the world (down on my head)
the world (down on my head)
4805 w; pg-13; angst, alternate universe (seunghyun/suzy)
In all honesty, he doesn't really mind dying; but not in such a wasteful way, however.
a/n; this is my failed attempt at creating a whole new universe. if you've never seen seunghyun and suzy before, please click. dare i mention that this is also a product from an all-nighter that includes me slapping and being violent to myself throughout the process of wanting to complete this in the span of 5 hours to make it to the deadline. this is originally a contest entry and last minute me is last minute, resulting in this unbeta-ed monster. /cries
The screeching of the bell reverberates all around the grounds of Guerrier Institute, denoting the final second of training sessions. Exhales a lazy sigh when he trudges towards the armory at the end of the field, carelessly twirling the loop of the rifle in one hand and unstraps the glove on the other with his teeth. Secretly spits when he tastes the mixture of salty sweat and faux leather, quick glances left and right for the guards to tell him off (‘you spit one more time and you get a fine ticket!’) as if he’s done a big crime. None of them around; he shrugs and tosses the gloves into a basket weaved from rattan, what they call a ‘Training Gears Dispensary’. Although he would much rather call it a laundry basket even when they shush him for doing so. He hangs the weapon in its respective place. ‘17:45’, the two thin hands behind the glass of his wrist watch points when he checks for the time, wipes the beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead and swings his legs out towards the exit of the training arena. He adjusts his uniform and dusts off non-existent lint on the cloth along the way, huffing and puffing still short on breath after long hours of training.
“Great job today, Song,” his steps falter in his track when he hears a sudden shout from--he calculates with his ears--the left side of the field, not too far away from where he is. He throws a quick glance, a nod and a the most slight curve on the lips he could muster towards his trainer’s direction, not bothering to stay for small talks. Not a fan of those, he threads straight out of the arena and enters the interior of the building, one of Guerrier’s many joint big blocks; this place where he studies. This is where he will graduate, he thinks, although god knows when because he is also starting to get tired and the purpose of his living is still all hazy and he’s still so young to be an empty shell and oh well, he has to bear with this a little more until he finds what his heart desires. Combat boots with blotches here and there, stopping in the first changing room he sees and feels a little relieved that there are only a small number of students in there. If it wasn’t obvious already, he dislikes all means of contacts with people. Gives the few in front of him a nod of greetings and stops in front of a mirror.
He takes some time staring into the reflection, unruly hair, cut a bit shorter compared to the messy mop he had last month, runs his fingers through the russet brown locks, a bruise along his jawline a result of being blinded from his then messy mop in the middle of a combat; distracted for a few seconds and dropped his guard, traces the faint purplish mark and winces, remembering reprimands of his trainer: “Get a damned haircut, son. You don’t want your head chopped off if this be happenin’ in a real war.”
In all honesty, he doesn’t really mind dying. This is a silent thought of his, of course, tucked away in a place where no one will find. This is a routine he repeats every single day (except Sundays), the redundancy of learning the history of how Novandia was formed, how the fate of the country laid in their hands, boring words of wisdoms from shitty past rulers thrown around. Then the training sessions in the evenings where he could release his pent up vexation shooting and blowing up doomies or when he’s lucky, he can crack someone’s skull in duels. Sometimes he still wonders if he’s getting tired of this routine, or just plain sick of everything in this world that he just wants to shoot his god-damned self. He doesn’t mind dying, but not in such a wasteful way, however.
Blinks; once, twice. Eyes scanning his own figure from top to bottom, the only images the mirror could capture, that is. Well, I gained a little weight, at least I won’t get thrown across the arena so easily anymore--he snorts at his own inward joke, or was it a retch of sarcasm. He isn’t entirely sure but he shrugs the petty self debate off and starts peeling the sweat-drenched uniform off, moaning as he releases his body from its confinement. Maybe all he needs right now is a nice hot shower, let it relax his tensed veins and muscles; something to get his mind off of cluttered thoughts and hope to feel better. A little steam could will him to live a few years longer.
“Yo, Seunghyun!” this time he hears his first name thrown in the air when he almost enters one of the many arrayed shower cubicles. The people around here had the tendency of calling him whatever they wanted, (‘who do you think you are’) although he never complained. That is probably one of the reasons why they liked him, he thinks, he doesn’t say much and nods at everything just to avoid conversations. “Great practice out there,” this smiling person compliments. He is ten to hundred percent sure that he doesn’t know them, but he nods and smiles out of courtesy anyway. Great job here, great job there; he hears those exact words almost every day and it adds up to the frustrations he already has, with people rooting for him and quite frankly, he feels pressured from the thought of living to other’s expectations.
Maybe if he didn’t have so much anger-focused passion in his system, he wouldn’t have been one of the Guerrier’s star student; he thinks and closes his eyes when the water cascades through his body. He wishes it could bleach his thoughts clean just like it cleanses his body.
//
“What will you do when I’m gone?” the cadence came from a frail, brittle body, creating cacophony when it shifted against the old singular bed. Bitten by age, slowly contaminated by a disease. Then came a brief succession of dry coughs, spurt out the glass of water he offered her before he finally decided it was okay to respond,
“I don’t know,” an inconclusive answer.
