Jinhwan pauses, and hopes and waits for her to entertain him once again before continuing.
“After all, the gall some people have! I shan’t get into the horrendous things people suggest to me as a small business owner, but these sorts of people are horrible even when you are management. The lovely caller you had before me — why, does she expect every underpaid worker to lick her boots? Such arrogance! — it’s all rich people with gaping mouths or poor brainwashed middle class that spew this foul nonsense. Customer service is just as emotionally taxing as psychological work, I say, except you’re being paid for both emotional and physical work, and oft underpaid to boot.” He stops, as if brooding (he is). “It’s to be expected if it’s subpar occasionally.”
( @jinhwanxobs​ )
Yerin lives off of the amusement that she gets from hearing people talk about this and that, and of things that annoy them or make them happy. She doesn’t feel envious of all the commotion that callers bring into her show, but it’s nice to have someone speaking to Yerin as if she’s a friend- as if he hasn’t outcasted herself from the rest of society with a fake name. There’s not much to say about that, and Yerin can’t spend her entire evening in a pit of self-loathing and lamenting. She pockets the feelings for some other time and resorts back into her stoic and judgy nature. It takes a second for her to end the call with that yappy old woman, instead pulling up the other line as she introduces the next caller. “If you’re just tuning in, this evening, I asked if anyone had problems with customer service before. We’ve heard some pretty strong opinions so far, but let’s hear what our next caller has to say. I heard someone say Jack?”
Yerin has to mute her microphone for a second as to not cackle at the voice that comes through the line. The whole…. The whole manner of speech is more outdated that even Yerin can place, and it’s that and possibly the late evening that makes it so funny, but she at least finds it in herself to calm down and unmute her mic. She makes agreeable noises every now and then, adding in an “I see, I see,” just to fill in the pauses that come up when “Jack” is taking his time to think or breathe. Honestly, does the man even breathe?
“I ask for too much trouble than it’s worth, don’t I?” Yerin muses, laughing lightly as she makes herself a little more comfortable in the studio chair. “But you’ve made some great points that I think our last caller failed to understand, but you shan’t be bothered by such things, right, Jack?” It’s poking around, but all in good amusement. “Those who work in customer service must have short strings by the end of the day. I wouldn’t blame them, they’re berated by customers on the behalf of others, isn’t that right?”
Yerin nods to herself as if she’s become wiser, but what’s a young woman like her to do besides that anyways? There’s nothing Yerin likes more than hearing people get decently shaded on her radio show. “Thank you for making the situation crystal clear, Jack. I’m afraid that we’ve about run out of our talk time, but stay tuned for fifty five minutes of commercial free music. Remember to follow on twitter, and I’ll always consider tagged requests. This is Nova - Enjoy the music.”
One the lines have been closed and the music is up and playing, Yerin leans back with a good sigh. This segment went well, and at least she didn’t have to console some sad fool, calling to ask marital advice. It’s happened on more than one occasion.
The night goes on perfectly, and when it’s time for Yerin to call it a night, she does so without any regrets. Although her conscience remains reasonably clean for the night, she doesn’t do too poorly by sleeping in late into the next morning. And the next one. And the next. Honestly, it’s unreasonable to think that Yerin will wake up early after working a long night. There’s only so much cash that she can live off of, and the name Nova can only attain a certain level of popularity online too.
It’s when Yerin has ruined herself by taking a trip down memory lane, that she comes to work almost sulking. “Good evening everyone, this is Nova, signing in again,” she says into the mic. “I’ve wanted to talk about some things lately. Someone on twitter has linked to me an article that was supposed to tell me what my life would be like, in this new year. Now, I think it’s a bit healthy to be skeptical about horoscopes and whatnot, but there are some people who genuinely live and breathe these things,” Yerin rambles, looking at the time.
Maybe that regular caller will tune in again today and mention something.
“My question for tonight is this: is it healthy to believe in horoscopes and things of that nature? Is it better to doubt fate or live like fate controls the outcomes of our actions? Remember to please tune in or tag me in your answers on twitter. The line to call is…”
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The information had come in, with the driver of the new arrival calling in ahead of time. It gives Yerin enough time to get ready for work. The holding area isn’t a very beautiful place, but it’s like a playground for Yerin, who swings from locked up, caged in detentions as if they were monkey bars. The play that she performs brings the biggest thrill, as if she’s kicked herself high up on the playground swings, and the tiny flip her stomach makes is disgusting. It makes Yerin nervously excited like a child anyways. Every part of it is disgusting. Her companions are mumbling to themselves in the hallway as Yerin passes through, keeping to herself and out of the way; there’s no need to be stopped and talked to, especially when there’s work to do. The Queen likes productivity, and Yerin will become the most efficient unit in this damn place if she needs to be.
