Button-up shirt. Slacks. Belt. Tie. Dress shoes. Brief case full of paperwork along with a camera and tape recorder. This was just an average day in the life of Shim Changmin. As journalist for The Chosun Ilbo, he is prepared everyday for the unexpected. Before leaving, he mousses his hair and checks his appearance in the mirror for a few moments, flashing a smile at his reflection.
His boss simply gave him an interested look, knowing that one of his guys were bound to get to him about it at some point. âThat does seem to be a hot topic lately. I actually donât know too much about it, I just heard about it myself,â he started, bringing a hand to his chin. âMaybe you could put an end to this mystery, hm?â Changmin gave a nod in response along with a âYes, sir,â before going over to his work area. He set down the briefcase on his desk, taking out the tape recorder and putting it in his pocket along with the camera which he took out of the case and wore around his neck.
After making sure that his briefcase was locked and secured under his desk, Changmin left the room to start his little investigation. Since this seemed to be the buzz around the building, he started off asking his coworkers what they knew and where they heard it, making sure to record everything on his little tape recorderâheâd write it all down later. This, of course, led him in circles so he decided to go beyond just the people in this particular building and venture outside for some information. This was much more helpful. He was able to get directions for where the animal was supposedly seen and a couple of the visual details. The only bit he was missing was who exactly saw it. He started giving his business card out to those who had good info so that they could reach him if they heard anything more or found the original witness.
Since he now had the actual location of where he could find this animal, Changmin decided it was time to go into the woods and start his search. Walking around and talking to people ended up helping him get closer to where he needed to be so he only had to walk a short distance until he reached the forest. He had been walking for about twenty minutes, only seeing squirrels and rabbits and bugs around, though he heard a noise like bushes ruffling nearby and followed the sound until it brought him to a deer. Somewhere out of sight he also heard a voice calling out for itâvery smooth and calming. When the owner of the voice finally came into view, it actually didnât surprise Changmin that the animal wasnât afraid and approached him.
He was unsure of what to do or if he should say anything since he didnât want to frighten the deer away. Instead, he took the lens cap off the camera and raised it, taking a couple pictures of the two while he had the opportunity. It was quite a sight, honestlyâhow the deer actually let the man pet him, and the way he smiled while looking at it, as if they were having some type of silent conversation. Of course Changminâs clumsiness had to bring the nice moment to an end when he took a step forward and stepped on a twig, causing a small crunch sound beneath his foot, which was enough to scare the deer away. At this, the man took notice of his presence and Changmin just stood there with a stupid look on his face. âIâmâŠsorry."
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Hyukjae pouted slightly at the male's words, glancing at him. "Do I look that comfortable to you? I'm pretty skinny, not so soft." He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
If there was one thing he hated more than his family it was his classmates, always teasing and then taking lunch periods to dump trash on him. Today was one of the rare days where they had a little too much fun with him and left Junhong's healing scars reopened and retreating bruises back with an angered vengeance. Each step left him wincing and cursing as his bag was torn and he could barely hold all his pencils and drawing books in his shaking arms as blood dripped from his forehead onto the spiral binding. "Well, on the bright side, at least ma' won't beat me tonight." The teen sighed, trying to stay positive as he passed one of his many murals with a slight smile. However, with his impaired vision and constantly distracted mind, Junhong didn't see the stranger he had bumped into rather roughly, his books falling to the ground and pencils rolling into the nearby gutter.
"Well shit, thanks for watching where you're going. Now if you could kindly help me get these up that would be much appreciated since I can't bend more than about forty-five degrees without almost breaking my own back."
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Send me a âȘ and I will write a short drabble about our muses, based on the first song that comes up on shuffle;
Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Car
Love was a promise made of smokeIn a frozen copse of treesA bone cold and older than our bodiesSlowly floating in the sea
Every morning there were planes The shiny blades of pagan angels in our fatherâs skiesEvery evening I would watch her hold the pillow
Tight against her hollows, her unholy child
I was still a beggar shaking out my stolen coatAmong the angry cemetery leavesWhen they caught the king beneath the borrowed carRighteous, drunk, and fumbling for the royal keys
Love was a fatherâs flag and sung like a shankIn a cake on our leather bootsA beautiful feather floating downTo where the birds had shit on empty chapel pews
Every morning we found one more machineTo mock our ever waning patience at the wellEvery evening sheâd descend the mountain stealing socksAnd singing something good where all the horses fell
Like a snake within the wilted garden wallIâd hint to her every possibilityWhile with his gun the pagan angel rose to say"My love is one made to break every bended knee"
[ Approximately 2k? Generic dystopian au? idk think like if The Jetsons met The Truman Show and then proceeded to fuck every dystopian novel in the history of ever and then ended up being exactly like the Neo Korea storyline from Cloud Atlas and came back home crying to her mom about how sheâs feels like a slut doNT YOU DARE TRY TO SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE ME FOR THIS MOM okay clearly i have lost it hereâs your drabble please donât hurt me ]
Outside, planes fly over the cells. They announce the hours, the half hours.