“Just don’t be like those street delinquents...” his irises traced the wrinkles he could map on her visage--this dying old lady, whom he owed so much gratitude. He couldn’t repay her kindness of picking his pathetic, abandoned younger self up when he used to hide behind a trashcan, raising him as if her own with such difficulties and he couldn’t even buy her a god-damned medicine in return. Now he was forced to watch her helplessly laid there, just waiting, because that was all that was left to do, for death to knock on the door. It could be anytime now…
“I won’t. I might enroll in Guerrier,” he paused for a nanosecond, searching for some sort of reaction from her complexion but he really couldn’t discern anything else but grave painted all over her blanch skin. Bit on the insides of his cheeks until it bleeds out of guilt and closed his eyes, continuing, “and I could be one of the mercenaries there. Help the country out, at least die from a purpose.”
He wasn’t sure if there was any response from her at all but he could see her microscopic nod--even then, he was uncertain if she was really nodding or battling for air. Because in a matter of minutes that came after, the grip she had on his hand loosened. She never woke up again but at least she smiled in her slumber.
//
The pasty cerulean sky reconstructs into a shade darker, achromatic cinereal air: the mixture of pollution and crumbs of ashes floating about, tarnishing the landscape. A crack of crimson bleeds a long line, intensifying the vast canvas, an acquiesce for the sun to descend the horizon. Seunghyun walks along the streets, a straight line on the sideline pathway, looking ahead the bus stop a few feet away and curses under his breath when he finds that he had just missed the bus ride home. Throws his gaze up at the sky and telepathically notifies the sky to not tuck the stars in just yet because he needs to walk his way home today. Everyone knows what happens after dark--dirty bugs from the forbidden corners of the cities come out and search for new prey (for no particular reason, really, just out of sickly amusement). He sees at least ten dead faces on TV every day when he stops by the lobby of Guerrier, ‘in memories of the him’s and her’s; nobody really knows who they are or what they do but it is a silent agreement to recognize them as ‘the poor victims’.
He feels around the pockets of his slacks and rests his palm against the outline of the dagger hidden beneath the thin fabric, just in case he gets ambushed. He isn’t at all afraid, more so he shouldn’t be, what with being a mercenary in training and all. It's better to be safe than sorry; as what they all say. When he thinks about it, he really didn’t have any other purpose to live in this world other than to serve the continent he lives in; regardless of that one reason, he doesn’t also fancy the idea of dying only to be remembered as ‘the victim of last night’s mafia attack’. Deep down inside of him, maybe he wants to be remembered as something, as a someone. Something memorable, but that part, he hasn’t quite think through yet.
“I’m sorry,” the two words roll out of his tongue almost instinctively, as if his body is on auto-pilot when he (as cliche as this may sound) bumps into someone. When he finally regains composure and lifts his head up to properly apologize, he is greeted by a shiny metal pointed at him. He wishes he was quick enough to pull his own dagger out to defend himself but two pairs of hands coming from two other bodies managed to pin him against the wall. Think of the devil and the devil appears, he wants to spit out the irony but the words are stuck in his throat; adam’s apple bobbing in place as he tries to swallow the rising bile.
“Money, or die,” the man holding the knife pressed near his throat seethes through his grimy yellow teeth. Seunghyun tries not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of alcohol and tobacco permeating the already stuffy and marred city air. “No, Chuck,” another man who is holding his left hand objects, “money and die.”
They cackled. Seunghyun couldn’t find it in him to laugh along because it wasn’t funny at all. It was the lamest remark of all century that he wants to laugh at their stupidity instead. But he decides to just remain silent; he wanted to live, after all.
“Aye, what’s in here,” the man earlier, ‘Chuck’, Seunghyun presumes, snatches his worn out duffel bag from him. Roughly unzipping it and Seunghyun flinches at the slightest tearing sound coming from the fabric when Chuck rummages through the little things inside. “One of the Guerriers, aye?”
Seunghyun isn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question; he purses his lips and mentally notes himself to sew the torn section of the bag if he gets home alive that night.
“Answer him, fool!” the other men bumps his body against the wall; hard.
“I’m training there,” Seunghyun do(tri)es not to stammer, wanting to remain calm because if it wasn’t for the fact that he is unarmed at the moment, he would’ve smashed all of their heads like how he usually does with the dummies in the arena.
“We need us some weapons, ay Chuck?” the other man chimed in, nodding towards Seunghyun as if implying an idea--oh, he is somehow sure that he is about to be dragged into a bad one. It took Chuck a good minute before his lips form an “O”, nodding along.
“Tell you what kid, if you could bring us some good weapons, we’ll let you go. Whad’ya say?”
I can’t do that, but the words didn’t make it out of his throat. Chuck took this as a ticket to continue persuading him; what imperfect human wouldn’t give in to little bribes anyway. It was all too damn easy.
“We give ya’ money. We have lots of those, ay,” Chuck shook the duffel bag in front of his face, “get’cha a new bag.”
Silence. The thought of betraying his own force had never crossed his mind before and he couldn’t believe he was even considering the offer--he wants to quickly shake his head but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
I can’t…, still inaudible.
“Or we’ll just kill all those ones close to you until you say yes,” the other men cheered sardonically at the suggestion and nodded in unison. “We always get our way, kid.”
Seunghyun wants to scoff at this because nobody comes to his mind when 'close to you' is mentioned. He tries to count the amount of people that mattered to him and it equated to zero.
Yet he ends up nodding and agreeing to meet them again the next day with weapons in hand.
//
“Here at Guerrier, weapons are strictly only allowed around the arena. As we all know, weapons are limited around the world and of course, we would not want them to fall into the wrong hands…” the speech he recalls hearing back when he was a fresh meat faintly replays in his ears when he sneakily slips two revolvers into his bag when no one is looking.
