The Squid System — Co-frontmen.
Summary: Post Season 3, Frontman doesn't run the korean games anymore, but he gets assigned to the U.S. ones, that he now needs to run alongside Gihun, all while handling Young-il's safety, switching, and any other symptoms that come with his dissociative identity disorder. Enjoy!!!
Running death games alongside Player 456 is bound to be a challenge. Frontman doesn't expect it to swing leisurely like any other year. Each game weighs down on Gihun like a new added scar, so Frontman prepares to be a bandage for him. Support him through the stressful mess.
He's not prepared for the active on-going rebellion that Gihun throws at him. 456, turns out, has decided to be a brat, and wastes no time causing him issues.
His first strike comes minutes after they board the airplane heading for the United States. No-eul swings by to their assigned seats to hand Gihun a white mask, made for his features and only his features. A flowy design that Frontman had custom ordered, made and paid for. Young-il said would suit him... Gihun, all but threw it on the clear table between them, his fists white-knuckling around the curved material. It's shocking he left no crack.
"What if I won't wear it? At all?" Gihun countered.
Frontman cocked an eyebrow at that. He was hoping to sip champage by the time the argument would arise...sadly, there's no alchool on his tongue or down his throat, his brain much too sober, and much too aware of how Gihun sounds like Young-il.
"...Surely you remember the island." Frontman challenges, a ball raised to the net for him to ping-pong.
"...I try not to." Gihun says, throwing that ball over in his court.
He gets back a displeased scowl...because it's not the answer Frontman was hoping for.
"...There's a scan inside the elevator that only you, me and my officer, Ri-jin, can bypass. It scans your mask. Without a mask, you won't leave the room. You'll be confined to the upper floors." Frontman explains.
His aggravated glare pierces through the white piece, like he can destroy it if he only stares it down hard enough. He doesn't lift his eyes to Frontman when he speaks.
"What if I take it off after the scan?" he points out.
"...That would mean you're walking around maskless."
"You got an issue with it?" Gihun jumps, his glare finding Frontman's across the space between them.
He pictures 456 walking the management area without a mask. Every U.S. guard seeing his face. Everyone able to gauge his mood. Or worse than that, misplacing the mask somewhere aimless around the control room, a free key for anyone willing to have it. Risking access to the upper floors because he won't stick a piece of plastic over his face.
It's such a hubris argument.
"I do got an issue with it." Frontman says. "You're putting us in danger if you do that." Behind Gihun, a flight attendent approaches, her hands full with two glasses and a bubbling bottle of champagne "...So you do that, Seong Gihun. See what happens." Frontman warns, ending the disscusion right when the alchool begins pouring.
It was a warning. To keep himself safe, with multiple people sharing his body, often proves challening enough. He doesn't need more unnecesary risks over 456's moral trolley dilemma.
Second strike comes in the early hours of the morning, a few hours after landing the plane. Having to be up when even the dead get their rest would put any man in a mood so Frontman's not surprised to find tensions between soldiers. There's exhaustion clinging to each pink suit, present in muffed cusses and hunched shoulders, paired with weary choppy moves. Wheter they bear the U.S. flag on their shoulder or the korean one, everyone looks miserable. Tired with a full day of work ahead.
Everyone but Gihun, that runs on just enough fuel to not spare anyone his glare. If stares would kill, some soldiers would drop dead under the former player's assesment.
One of the U.S. men steps closer, beginning to fill a raport regarding the new players arrival. Some have already been stripped, searched and changed into their respective tracksuits. Others have yet to arrive, while some seem to have bailed last minute. A no-show. Nothing that Frontman hasn't seen before, along the years. He's about to authorize moving the few that have been handled over to the dormitory when korean words explode to his right. Not at him. Not at the U.S. soldier speaking. No. Gihun took the liberty to walk a few feet away from him, having something to the share with one of the korean guards.
His words echo loud into the control room, distorted by the white mask that he finally decide to throw over his face.
"You think you're big fucking man cause you're killing for cash?!" Gihun yells.
The U.S. soldier stops his raport. His face isn't visible through the triangle plastic, but confusion is written all over his gestures. He needs a translation. Frontman hasn't yet met one U.S. soldier that can speak his language. In such situation, perhaps its for the better.
The korean soldier understands Gihun much too well. These are the same men and women that had guns pointed at him multiple times, when 456 was a player. Perhaps that memory flares their temper, because the guard lifts their rifle in a threatening gesture.
Gihun wastes no time running his mouth, in response.
"What, you wanna fire? Shoot me?" Gihun yells. He adds a scoff when the guard makes no move to press the trigger. "You can't do that now, can you? I'm not a player anymore, I got rights now! Besides, I can grab any gun in here so let's fucking go! C'mon!" he challenges.
The open threat gets Frontman near him in three long strides, silent but close behind — that pushes the soldier to reluctantly back off, hands off the rifle strapped over their chest.
Gihun doesn't drop his argument, barely paying Frontman a glance.
