heard from each other. He’s grown a little taller, cheeks a little fuller. His under eyes were darker like everyone else your age but he looked refreshed—a butterfly out of its cocoon. College must’ve turned out well for him.
Across you he took his things out one by one, the afternoon turning more casual than you expected it to be. The moments of awkward silence were few and far between, occupied by glances of disbelief at each other—unbelieving that you could ever meet again. There were no talks about the past, about what happened. The closest address to it being when you asked him what he’d been doing so far and he told the story of getting his degree, the trips he’d gone to, everything. Then you strayed a bit further, asking about his career in photography. A wave of anxiousness washed over you, the lingering fear that it might be the question that shattered the warm atmosphere. You again, with your hold too tight that he’d want nothing else but to break free from it.
Yet, he’s only surprised that you remembered. Of course you did, you remembered too much of him, it’s almost sickening. The memory of him was locked in a vault in your mind, revisited every now and then, not out of longing but to reminisce about the good parts of the only romance you’ve ever known. The span of three years dwindled into a day in your mind whenever he crossed it. All the songs tied to him were still tethered, all the places you’ve been are now barren but full of memories of him, with him.
You fell back into silence after but it’s one that is comfortable, and he let you go about doing your schoolwork. Beneath the table, your legs brush, and there’s a quiet exchange of apologies but nothing more. It didn’t feel like the first time you’ve met in a long time, it felt like a regular thing. There were times when he reached across the table, setting your things aside to hear him out.
The early evening went on like that. The sky outside darkened ever so slightly, sporting a pinkish sky even in the later hour. Time went by unguarded, whatever track of it you had, gone. For now, he was sitting across from you just like he always did whenever he revisited your mind. You felt the fabrication of his existence but you didn’t know how to break out of it. Maybe because you didn’t want to, not yet.
The cafe grew dull eventually and you headed for the streets, freshly lit with sidewalk lamp posts as the dark night sky began to creep in. You walked side by side, letting the cars rush past you only to be stumped by crossroads where the traffic lights haven’t changed. You walked on, Jaemin taking up the empty air as he rambled on about anything and everything. But it felt redundant, like everything he said was nothing you didn’t already know about him. But even then, you wanted to stay here, where the sun no longer burned your skin yet it was still light enough to see around. The sky was pinkish burning into purple and that’s how you knew that daylight would be gone soon, taking Jaemin along with it.
“Hey!” His voice came sharp, a cut through the wind and you felt yourself fall backwards. The endless sidewalk finally turns into a busy street where a car raced past you, the first shift in the dream. “You’re still a careless pedestrian, huh? Nothing much has changed.”
You noticed his hold on your backpack, his fingers hooked on the loop he used to yank you back onto the sidewalk. He doesn’t touch you. And there’s an urge to close what little distance was left, to hold his hand, to press your palm against his, to intertwine bony fingers, to feel his warmth. But you know what happens the second you touch his skin. Yet, it’s an irresistible temptation. Now you understand why Aurora pricked her finger on the needle of the spinning wheel.
Then, you wake up. It happens the second your skin brushes his and he’s gone before he could even look back at you.
The busy street disappears and you’re back in your bedroom, coiled in blankets in the chilly room. There are no car honks, no streetlights, no sidewalks, and no Jaemin. There hasn’t been for three years now.
It was the first dream in a long time. You knew right from the start with the way time drifted, in the way the rest of the cafe wouldn’t materialize around you. It was nothing but a blur of white and the background noise of faceless people chatting. The only things that remained clear were your things, your table and the once empty seat. Jaemin, the central focus of the dream, was crystal clear as if you last saw him yesterday.
You thought the dreams ended long ago but you could never be spared from something open-ended. It was a coping mechanism, one you dwelled in even with its heavy fabrication. It was your mind’s way of giving you the closure he never did. And because it’s been years since then, the scenery has changed. There were no longer any angry confrontations, just a resolution of something that started and was never properly ended.
You know it could never happen in reality because Jaemin could be in the same room as you and he’d act like you’ve never met at all.
There will be no acknowledgments, just the mere passing of eyes that never last long enough. Maybe he’ll look over once but you’ll never catch it, and you’ll make sure to look when you’re sure he isn’t paying attention just to make sure it really is him at the other side of the room. He’ll be around people you don’t know, a new set for the new him—a new world that you’ll never be part of. But you’d be with people who never knew what ensued between the both of you. Your lives have long split from the point of contact, lines meeting once at the point of intersection and never rounding back to meet again. Whatever remnants of the days you shared were buried in the past, erased from the present except in traces left in the depths of your subconscious. Nothing more, could be less—should be less.