Casually fixes the strap of the duffel slung on his shoulder and flashes an unfaltering (he is just so used to facial acting) smile to the securities as he steps out through the automatic doors. Their belongings are usually checked as part of a ceremonious practice before they leave the institution, but who would doubt a star student like him? No one.
And he isn’t sure of how to feel when he exchanges the weapons for a few hundred bucks in a dark alley. Walks home after and slumps onto his bed, trying to dream of a brand new bag, or the better life he could lead, because what harm can the two guns that only adds up to the existing collection of weapons the mafia clans already have can do, really? Right? He tries to reassure himself when he starts fidgeting in bed, as if he is lying on pins and needles.
The bed creaks as if threatening to shatter when he tosses and turns, should replace this bed with a new comfortable one, where no one have died on before, he rolls onto his back and stares at the dark stigmas of dirt scattered on the ceiling in an unsightly pattern, and maybe get a new nicer place to live in. He falls asleep to the sound of his own lies comforting him; everything's going to be alright... until you get caught.
//
Resentment is what he feels for the reflection that he sees when he stands in front of the mirror. Nothing really changed in optical terms, but he could just see betrayal and guilt hanging on his skin like an egg yolk gone bad, a stubborn tar of the sin he committed and he just wants to plug his nose, repelling his own scent. Excruciating fingers pulling at his hair because what has he done (he just realized), god damn it. For a brand new bag? For a better place compared to the hell of a place they dared call an apartment--blinded by luxury, how could he lost his eyes to such things.
He stops when they start noticing the short in weapons in the armory.
And then hides from the enemies when the number of crime reports rises.
//
“They’re coming to get me,” is what greets him at two in the morning, awake in a jolt when he hears a ruckus nearby (perhaps somewhere behind the grimy building) or dare he thinks the old building is finally falling apart from all the fissures it already has to begin with. He walks a few steps and reaches the door, peeks out into the hallway and finds a figure, long hair flying and all as she wobbles around frantically. He stands and glazes over the petite woman who finally trips and falls a few centimetres away from his door, skin dirtied from soil or whatever that dark red is--it could be blood but he doesn’t want to assume things over her ragged breaths and silent weeps as she dries the tears streaming down her cheeks with the back of her bloodied palms.
“Who’s coming for you?” he asks.
A gunshot exploded in the air and he jumps a little on his feet; her crawling closer to him and begs in between incoherent whimpers to take her in;
they’re coming to kill me please please my friends are all dead i am unarmed please i’m tired and i’m injured i have nowhere to go please take me in please i need one night to hide just one night--
He quickly (but carefully enough not to scratch the big patch of blood slowly coloring her shirt whole) pulls her in when he hears more footsteps and locks the door, praying she didn’t leave any traces of blood or any kinds of marks on her way here.
The next hour, he spends aiding her with what little equipments he had: a small first aid box, a sliver of cloth he ripped from an old shirt and last, promises her that he’ll bring her to Guerrier Headquarters first thing the next day to get her properly healed--
“You’re a Guerrian? Oh my, my, what a surprise!” she interjects, eyes brightening up. He looks at her, confused. “Suzy. Bae Suzy,” she introduces herself and wants to extend her hand out for a formal handshake (even though there’s no such thing as formal when your first encounter involves blood and gunshots) but she winces instead; explainable with all the cuts and bruises all over her body, “one of the soldiers from Guerrier 2.”
He then learns this new acquaintance of his, Suzy, although much younger than he is has passed the Guerrier field test (in which you have to take to pass as a full mercenary). She was assigned on a mission to bust the mafia clan on a certain area near the city--“there aren’t many skilled soldiers left at Guerrier 1 with all the others flying off to wage war in west Novandia, they said”--ends the little tale on how she failed her mission and lost her comrades in the process, before finally winding up here in his cramped place.
It's alright, you'll be safe here, he tries to comfort her even though he, himself is not completely sure. He watches her sleep on his bed, not catching even a wink of shut eye for fear of any of the enemies coming back, coming here--for her, for him, them. The first thing that came to his mind when the sky cracks to dawn, blinding morning sun and all is: how much he regrets not sleeping.
Seunghyun almost falls asleep during a duel the next evening, due to the lack of sleep he had from the previous night, if it wasn't obvious enough. Suzy saves him from an almost stab when she sends an arrow flying from a few metres away, clashes with the dagger initially thrown at him; ends up with both objects falling onto the ground with a loud thud.
His feet are anchored to the ground, looks at the fallen weapons in front of him, transitioning to the grinning girl who slowly approaches him. She heals fast, this girl; he thinks to himself when he recalls sending her to the infirmary just hours ago. He guesses she is probably here watching him to thank him for saving her the night before; the only logical reasoning he could come up with, if anything.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he ends up scoffing when she doesn't say anything that he imagines her to, but hands him a small towel instead. "I didn't need the saving," he drapes the cloth around his neck to which she only giggles in return.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Who said I was going to.”
//
He makes his way to the main entrance, ready to exit and call it a day but stops in his tracks when he hears the news from the lobby--more vicious killings and the rise of mafia rebellions and more blood and more bodies and more and more thump thump in his head that he could have fall if he didn’t retain his balance. He stands and stares at his reflection on the automatic tinted glass door. Hair a little bit longer than it was a few months ago, still unruly, he tousles it back and blinks, eyes almost bloodshot and dark rings of circles under, from the lack of sleep because guilt keeps him awake at nights, thinner, so much thinner that he could just fall from the slightest breeze, oh who are you. He doesn’t seem to recognize the face looking back at him anymore.