The people around here try their best to look intimidating, and it’s so cute that Yerin could almost laugh about it, but instead she settles herself calmly as she walks. The hallways look the same, one after another: lacking labels and directions, illuminated with harsh LEDs. She keeps her face forward, blank as the walls. The brutes around will laugh about things that aren’t work related, but Yerin is a lady after all, and she can spend her time gossiping outside of work hours. Besides, this task of hers isn’t as intensive or involved as the other tasks are. The others, they can do all the hard work. Yerin will just get the information and be done with it, like usual. If she’s in the right mood, then maybe she’ll have a little bit of fun. The day’s end is always the same; Yerin never gets tired of her work. The praise she expects to receive is enough to bring excited and bubbly feeling right from the bottom of her stomach and allows it to make a home in Yerin’s throat.
From what Yerin remembers on her assignment file, the new addition to the facility, prisoner, a captured intellectual (or supposedly so) sticks out like a sore thumb. Yerin chews on the skin beside her nail, reading the words over again. Feisty. Apparently, this person had put up quite the fight, but the witch is supposed to be stronger than how she looks. There’s some splotchy handwriting on the corner of the page. Something about the color pink? Yerin shrugs.
When Yerin types her login into the machine, it gives her a sound beep and grants entry, to her sorting database. Just within this past month, there’s been many successful transactions. People are dying to have a good witch or two for their own uses, and as long as they’re benefitting the Queen in somewhat, it mustn’t be so bad. Yerin types without considering the weight of her actions. After checking which cell she’s due to be collecting information under for their new Guest, Yerin picks up her bag from the ground and heads to the bathroom.
The torn tights go on, as well as her particularly scuffed shoes. The shirt with imitation stains and slightly pulled fabric goes on. Her hair, which had been so nice today (there are simply just sacrifices one can’t avoid) becomes a mess. She drags the heels of her palms down her eyes, smudging the cheap, one dollar eyeliner that she had wore today. On info days like this, it was sometimes easier to gather sympathy if you looked like a piece of shit. Red lipstick, perfectly applied from earlier this morning, gets smudged away from the corners, as if she’d been hurt in a scuffle. Yerin always does best in pretending to be the character who was gently roughed up, and then gave in without too much of a fight. It’s her job to sort the witches through how useful they are, and pretending to have also been stolen, is a great way to earn their trust. This new person has an interesting report already, but Yerin figures that they can falsely connect with each other, with Yerin under disguise and pouring lies from her mouth, and it’ll save her the flying fists. Another bullet point on the report: something about a bite? Whatever.
Her work is dangerous. Sitting in a cage with a lion is never a good idea.
Yerin nods her head to some of the guards who stand outside the holding center. It’s a confined space, nothing less than a jail cell, but it eases some of the workers’ minds to be called something else. It’s from here that Yerin helps to decide the fate of the little witches who have accidentally found their way into the Queen’s system. (Not accidentally. They’ve been observed and captured, all like the plans say.)
She makes herself look small, entering one of the special cells in this facility, one that has reinforced bars, but Yerin knows better than to get close enough to touch them. She still has a nasty burn scar on her calf from the iron. The guards shut it behind her, and she scoots herself into the corner of the tiny room, knowing well that her coworkers are just out of eyesight, in case anything happens. If Yerin dies, she wouldn’t mind. Life just works that way. The best part about this job is being able to conduct a series of tests on her Guests, and seeing what kind of abilities they have is part of that. After tying a charmed rope around her ankles over and over again, Yerin brings her knees up to her chest and ducks her face down. She can already hear the loud noises from coming down the hall, the shoving and the screeching, the commanding.
The game starts again.
When the cell door opens, the bars creak against each other and Yerin pretends to flinch, gripping onto her knees a little tighter in a good image of a scared girl. Her face is hidden, but she peeks through her hair, turning her head to watch the site.
Oh, she’s incredible. She’s been terribly roughed up, but everything about her is beautiful. She must be talented, Yerin thinks to herself as she looks at their new Guest up and down. To have ended up in a place like this. Beauty, skill. Valuable.
Disgusting.
There’s green that dots Yerin’s throat and it casts a filter over her eyes; in her mind, she already wishes to finish this day. She takes in one shuddering breath- that’s not fake- and sighs. What an incredible Guest. Yerin will have fun this time.