At the fourth hour, The Voice chimed. Once, twice.Â
"Itâs time to get up, itâs time to get up, itâs morning, itâs morning!" The juveniles and the primes rose from their sleeping palletsâmetal cocoons splaying open promptly at fourâfollowing along after The Pledge as they walked through Morning Routine. Cleaning Fingers slid from shifting panels in the walls, armed with bristles and combs and creams, leaving the mouth for last. They wouldnât want to interrupt The Pledge. Dressing Fingers waited for the snap of cilices fastened before clothing pockmarked legs in uniform shades. White for the males, black for the females. Groomed and dressed, juveniles and primes met, whisked into the Eating Room, where morning cake was set in proportionate portions.
In cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine, a man stared blankly into his morning cake. The walls whirred slightly with the blinking of electronic eyes. His co-prime looked over from her seat, expressionless.
"Is there something the matter, Kyuhyun?" It took some time for the man to come to an answer. He seemed to look into the cake, as if his reply were there. Finding none, he frowned, gaze still somewhere between the cake and the floor beneath the table.
"âŠNo. Nothing is the matter." Of course! Nothing was the matter. Nothing was ever the matter. What would become of anything if something were to matter?
The juvenile of this unit watched the exchange, shifting slightly in his seat, possibly to lessen the pressure on the barbs of the cilice about his thigh. The wallâs eyes slid to the boy. Setting the eating utensil down beside his now empty plate, the juvenileâs lips quirked up slightly before making brief eye contact with either primesâthe customary gesture of greetingâbefore he spoke.
"Morning salutations, primogenitors. I am off to schooling." And with that, the table opened to swallow his empty plate, and his seat swivelled along the track that took him out of doors to attach itself to the train of pupils headed to schooling. The she-prime had turned her head slightly in her co-primeâs direction.
"I sometimes have concerns for Ren. Did you catch that? The little thing his mouth did before he greeted us? Odd." Her co-prime could only nod, bringing the morning paste to his mouth.
"Yes. Very."
Outside, black wings cut through grey skies, announcing the half hour. Primes joining the train of primes set a hand over their hearts, a collective sigh expelling from mouths slightly ajar, the word âangelsâ reverently whispered in unison. âPlanesâ thought a man, joining the queue from cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine.
By the fifth hour, the juveniles were in schooling and the primes were in working, and the eyes in the walls of the cells had sunk to the Dispository level to pick through refuse, categorizing, storing, analyzing, as if it were not already cognizant of what was tossed out in the first place. (As if it hadnât done all the tossing)
At hour ten, the juveniles were released from the Schooling Room to the Eating Room, and the primes from the Working Room to the Eating Room, at the prompting of The Voice to have a meal of lunch cake. Once the plates were empty, the ankle cuffs opened, and juveniles and primes alike rose for exercising; a room of machines upon machines designed to pull taut muscles that their seats werenât made to exercise.By the eleventh hour, the juveniles and the primes were back in their seats, in schooling and working, respectively. Pausing in his Repetition, a boy cleared his throat, as if he had something to say. The cilice merely tightened, and schooling continued. The Voice would not be interrupted. In the walls, the eyes blinked. Once. Twice. Cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine, it thought to itself quietly. Cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine.
Strangely enough, there too, was a hiccup in working. Paste production slowed momentarily. A man had gotten out of rhythm, fingers still on his lever as the conveyor went on. The lever on his station relayed his identification readily, and the cilice tightened about his leg.
In cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine, the eyes in the walls lit, making another inspection. Cooking fingers began preparations for dinner, taking paste from storage to thaw, selecting swallowables from the Nutrient Cabinet and lining them up to be whisked into the paste, poured into proportional portions to be baked. To-day, the recipe instructed for a new dosage of swallowables. Nutrients were important.
By the fifteenth hour, schooling and working were over, and the seats joined in order of sector, block, row, and cell number. The Voice chimed. Once, Twice. Primes and juveniles alike joined in The Pledge as they headed back towards their cells.
Once they were situated inside, the juveniles began repetition, revision, and the primes sat primly in their seats as they watched television. In cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine, the he-prime clenched his jaw slightly. Television was always the same. There was nothing new about The News, he thought to himself. He began speaking with the broadcaster in the same insufferably overzealous tone. His co-prime made a noise of disapproval.