Let’s see me die in combats, he tastes his own bitter words in his throat and almost throws up from the venom. Clutches his throat and doubles over, (‘Hey, Song! Are you okay?’), starts hearing muffled noises surrounding and everything starts spinning and spinning and spinning--falls and curls up into a fetal position, I wish I was an innocent foetus oh I wish I wish I wish and everything shuts down.
He wants to actually die in such a wasteful way, now.
//
“Stop it! Stop acting like you care!” he eventually snaps one day when she tries to inspect the fresh cuts marring his abdomen. She chanced a look at them when he was changing, thinking she wasn’t looking.
“What makes you think I could trust you?” he retorts, veins along his temples protruding as his eyes glare into hers, fist clenched until his knuckles turn ghastly white. She is silent for she has never seen him this way before. This is what happens when you are used to someone who has everything bottled up, this is what happens because you will eventually explode and it’s unhealthy and it will kill you and just, oh god Seunghyun, please let me help you, she desperately wants to say but the words evaporate in the air and he doesn’t take the chance to fathom them when he bangs his fist against the wall. “What makes you think so when I don’t even trust myself?” his lips curl into a cynical smirk. “I betrayed my own kind out of my own selfishness. What makes you think I will believe that you will never have the thought of betraying anybody for your own importance? You ever heard of that cliche saying; nobody’s perfect.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” he repeats louder this time and she cups his ears, wishing the Seunghyun she knew would appear (the seunghyun she thought she knew because you never really know someone when sometimes all they do is choose the sides of them that they allow you to see). “There’s no black and white in this treacherous world. Everything is in infinite shades of grey."
And she wants very much to wrap her arms around him and emanate some sort of consolation for him, wants to see what she always sees in the serenity of his sleeping face, erratic breathing a few tones down after their sweet nightly battles of slick muscles tasting each other’s wet caverns, becoming one when limbs tangled between limbs; fitting into each other just like puzzle pieces. She used to trace kisses along the old, faded lines littered across his skin; sweet whispers as if connecting the dots but twines her slender fingers with his. ‘Promise me you won’t do this again,’ and he does; granted she doesn't judge when he blurts out the mistakes he has done in the past. She doesn't. They would fall into each other's arms, no definite strings cocooning around conjoined bodies but she doesn't need syllables to feel the infamous red string bounding their pinkies together. He was never a fan of these diabetic syrupy thoughts to begin with, ('ridiculous' he would say) but he would be lying if he does not have the slightest care for her; she can actually feel it in her bones.
In this moment she deeply wants him to know, for him to feel and realize that she cares but he shoves her hands away; rambles about blacks and whites, ashen spectrums and somehow ends up with the yin and yang. The good and the bad were never balanced in this world, he shouts in pure exasperation and she listens with a nod, pools in her eyes as she lets him finish. There was never a pure white in the good deeds that you do, white was never a pure color, he drops onto the bed and pulls on his hair, bangs his fist on the bed on his face, on everything within reach and she tries to stop him before he hurts himself, there is always a speck of black in the white, he whimpers and this time he doesn't let her near him. He carries on yelling and sends profanities flying and bouncing across the four walls when he pushes her out of the room (his life).
//
Everything will eventually break; an egg can only have a hard shell for so long before it falls and cracks into inestimable little pieces. Splatters it’s dirty content all over the place and leaves the final decision for you to decide whether you may reuse its contents, or just throw it away like yesterday’s trash. And it ensues when Song Seunghyun finally breaks, transforms from a calm man he once (he thought) was into this overwrought pile of mess; rocks back and forth and back and forth again, accompanied with incomprehensible strangled sobs and whimpers and pleads and all things rhymed desperate in front of the one man he knew he had let down.
“I believe in you, Song.” it was either ‘Song’ or ‘son’, he didn’t hear it clearly when the man places a hand on the small of his back. Either way, he feels a little at ease. “I also believe people can change for the better.”
He makes a silent promise of trying to evoke what little faith that he has left in himself and one thing he will make sure off: he, they, will avenge against the mafia. It is only a matter of time.
//
Seunghyun decides today is a good day when he places the graduation cap atop of his head, scrutinizing the reflection in front of him closely. A man, his professor, trusts him to believe in his change. A woman, the woman he let go, tried to tell him she believed in him to forgive himself and start afresh. And today, he looks into the plane of glass, hair neatly tucked under the cap, cut shorter again, he fixes the cap, eyes livelier and a face much more presentable, he lets out a low chuckle out of self amusement.
He lifts his feet and with each steps that he takes towards the main auditorium, he releases the weights he had been carrying. With every swings on each arms, he stores all his angers and regrets in a vial in which he will only open to remind himself that everybody makes mistakes and these mistakes are to be learned from, not dwelled upon.
He exhales when he pushes the doors open; graduation caps and robes filling almost every corner of the room, exchanges silent smiles and enters, eyes widen in surprise almost immediately when he spots a certain Bae Suzy. Grounded with his feet rooted to the ground, his eyes fixates on her dainty frame, balletically parading towards him with delicate strides. Stops in front of him and contagiously paints a smile on his face once her own lips curl upwards, raises one of her brows and knows exactly what he is thinking.
“How could you think I wouldn’t come?”
He could only chuckle in response, shakes his head in a muted left and right and left again, relishes the genuine smile that he hasn’t felt in a while. For the first time, his head doesn’t feel so heavy and he finally believes in himself. He believes they will wage through this war together.