"Yeah, smart choice!" 456 calls after them. "Go fuck yourself before I smash those toothpicks you call bones with a bullet!" he feels the need to add.
He makes sure that his stance is the first thing Gihun notices when he swings his face towards him, even if hidden by his mask. He means it to look intimidating. Towering over his space, despite the height difference. A show that he crossed a boundry.
If he'd stand so close behind any of his men, they'd scramble for an apology on the spot.
Gihun doesn't. Perhaps its the hours that Young-il has spent with the man, or the fact that Frontman has gotten used, even fond, of his temper, but it barely phases 456.
Before Frontman can open his mouth, he finds arms caging his neck, weighing over his shoulders. Tightening around him.
He's...hugging him. For support.
"I hate all of them." Gihun whispers close to his ear.
His chest heaves with whatever tension has been chewing him since stepping foot out of Korea. It crashes into Frontman's own sternum, like a heartbeat.
He can't quite find a response. If Frontman would remember everything, perhaps he'd share the same resentment. Perhaps he wouldn't. His memories are fractured because of his disorder, but even so, Player 132 never seems to find much enjoyment striking down on soldiers. Or hating them.
Gihun seems to make it a full-time job.
"Young-il? Your boyfriend's losing it...again." he thinks to him, but hears nothing, radio-silence with no response from Young-il.
Frontman sighs. Perhaps he doesn't know what to say because there's no words to be said.
"...I know." Frontman says in the silence, letting the words settle between them.
Perhaps all Gihun needs is to be held for a moment.
__________________________________
Two strikes — and the first bullet hasn't even fired. Inside Frontman, there's a strange battle of wills, between wanting to cut the man some slack but not wanting to end up neck-deep into another rebellion.
This is the same man that killed half his soldiers. The very reason he now has to speak english and host american games, rather than korean ones.
He can't underestimate Gihun.
"...Front?" someone asks through his thoughts.
It takes Frontman a second until he recognizes Young-il's presence.
"...man." Frontman teases, in his head.
Laughter sounds in response. The joke's long smoked, so old it feels outdated, but a classic inside their system. If Young-il asks for front, Frontman responds with his name. Almost nevers fails to make him laugh.
"Nooo...I meant I want front...!!!" Young-il clarifies. "How long until the first game?"
Too long and not enough at the same time, Frontman thinks to himself. He knows it's about one hour left. Only getting to use the body for 60 minutes until Frontman needs to take over again will likely annoy Young-il, he can already hear the protest, but if Frontman denies him front now, he knows he'll spend the full 60 minutes hearing about it in his head. Over and over again.
Young-il's not wrong for wanting to switch. Letting other alters use the body is a price Frontman must take, even if he's paying in risk.
"One hour." Frontman sends through his thoughts. "You get one hour. Sounds good to you?"
Frontman stops in his tracks. That stupid imagine — a damn good vivid imagine that has him needing to blow a breath. Sharing his brain with a gay man obsessed with a lover player. What this disorder has him do...
"...I'm staying close. We're working, Young-il." Frontman says.
"...Don't worryyy..." Young-il drags out his words.
It's a teasing tone that Frontman heard plenty throught the years, but its enough to let him know Young-il's fooling around. So he doesn't stall anymore, slowly stepping back to allow Young-il full control of the body, while he watches from the side line.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
American games are not build like the korean ones, its the first thing Young-il notices. There's no overlapping staircases painted in bright colors, thick enough to stop a bullet. Instead, everything's more simple. Exposing the players on most angles for their eventual death. Less of a statement, more of an easy kill.
Young-il tears away his gaze from the staircases, as soon as the thought hits him. This place is build for killing people. It makes a show of it. At least in Korea, walking around didn't feel like it, but everything here does.
He's been walking for the past 20 minutes, roaming the place in search of Gihun. No success. A few korean soldiers walked alongside him, chatting to american ones, but no one stopped him for question, he didn't stop them either.
There's one rule Young-il learned soon enough in here. He needs to act like he runs the place, no matter what. Like Frontman does. As far as he's concerned, he's Frontman inside these walls.
Gihun stands out amongst any soldiers dressed in a matching suit that's a pristine white, a direct contrast to the gray Young-il wears on him. Only difference between them.
With his back turned, Gihun doesn't notice Young-il until his hands are on him, grabbing at his sides, chin coming to rest on his shoulder.
Gihun must have gotten good at picking up who's in front...because he grins, reaching for Young-il's hand. He knows it's him like he knows the sky is blue. There's barely any doubt in his touch — and that alone has Young-il wanting to jump on him. He never thought he'd have someone that knows him, let alone all of him.
"Standing all by yourself in such a place?" Young-il teases him.
He gets a huff in response, distorted by the white mask that covers Gihun's features. His other hand, the one that's not on Young-il, rushes to his pocket. Then to the side of the wall.
If Young-il wouldn't know any better, he'd say he looks nervous. Tense, even.
Guilt follows that thought because of course he would...he's alone, having to run this place that kills people like him. Like Young-il too.