She’s still fighting, struggling to not let herself be shoved into the cell, but the others have already gotten her mostly in, and as they slam the iron bars shut, the fabric of the lady’s pink skirt gets caught in the metal. Yerin wants to giggle at the scream of frustration the other gives, and the harsh tug she makes as well. The fabric stretches but doesn’t tear. Yeri goes back to pretending she’s scared.
After the other has somewhat calmed down, reduced to angry huffs and panting breaths, as she examines the room, Yerin makes it a show to flinch and meekly whimper whenever the other comes at least a step close. She sure hopes that her Guest will speak soon; her legs are just about to cramp because of this position. Yerin bites down hard on her lip to give herself an even more pitiful look, and maybe Miss Pretty Pink will come around to talk.
“Hey.”
Jackpot.
“Did you see what they used to lock this?”
Yerin shakes her head. The lady sighs deeply and sits, probably thinking hard and long to herself. Yerin takes notes. The analytical types are always rather tricky. They have to be trained like very good dogs, to just follow orders around here. Stolen witches shouldn’t be using their minds for anything except the Queen’s wishes. “Don’t know.”
Shuffling on the floor, Yeri pulls her head away from her knees, still gripping onto the fabric of her outfit, as if it’s the only thing that she has. “Excuse me,” Yerin says, voice small, fragile like it should be. “I’m- I’m- I can’t,” she fake stammers, moving her legs to show the ties that are done around it. “They just, they tie… back…”
Yerin hears the lady mumble something to herself, and was that a curse or did Yerin hear incorrectly? She watches, peeking out through under her bangs, as her Guest attempts to undo the charmed ropes. They do, in fact, untie and retie, as if they’re bound to Yerin’s legs forever. This had been a gift from the higher ups to help in these- interviews.
Though hearing some small mumbles about the rope, it comes off in fifteen minutes. Yerin blinks in genuine surprise. Oh this one is definitely useful, she thinks, watching as the other dusts her hands off. They begin to talk.
Yerin mostly listens, and finds out that as much as the other is rather chatty, she must also be rather powerful if she gave the workers a hard time. She looks terrible, like she’s put up a big fight, but her voice is soft and lovely. Yerin knows that only fools don’t call this beauty. The dimples on her cheeks are endearing, and Yerin almost hates having to sort this one away. Almost.
She’s charming. Incredibly charming. (The notes were very right about the whole pink thing.)
In time, Yerin watches and learns more about her. From time to time, they get up and look around the room together, looking for a way out that Yerin knows doesn’t exist. Yerin lets the other rattle the gate around and yell, but the only thing they get is looks from the people outside. Once they’re tired, the two of them sit down and talk again, tucked into the corner of the dark cell. Yerin hasn’t said her name once, not yet, just has whimpered and listened, has nodded her head and cried fake tears. Her Guest is enjoyable. Yerin hates it.
She tests her memory, probes into her abilities, inquires about her past. Asks about if she has any friends, family, who will be waiting for her once she’s set free.
That must hit a nerve. Her Guest’s polite smile fades away. Yerin watches her hands play with the frills on her dress. “We’ll get out of this mess.”
The optimism is cute, Yerin can give her that. If there’s one thing she’s learned since being in this cell with Pinky Witch, it’s that for every negative comment Yerin makes, the other is able to create two positive comments out of it.
Yerin pulls the best frown that she can, biting the inside of her cheek in feign nervousness and fright. The pulse that Yerin can feel beating strongly in her neck isn’t from fear, but rather the exhilaration from the absolute mess that she’s made. It’s rotten, god it’s so awful, but the Queen will be proud, and someone will know, oh they’ll start to know Yerin’s name. Her eyes sparkle - disgusting amusement. “Are you positive?”
There. She watches as the other’s brows furrow together. The door opens and the guards come for Yerin, pulling her away even as she fakely claws to stay, and the girl who’s confused on the floor only stands in time for the bar to be slammed shut.
Oh, Yerin’s having so much fun. They moment they set her down, Yerin pats their shoulders and runs off to find a computer. So much information to put in about this one.
The next day, Yerin is “thrown” into the cell when the other is sleeping, and she begins to fake sob over the pink skirt. Yerin babbles on about things that she’s seen- without giving away any information of course, because good servants are desensitized to their master’s doings. If this girl is going to be in any way affiliated with the Queen, Yerin has to make sure she’s broken.
Break her.