This, this is only the beginning.
4805 w; pg-13; angst, alternate universe (seunghyun/suzy)
In all honesty, he doesn't really mind dying; but not in such a wasteful way, however.
a/n; this is my failed attempt at creating a whole new universe. if you've never seen seunghyun and suzy before, please click. dare i mention that this is also a product from an all-nighter that includes me slapping and being violent to myself throughout the process of wanting to complete this in the span of 5 hours to make it to the deadline. this is originally a contest entry and last minute me is last minute, resulting in this unbeta-ed monster. /cries
The screeching of the bell reverberates all around the grounds of Guerrier Institute, denoting the final second of training sessions. Exhales a lazy sigh when he trudges towards the armory at the end of the field, carelessly twirling the loop of the rifle in one hand and unstraps the glove on the other with his teeth. Secretly spits when he tastes the mixture of salty sweat and faux leather, quick glances left and right for the guards to tell him off (‘you spit one more time and you get a fine ticket!’) as if he’s done a big crime. None of them around; he shrugs and tosses the gloves into a basket weaved from rattan, what they call a ‘Training Gears Dispensary’. Although he would much rather call it a laundry basket even when they shush him for doing so. He hangs the weapon in its respective place. ‘17:45’, the two thin hands behind the glass of his wrist watch points when he checks for the time, wipes the beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead and swings his legs out towards the exit of the training arena. He adjusts his uniform and dusts off non-existent lint on the cloth along the way, huffing and puffing still short on breath after long hours of training.
“Great job today, Song,” his steps falter in his track when he hears a sudden shout from--he calculates with his ears--the left side of the field, not too far away from where he is. He throws a quick glance, a nod and a the most slight curve on the lips he could muster towards his trainer’s direction, not bothering to stay for small talks. Not a fan of those, he threads straight out of the arena and enters the interior of the building, one of Guerrier’s many joint big blocks; this place where he studies. This is where he will graduate, he thinks, although god knows when because he is also starting to get tired and the purpose of his living is still all hazy and he’s still so young to be an empty shell and oh well, he has to bear with this a little more until he finds what his heart desires. Combat boots with blotches here and there, stopping in the first changing room he sees and feels a little relieved that there are only a small number of students in there. If it wasn’t obvious already, he dislikes all means of contacts with people. Gives the few in front of him a nod of greetings and stops in front of a mirror.
He takes some time staring into the reflection, unruly hair, cut a bit shorter compared to the messy mop he had last month, runs his fingers through the russet brown locks, a bruise along his jawline a result of being blinded from his then messy mop in the middle of a combat; distracted for a few seconds and dropped his guard, traces the faint purplish mark and winces, remembering reprimands of his trainer: “Get a damned haircut, son. You don’t want your head chopped off if this be happenin’ in a real war.”
In all honesty, he doesn’t really mind dying. This is a silent thought of his, of course, tucked away in a place where no one will find. This is a routine he repeats every single day (except Sundays), the redundancy of learning the history of how Novandia was formed, how the fate of the country laid in their hands, boring words of wisdoms from shitty past rulers thrown around. Then the training sessions in the evenings where he could release his pent up vexation shooting and blowing up doomies or when he’s lucky, he can crack someone’s skull in duels. Sometimes he still wonders if he’s getting tired of this routine, or just plain sick of everything in this world that he just wants to shoot his god-damned self. He doesn’t mind dying, but not in such a wasteful way, however.
Blinks; once, twice. Eyes scanning his own figure from top to bottom, the only images the mirror could capture, that is. Well, I gained a little weight, at least I won’t get thrown across the arena so easily anymore--he snorts at his own inward joke, or was it a retch of sarcasm. He isn’t entirely sure but he shrugs the petty self debate off and starts peeling the sweat-drenched uniform off, moaning as he releases his body from its confinement. Maybe all he needs right now is a nice hot shower, let it relax his tensed veins and muscles; something to get his mind off of cluttered thoughts and hope to feel better. A little steam could will him to live a few years longer.
“Yo, Seunghyun!” this time he hears his first name thrown in the air when he almost enters one of the many arrayed shower cubicles. The people around here had the tendency of calling him whatever they wanted, (‘who do you think you are’) although he never complained. That is probably one of the reasons why they liked him, he thinks, he doesn’t say much and nods at everything just to avoid conversations. “Great practice out there,” this smiling person compliments. He is ten to hundred percent sure that he doesn’t know them, but he nods and smiles out of courtesy anyway. Great job here, great job there; he hears those exact words almost every day and it adds up to the frustrations he already has, with people rooting for him and quite frankly, he feels pressured from the thought of living to other’s expectations.
Maybe if he didn’t have so much anger-focused passion in his system, he wouldn’t have been one of the Guerrier’s star student; he thinks and closes his eyes when the water cascades through his body. He wishes it could bleach his thoughts clean just like it cleanses his body.
//
“What will you do when I’m gone?” the cadence came from a frail, brittle body, creating cacophony when it shifted against the old singular bed. Bitten by age, slowly contaminated by a disease. Then came a brief succession of dry coughs, spurt out the glass of water he offered her before he finally decided it was okay to respond,
“I don’t know,” an inconclusive answer.