"You are interrupting the program, Kyuhyun." Something tightened in her face, her brows drawing together slightly. Her co-prime did not seem to agree with the chiding.
"Interrupting? The program never changes. What will you miss? That we are winning the war? Were we ever losing? That we ought to be grateful? We pledge our allegiance everyday. What more have we to give?" His eye contact was longer than what was protocol. Unsure of the proper response to her co-prime, she simply turned back to the television. Dinner would come soon.
The eyes in the walls blinked thoughtfully. Once. Twice.
In a separate room, the juvenile repeated after the prompter, so as to not forget his lessons. Absently, he shifted in his seat to lessen the pressure on the barbs of the cilice. He had a question, but he hadnât really known how (or if ) he should voice it. The prompter continued with that dayâs lesson, and if he listened hard enough, he could hear the echoing of the other prompters in the cells on either side of his own, synchronized. How odd it would be, thought he, if one were to take an around about the block, listening in on the prompters, to hear all of them, even to hear The Pledge, rather than take part in it. The prompter had gone a bit now without his repetition and it was then that the cilice tightened.
By the seventeenth hour, The Voice chimed. Once. Twice. âItâs time to get up, itâs time to get up, for dinner, for dinner!â Televisions switched off, and folded themselves back into the panels in the walls. The light in the Eating Rooms switched on, and dinner cake was being plated and slid into place in proportional portions. Seats hummed along tracks, taking primes and juveniles alike from their activities to the Eating Room.Across the cells, eating utensils materialized beside plates, and there was the collective sound across the sectors of utensils being picked up and cutting into dinner cake.
By the eighteenth hour, there was the collective rise from the table for Cleansing. Doors to confessionals were shut, and thoughts were spilled, if there were thoughts to be had.
By the nineteenth hour, the doors swung open, baths filling with water and the hands in the wall appeared to set out towels and resting uniform, the conveyor taking juveniles and primes alike to the waiting tubs.
In cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine, the first door, the confessional meant for the he-prime of the cell, held itself open for quite some time, almost seeming confused when no one passed through. Soon enough, it swung shut, the conveyor turning on its cogs, though it felt no weight on them. Bathing fingers held still, waiting for the prompting sound of a cilice being taken off, but heard none.
Elsewhere, there was the collective sting of antiseptic being sprayed over freshly bathed skin, pockmarked by the barbs of the cilice, already collected away to be disinfected and set inside Resting Rooms. There were arms being helped into resting uniform, white for the males, black for the females, before the conveyors took juveniles and primes alike to Resting Rooms, sleeping pads unfurling in welcome.
In cell six, row four, block three hundred and fifty eight, sector nine, only one sleeping pad closed. Only two cilices laid in their spots to be snapped on in the morning, though there were still three familiars in the cell.
There was a man in the confessional.
And there was a boy in a tub of red.
And there was a woman in her sleeping pad.
By the twentieth hour, observing a weight that lingered after the water had been drained, the tub inverted, taking whatever had remained to the Dispository, disinfectant being sprayed liberally in the instance that whatever it was, was unclean.Â
By the twenty-third hour, noticing the smell, the confessional was sent to the Dispository level, then to be disinfected. The third cilice was found and put back in its place.
Observing that there was only one familiar in the cell, the sleeping pad curled tightly into itself, deciding that it must be housing an intruder, a panel opening in the wall to take the unmoving bundle to the Dispository.
By the twenty-fourth hour, the eyes in the wall could finally close.
Outside, black planes flew over the blocks, announcing the hour.
When he was a child his father gave him a wild falcon to train, but he ended up taming it; making the bird love him. His father wasnât happy about this result because he said Kyuhyun didn't train him but broke him, so he broke the neck of the falcon in front of him.
He arched a brow in questioning and stared as the man walked into the room, and actually proceeded to sit down. But when the pen was held out his eyes widened, and he took it gratefully. "You have great taste. Now, who might you be?"
"I'm lost." he simply stated, shrugging with the stiffest shoulders you could ever shrug with to try to pass off indifference. As much as poking fun at this scientist or whatever he was had been, it was only a short distraction from the fact that Joon simply thought this place was horrific. No matter the amount of time he spent in hospitals, offices, etc, he hated them all. Truth being, every time he was sent somewhere for a 'mental health evaluation,' he felt like a scared, crying six year old who was about to be unknowingly separated from his mother for two months. It was the trauma of having grown up in mental health programs--being the lab rat for many.
He wasn't in a hurry to become un-lost. He liked it here...with whoever this guy was....so long as this stranger wasn't who he was sent to see. Suddenly his eyes widened, "You're not my doctor are you?" an extremely rare vulnerable tone in his voice that he immediately wished he could take back.