She continues to plant her doubts into the other’s mind. When Pinky mentions that they’ve got what it takes to escape, Yerin will take one of her mental needles and begin to thread through the other’s mind. She continues, pretending to cry. The other is sweet, too kind, as Yerin fake cries on her lap, there are fingers in her hair. This time, the other doesn’t say that they’ll be able to make it out.
The same thing goes. She learns about the abilities that her Guest, Miss Muffet, has to offer in their now destroyed plans of escape. Yerin continues to make her doubt, to break her. All she needs is to break her.
On day seven, Yerin has all the information she needs to give it to the higher ups. They’ll decide where this witch ends up, based on Yerin’s notes. She’s given her opinion as well, on what place would be suitable for the fiery, cute girl.
She strolls up to the cage, this time dressed regularly. The girl is just waking up again. She’s confused, asking questions, rattling them off to Yerin as if she were going down a list. It would’ve hurt Yerin to not say any goodbye, and even as the girl hollers and scream, the pure anger and rage which she hasn’t witnessed since day one, makes this game all worth it. For good measure, she helps drive her mental needles again through the core of the Guest’s mind.
“I’ll get out of here, one way or another!”
Yerin crosses her arms. An eyebrow goes up as she listens to the threat, and a sick smile fills the void in her expression. “Positive?”
The nights are always fun to Yerin, whose sleep schedule has been ruined since taking up this new mask, but if it helps to bury her past deep down, then Yerin can afford to lose more precious hours of rest. The heels of her shoes scuff the ground as she lets herself into the building, which is more of a lame looking shadow that blends into the whole street. The radio station isn’t grand or fancy, but rather another section of offices that are settled some place between the eastern and central districts. The people in the front know her already and greet her with a nod of the head. They know Yerin doesn’t talk much outside of radio anyways.
Work begins the moment the string of songs has finished, and looking at the queue on screen, she has four songs left to get ready. If each song is three and a half minutes long, then Yerin can comfortably get herself settled, laptop out and all, without feeling so rushed. Looking around, she sees water bottles provided by the station sit on the floor by her feet, and Yerin couldn’t feel more grateful for their kind behavior.
God, if only they knew.
“Signing into this broadcast is Nova. Good evening, everyone.”
The nights have always been quiet, just her in the room alone. When she leans back in the office chair, it gives the slightest squeak, and that alone is comforting. She takes in a deep breath, pulling her legs up onto the chair as well. Night like these are just fine; they keep Yerin’s mind quiet. As she gets her gear all ready to go (phone included, because the Kids these days communicate through a fancy application called Twitter), Yerin catches her reflection in her laptop screen. After all this time, it’s still extremely strange to see.
“Before we get started on this station’s nonstop, commercial free evening, let’s get our talk times underway.” She brushes her hair behind her ear and waits for the little music sequence to finish before coming in closer to the microphone again. “Here’s a story for everyone. I was looking for some shoes to buy today- and no it’s not just a lady thing- and I was having trouble finding my size in some pretty boots. The person who I asked, to see if there were more in the back, was probably younger than me and obviously didn’t want to be working. By the time they came up with an answer, after checking the back, I probably aged five years!” Yerin retells the story, some parts true, and some parts a lie, while playing with a strand of her hair. She gets her phone ready, tweeting out the question before she says it on air.
“Have any of you ever had some bad experiences with customer service before? I know it’s not just me. Call into the Novaline or reply to my tweet and I’ll read them aloud-” As Yerin sees the flashing button the desk, she pulls her headphones on more comfortably over her ears. How quick. “Oh? Yes, first caller, tell us if you’ve ever had a terrible time with customer service.”
Yerin has only just unsilenced the call when the lady on the line already starts yapping. “The kids these days don’t know anything about customer service!” Yerin winces and turns the volume down, humming into the mic to at least pretend that she was listening. “They just stand around, gossiping, and don’t do jack. They’re always on their porta-phones or whatever, and they never have what I need when I need it. I’m always getting myself into arguments with management!”
Yerin nods, mumbling out a sympathetic “Oh, oh I see, it must’ve been terrible for you, miss-”
“These people should learn how to not just take government benefits and how to actually support themselves too!”
Yerin scrunches her nose and leans back, folding her arms. “Oh, but that’s an entirely different argument. When I was with customer service, they usually take so long to get my request through. Anyways- has anyone else ever had terrible customer service? Phone in or reply, you know how it goes, my dears.”
The smoke settles to reveal KIM YERIN, also known as NOVA, a 24 year old envy-aligned fae of Sunseong. She is a radio personality who appears to be adept in doubt inducement — but like most things in Sunseong, there must be more to her than meets the eye.
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