“Just don’t be like those street delinquents...” his irises traced the wrinkles he could map on her visage--this dying old lady, whom he owed so much gratitude. He couldn’t repay her kindness of picking his pathetic, abandoned younger self up when he used to hide behind a trashcan, raising him as if her own with such difficulties and he couldn’t even buy her a god-damned medicine in return. Now he was forced to watch her helplessly laid there, just waiting, because that was all that was left to do, for death to knock on the door. It could be anytime now…
“I won’t. I might enroll in Guerrier,” he paused for a nanosecond, searching for some sort of reaction from her complexion but he really couldn’t discern anything else but grave painted all over her blanch skin. Bit on the insides of his cheeks until it bleeds out of guilt and closed his eyes, continuing, “and I could be one of the mercenaries there. Help the country out, at least die from a purpose.”
He wasn’t sure if there was any response from her at all but he could see her microscopic nod--even then, he was uncertain if she was really nodding or battling for air. Because in a matter of minutes that came after, the grip she had on his hand loosened. She never woke up again but at least she smiled in her slumber.
//
The pasty cerulean sky reconstructs into a shade darker, achromatic cinereal air: the mixture of pollution and crumbs of ashes floating about, tarnishing the landscape. A crack of crimson bleeds a long line, intensifying the vast canvas, an acquiesce for the sun to descend the horizon. Seunghyun walks along the streets, a straight line on the sideline pathway, looking ahead the bus stop a few feet away and curses under his breath when he finds that he had just missed the bus ride home. Throws his gaze up at the sky and telepathically notifies the sky to not tuck the stars in just yet because he needs to walk his way home today. Everyone knows what happens after dark--dirty bugs from the forbidden corners of the cities come out and search for new prey (for no particular reason, really, just out of sickly amusement). He sees at least ten dead faces on TV every day when he stops by the lobby of Guerrier, ‘in memories of the him’s and her’s; nobody really knows who they are or what they do but it is a silent agreement to recognize them as ‘the poor victims’.
He feels around the pockets of his slacks and rests his palm against the outline of the dagger hidden beneath the thin fabric, just in case he gets ambushed. He isn’t at all afraid, more so he shouldn’t be, what with being a mercenary in training and all. It's better to be safe than sorry; as what they all say. When he thinks about it, he really didn’t have any other purpose to live in this world other than to serve the continent he lives in; regardless of that one reason, he doesn’t also fancy the idea of dying only to be remembered as ‘the victim of last night’s mafia attack’. Deep down inside of him, maybe he wants to be remembered as something, as a someone. Something memorable, but that part, he hasn’t quite think through yet.
“I’m sorry,” the two words roll out of his tongue almost instinctively, as if his body is on auto-pilot when he (as cliche as this may sound) bumps into someone. When he finally regains composure and lifts his head up to properly apologize, he is greeted by a shiny metal pointed at him. He wishes he was quick enough to pull his own dagger out to defend himself but two pairs of hands coming from two other bodies managed to pin him against the wall. Think of the devil and the devil appears, he wants to spit out the irony but the words are stuck in his throat; adam’s apple bobbing in place as he tries to swallow the rising bile.
“Money, or die,” the man holding the knife pressed near his throat seethes through his grimy yellow teeth. Seunghyun tries not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of alcohol and tobacco permeating the already stuffy and marred city air. “No, Chuck,” another man who is holding his left hand objects, “money and die.”
They cackled. Seunghyun couldn’t find it in him to laugh along because it wasn’t funny at all. It was the lamest remark of all century that he wants to laugh at their stupidity instead. But he decides to just remain silent; he wanted to live, after all.
“Aye, what’s in here,” the man earlier, ‘Chuck’, Seunghyun presumes, snatches his worn out duffel bag from him. Roughly unzipping it and Seunghyun flinches at the slightest tearing sound coming from the fabric when Chuck rummages through the little things inside. “One of the Guerriers, aye?”
Seunghyun isn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question; he purses his lips and mentally notes himself to sew the torn section of the bag if he gets home alive that night.
“Answer him, fool!” the other men bumps his body against the wall; hard.
“I’m training there,” Seunghyun do(tri)es not to stammer, wanting to remain calm because if it wasn’t for the fact that he is unarmed at the moment, he would’ve smashed all of their heads like how he usually does with the dummies in the arena.
“We need us some weapons, ay Chuck?” the other man chimed in, nodding towards Seunghyun as if implying an idea--oh, he is somehow sure that he is about to be dragged into a bad one. It took Chuck a good minute before his lips form an “O”, nodding along.
“Tell you what kid, if you could bring us some good weapons, we’ll let you go. Whad’ya say?”
I can’t do that, but the words didn’t make it out of his throat. Chuck took this as a ticket to continue persuading him; what imperfect human wouldn’t give in to little bribes anyway. It was all too damn easy.
“We give ya’ money. We have lots of those, ay,” Chuck shook the duffel bag in front of his face, “get’cha a new bag.”
Silence. The thought of betraying his own force had never crossed his mind before and he couldn’t believe he was even considering the offer--he wants to quickly shake his head but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
I can’t…, still inaudible.
“Or we’ll just kill all those ones close to you until you say yes,” the other men cheered sardonically at the suggestion and nodded in unison. “We always get our way, kid.”
Seunghyun wants to scoff at this because nobody comes to his mind when 'close to you' is mentioned. He tries to count the amount of people that mattered to him and it equated to zero.
Yet he ends up nodding and agreeing to meet them again the next day with weapons in hand.
//
“Here at Guerrier, weapons are strictly only allowed around the arena. As we all know, weapons are limited around the world and of course, we would not want them to fall into the wrong hands…” the speech he recalls hearing back when he was a fresh meat faintly replays in his ears when he sneakily slips two revolvers into his bag when no one is looking.
