#chronicles.

There is nothing foreign about the land she steps on. It's barely breaking into a Monday when she arrives and the horizon becomes a canvas splattered in dull greys and deep blues. Cursory greetings announced through the speakers are registered in a static dissonance, muted phonetics wrapped in robotic cadence. They're landing, that's what the stewardess says. What remains ringing in her ears, however, is father's voice through a receiver, the "Board the next plane into the country, do not disgrace me any further," still in playback. He offers no greeting nor a goodbye; the line goes dead, Soojung is on her feet.

There is nothing foreign about Korea, but between the frost that crawls into her chest and the gust of wind brushes past her (gentle caresses against her fingertips) she finds nothing familiar about it. The halls begin to fill out with people, their murmurs blend into a unanimous buzz. Like a swarm. Like bees and she is swallowed in the middle of it, engulfed by brushing shoulders and lagging bodies towing gigantic bags over tired shoulders. Someone smacks their luggage against her arm, the withering stare she rewards them with warrants for no apology. Soojung steps outside of the terminal, spots the car that's meant to bring her back home. 

(Korea is not home.) 

The wind carries whispers of the past's ghosts, murmurs her screams into her eardrums, lets her failure saturate the breeze with its putrid scent. She smells blood but that's nothing knew. She sees Haneul's blood on her palms even when she's rubbed them raw. Her carpool skids to a stop right before her, she's not surprised not to find him there. Father would never have the time. Commanders never had the time. The drive back to headquarters is quiet, there are half-attempted conversations made in hesitance, half-assed replies muttered in indifference. The driver speaks bullshit, Soojung doesn't pretend to listen. 

One. Two. Three. 

( Douse the room in gasoline and light a match.

Stake Soojung in the middle and let her burn with her inadequacy. )

 One. Two. Three. Soldiers. 

Casualties. 

Dead. 

Haneul. Dead.

She doesn't need to hear of their disappointment. It lays pungent in the air. Soojung doesn't speak, doesn't glance at Commander Jung to know that right was now evoked. She offers her silence, holds her head up high and lets her shoulders bear its burden. Guilt. Shame. Her sins are three bodies six feet below the ground. We thought you had this handled. It becomes so easy to mistaken her silence for compliance, they are blind to the storm brewing within the confines of empty bones, deaf to the sounds of knuckles cracking, fists curling inside her pockets. 

Commander Jung calls her attention and she looks him dead in the eye. 

One. Two. Three. Soldiers. Casualties. Dead. None of you came. None. 

How much acid can you pour to rinse your hands of your denied sins? Father Commander Jung turns away, dismisses the meeting, allows the rest of the people to file out. He turns to Soojung when the door clicks shut, places his hands on top of the surface of his desk, crouching. "No one should know about what had happened," he begins. Laces authority in his words, Soojung detects cowardice and bites back a scowl. "You are to find whoever had caused this and clean it up. No one should know that it was a mistake."

 Miscalculations and misguided signs. A stage-play created by a genius. Commander Jung was a puppet, he lets Soojung sever the strings wrapped around his limbs. Her reply is a programmed agreement. Soojung turns around when the conversation dies, steps towards the door in silence. "You have a package," he says, she doesn't bid him goodbye when she leaves. 

It sits in the middle of her naked bed. Steel casing glinting under the faint lighting of her room. The locks click open mutely, sitting in the middle is a Remington 11. She finds a note taped on under the lid of the case.

"What is my favorite hunter without a gun? It is hunting season. Let's finish what we've started." 

One. Two. Three soldiers. Dead. For nothing.