"I'm sorry..." Young-il follows. "I only meant—what are you doing here anyway? We can go upstairs, we have the suite for ourselves...only for about one hour until the first game which is really annoying when you think about it, but I think—"
"...what?" Gihun says, interrupting Young-il's yapping. His tone sounds confused. Then he does a quick head-shake like he flies off a thought. "Whatever you want, jagi." Gihun adds.
If it wasn't for the confusion, Young-il would've brushed it off. There's a lot of reasons to be distracted in this place. But he looks more than distracted — Gihun looks cornered. Concerned? The opposite of how he should look with his body caged between his arms.
He said whatever he wants...Young-il picks what he wants.
"I'd want to know what's got you looking like there's a ghost on the wall. Does it have something to do with whatever's in your pocket?" Young-il says. His hands travel to the lower sides of Gihun's body, which has him react immediately, wanting to twist away, angle his body towards him.
He should, he knows he should, but curiosity's one of his worsts enemies.
"Are you tryna steal? Something else other than my heart?" Young-il teases, reaching for his pocket.
"Jagi, come on...Get off." Gihun half-protests.
Young-il's fingers slide inside his pocket, where he finds...paper. Pieces of paper, neatly folded. Each one rustles between his knuckles like lottery tickets.
"Are you betting on horses again?" Young-il says, pulling one at random.
What he finds is both worse and better than what he thought. He only needs to look over it once for the pounding headache to swing to the side of his head in full force. Frontman, pulled close. Close enough to see, feel and read what Young-il's reading.
Though, thankfully, the man doesn't shove Young-il out of front. Not yet, at least.
Caught between Young-il's knuckles, the piece of paper is scribbled with a black pen, in Gihun's handwritting, each letter thin and looking rushed but elegant. He jotted each word down quick, written in one column.
Game 6: Duck, Duck, Goose
Only one skimp over it and Young-il feels himself slipping. A wave of anger pulses through him. That feels nothing like him. He looks away, blinks, but words slip out.
"What in my fucking dick is this?" Frontman says.
Young-il grumbles. For fuck's sake, he's not angry at Gihun for this, but he's no longer in control.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
"How many of these you got scattered around the building?" Frontman questions him.
His head pounds with the switch which doesn't help his anger in the slightest. He runs a hand through the bangs that cover his forehead, a habit he has after switching, since Young-il decided he wants bangs that feel nothing like himself.
He can't see Gihun's face under the white mask, but when he decides to grace him with an answer, it sounds like he's grinning.
"...A few tens. Under a hundred." Gihun says
Frontman deadpans under his own mask.
"...Strike three." he mumbles over the voice modulator because he's been counting these outbursts and he's had just about enough.
He needs to call his officer about it, try to find as many of these notes as possible, maybe conduct a search for the remaining few. It's not fair to lay hands on every player out of nowhere — he can't just search them because he feels like it.
Though he can already hear Ri-jin suggesting it.
"What are you gonna do about it?" Gihun challenges.
His voice cuts through Frontman's thoughts, only putting him in a worse mood.
"Maybe I'll give you a lash for each of these, would that help?" he threatens, despite knowing it's an empty threat.
More often than not, Frontman takes the slaps rather than hand them out. He knows its his job. He split to protect them, and if that means taking a hit for them, he does so without question.
Then there's the times Young-il disagrees with whatever Frontman decides its not safe for them. He's taken a few slaps from Young-il over it. But in the end, they're safe which is what matters to him most.
He won't lay hands on Gihun, but damn if he doesn't think he deserve it.
"Go upstairs." Frontman adds.
"I'm not done." Gihun says.
Frontman pauses. Maybe Young-il senses that he's about to share punches with his boyfriend because his voice echoes through his head.
"Can you behave? Please?" Young-il urges him.
"Can he?" Frontman sends back.
Behave is exactly what he doesn't do right now. Frontman forces a breath out.
"I think you are done." Frontman says. It would be safer to to save it for their time alone, not out on a random hallway, he knows this. He's about to leave it here, but he can't keep his mouth shut. "For the record, name me one player that would pull the shit you pulled right now." Frontman says.
He's not sure he wants an answer, let alone expects one. But the words ring out from under the white mask anyway.
"Jung-bae would." Gihun feels the need to inform him.
It's a good thing Young-il left his gun upstairs.
"You're feeling inspired to follow in his footsteps?"
That doesn't warrant any response from the man. Frontman wishes he could see his face, get at least one hint at his expression.
A part of him, maybe Young-il's influence on him, wishes that Gihun would see his face too, if only to know that he doesn't actually mean it.
But the white mask doesn't reveal anything. And his voice doesn't come out to argue anymore.
"...Go wait for me upstairs." Frontman says. "You've done enough." he adds.
So Gihun turns on his heel and heads for the elevator that will take him to the upper floor.
Three strikes before the first bullet fired.
...Let me know if you'd like a part two with what they'd talk about upstairs. I would honestly put this on AO3, but I'm scared of what I've heard about it sooo...Tumblr it is. Bye!!!