Casually fixes the strap of the duffel slung on his shoulder and flashes an unfaltering (he is just so used to facial acting) smile to the securities as he steps out through the automatic doors. Their belongings are usually checked as part of a ceremonious practice before they leave the institution, but who would doubt a star student like him? No one.
And he isn’t sure of how to feel when he exchanges the weapons for a few hundred bucks in a dark alley. Walks home after and slumps onto his bed, trying to dream of a brand new bag, or the better life he could lead, because what harm can the two guns that only adds up to the existing collection of weapons the mafia clans already have can do, really? Right? He tries to reassure himself when he starts fidgeting in bed, as if he is lying on pins and needles.
The bed creaks as if threatening to shatter when he tosses and turns, should replace this bed with a new comfortable one, where no one have died on before, he rolls onto his back and stares at the dark stigmas of dirt scattered on the ceiling in an unsightly pattern, and maybe get a new nicer place to live in. He falls asleep to the sound of his own lies comforting him; everything's going to be alright... until you get caught.
//
Resentment is what he feels for the reflection that he sees when he stands in front of the mirror. Nothing really changed in optical terms, but he could just see betrayal and guilt hanging on his skin like an egg yolk gone bad, a stubborn tar of the sin he committed and he just wants to plug his nose, repelling his own scent. Excruciating fingers pulling at his hair because what has he done (he just realized), god damn it. For a brand new bag? For a better place compared to the hell of a place they dared call an apartment--blinded by luxury, how could he lost his eyes to such things.
He stops when they start noticing the short in weapons in the armory.
And then hides from the enemies when the number of crime reports rises.
//
“They’re coming to get me,” is what greets him at two in the morning, awake in a jolt when he hears a ruckus nearby (perhaps somewhere behind the grimy building) or dare he thinks the old building is finally falling apart from all the fissures it already has to begin with. He walks a few steps and reaches the door, peeks out into the hallway and finds a figure, long hair flying and all as she wobbles around frantically. He stands and glazes over the petite woman who finally trips and falls a few centimetres away from his door, skin dirtied from soil or whatever that dark red is--it could be blood but he doesn’t want to assume things over her ragged breaths and silent weeps as she dries the tears streaming down her cheeks with the back of her bloodied palms.
“Who’s coming for you?” he asks.
A gunshot exploded in the air and he jumps a little on his feet; her crawling closer to him and begs in between incoherent whimpers to take her in;
they’re coming to kill me please please my friends are all dead i am unarmed please i’m tired and i’m injured i have nowhere to go please take me in please i need one night to hide just one night--
He quickly (but carefully enough not to scratch the big patch of blood slowly coloring her shirt whole) pulls her in when he hears more footsteps and locks the door, praying she didn’t leave any traces of blood or any kinds of marks on her way here.
The next hour, he spends aiding her with what little equipments he had: a small first aid box, a sliver of cloth he ripped from an old shirt and last, promises her that he’ll bring her to Guerrier Headquarters first thing the next day to get her properly healed--
“You’re a Guerrian? Oh my, my, what a surprise!” she interjects, eyes brightening up. He looks at her, confused. “Suzy. Bae Suzy,” she introduces herself and wants to extend her hand out for a formal handshake (even though there’s no such thing as formal when your first encounter involves blood and gunshots) but she winces instead; explainable with all the cuts and bruises all over her body, “one of the soldiers from Guerrier 2.”
He then learns this new acquaintance of his, Suzy, although much younger than he is has passed the Guerrier field test (in which you have to take to pass as a full mercenary). She was assigned on a mission to bust the mafia clan on a certain area near the city--“there aren’t many skilled soldiers left at Guerrier 1 with all the others flying off to wage war in west Novandia, they said”--ends the little tale on how she failed her mission and lost her comrades in the process, before finally winding up here in his cramped place.
It's alright, you'll be safe here, he tries to comfort her even though he, himself is not completely sure. He watches her sleep on his bed, not catching even a wink of shut eye for fear of any of the enemies coming back, coming here--for her, for him, them. The first thing that came to his mind when the sky cracks to dawn, blinding morning sun and all is: how much he regrets not sleeping.
Seunghyun almost falls asleep during a duel the next evening, due to the lack of sleep he had from the previous night, if it wasn't obvious enough. Suzy saves him from an almost stab when she sends an arrow flying from a few metres away, clashes with the dagger initially thrown at him; ends up with both objects falling onto the ground with a loud thud.
His feet are anchored to the ground, looks at the fallen weapons in front of him, transitioning to the grinning girl who slowly approaches him. She heals fast, this girl; he thinks to himself when he recalls sending her to the infirmary just hours ago. He guesses she is probably here watching him to thank him for saving her the night before; the only logical reasoning he could come up with, if anything.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he ends up scoffing when she doesn't say anything that he imagines her to, but hands him a small towel instead. "I didn't need the saving," he drapes the cloth around his neck to which she only giggles in return.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Who said I was going to.”
//
He makes his way to the main entrance, ready to exit and call it a day but stops in his tracks when he hears the news from the lobby--more vicious killings and the rise of mafia rebellions and more blood and more bodies and more and more thump thump in his head that he could have fall if he didn’t retain his balance. He stands and stares at his reflection on the automatic tinted glass door. Hair a little bit longer than it was a few months ago, still unruly, he tousles it back and blinks, eyes almost bloodshot and dark rings of circles under, from the lack of sleep because guilt keeps him awake at nights, thinner, so much thinner that he could just fall from the slightest breeze, oh who are you. He doesn’t seem to recognize the face looking back at him anymore.
Let’s see me die in combats, he tastes his own bitter words in his throat and almost throws up from the venom. Clutches his throat and doubles over, (‘Hey, Song! Are you okay?’), starts hearing muffled noises surrounding and everything starts spinning and spinning and spinning--falls and curls up into a fetal position, I wish I was an innocent foetus oh I wish I wish I wish and everything shuts down.
He wants to actually die in such a wasteful way, now.
//
“Stop it! Stop acting like you care!” he eventually snaps one day when she tries to inspect the fresh cuts marring his abdomen. She chanced a look at them when he was changing, thinking she wasn’t looking.
“What makes you think I could trust you?” he retorts, veins along his temples protruding as his eyes glare into hers, fist clenched until his knuckles turn ghastly white. She is silent for she has never seen him this way before. This is what happens when you are used to someone who has everything bottled up, this is what happens because you will eventually explode and it’s unhealthy and it will kill you and just, oh god Seunghyun, please let me help you, she desperately wants to say but the words evaporate in the air and he doesn’t take the chance to fathom them when he bangs his fist against the wall. “What makes you think so when I don’t even trust myself?” his lips curl into a cynical smirk. “I betrayed my own kind out of my own selfishness. What makes you think I will believe that you will never have the thought of betraying anybody for your own importance? You ever heard of that cliche saying; nobody’s perfect.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” he repeats louder this time and she cups his ears, wishing the Seunghyun she knew would appear (the seunghyun she thought she knew because you never really know someone when sometimes all they do is choose the sides of them that they allow you to see). “There’s no black and white in this treacherous world. Everything is in infinite shades of grey."
And she wants very much to wrap her arms around him and emanate some sort of consolation for him, wants to see what she always sees in the serenity of his sleeping face, erratic breathing a few tones down after their sweet nightly battles of slick muscles tasting each other’s wet caverns, becoming one when limbs tangled between limbs; fitting into each other just like puzzle pieces. She used to trace kisses along the old, faded lines littered across his skin; sweet whispers as if connecting the dots but twines her slender fingers with his. ‘Promise me you won’t do this again,’ and he does; granted she doesn't judge when he blurts out the mistakes he has done in the past. She doesn't. They would fall into each other's arms, no definite strings cocooning around conjoined bodies but she doesn't need syllables to feel the infamous red string bounding their pinkies together. He was never a fan of these diabetic syrupy thoughts to begin with, ('ridiculous' he would say) but he would be lying if he does not have the slightest care for her; she can actually feel it in her bones.
In this moment she deeply wants him to know, for him to feel and realize that she cares but he shoves her hands away; rambles about blacks and whites, ashen spectrums and somehow ends up with the yin and yang. The good and the bad were never balanced in this world, he shouts in pure exasperation and she listens with a nod, pools in her eyes as she lets him finish. There was never a pure white in the good deeds that you do, white was never a pure color, he drops onto the bed and pulls on his hair, bangs his fist on the bed on his face, on everything within reach and she tries to stop him before he hurts himself, there is always a speck of black in the white, he whimpers and this time he doesn't let her near him. He carries on yelling and sends profanities flying and bouncing across the four walls when he pushes her out of the room (his life).
//
Everything will eventually break; an egg can only have a hard shell for so long before it falls and cracks into inestimable little pieces. Splatters it’s dirty content all over the place and leaves the final decision for you to decide whether you may reuse its contents, or just throw it away like yesterday’s trash. And it ensues when Song Seunghyun finally breaks, transforms from a calm man he once (he thought) was into this overwrought pile of mess; rocks back and forth and back and forth again, accompanied with incomprehensible strangled sobs and whimpers and pleads and all things rhymed desperate in front of the one man he knew he had let down.
“I believe in you, Song.” it was either ‘Song’ or ‘son’, he didn’t hear it clearly when the man places a hand on the small of his back. Either way, he feels a little at ease. “I also believe people can change for the better.”
He makes a silent promise of trying to evoke what little faith that he has left in himself and one thing he will make sure off: he, they, will avenge against the mafia. It is only a matter of time.
//
Seunghyun decides today is a good day when he places the graduation cap atop of his head, scrutinizing the reflection in front of him closely. A man, his professor, trusts him to believe in his change. A woman, the woman he let go, tried to tell him she believed in him to forgive himself and start afresh. And today, he looks into the plane of glass, hair neatly tucked under the cap, cut shorter again, he fixes the cap, eyes livelier and a face much more presentable, he lets out a low chuckle out of self amusement.
He lifts his feet and with each steps that he takes towards the main auditorium, he releases the weights he had been carrying. With every swings on each arms, he stores all his angers and regrets in a vial in which he will only open to remind himself that everybody makes mistakes and these mistakes are to be learned from, not dwelled upon.
He exhales when he pushes the doors open; graduation caps and robes filling almost every corner of the room, exchanges silent smiles and enters, eyes widen in surprise almost immediately when he spots a certain Bae Suzy. Grounded with his feet rooted to the ground, his eyes fixates on her dainty frame, balletically parading towards him with delicate strides. Stops in front of him and contagiously paints a smile on his face once her own lips curl upwards, raises one of her brows and knows exactly what he is thinking.
“How could you think I wouldn’t come?”
He could only chuckle in response, shakes his head in a muted left and right and left again, relishes the genuine smile that he hasn’t felt in a while. For the first time, his head doesn’t feel so heavy and he finally believes in himself. He believes they will wage through this war together.
This, this is only the beginning.