The Hollow Men (2/4)
Title: The Hollow Men
Fandom: 2PM
Length: ~4500 words, chapter 2 of 4.
Character/pairing: All members, gen.
Ratings/warnings: I'm going to rate this as PG-13 for language and horror themes - there are zombies, and they kill people, and some of those people are in 2PM. (I've also taken some liberties with family members - hopefully it's okay).
Notes: (Still) somewhat-AU zombie apocalypse crack. Constructive criticism is not only welcomed but encouraged - I'll never become a better writer if I don't know what I need to fix. Thank you again to both lookatmoiye7 and insipid_paragon for being fabulous betas - any remaining errors are my own. ♥
Summary: This is the way the world ends.
“Taec-hyung hasn’t been home in a few days,” Junho tells Jay over the phone, his tone matter-of-fact. They did that, sometimes, just upped and left for a weekend or something, when the pressures of their lives became too much, and they had to take a break from it all.
Taec had never been the kind of guy who needed that sort of breathing space, but it's been a while. Maybe things have changed.
“Ah,” he says instead, as always a bit uncomfortable when discussing their formerly shared world. They have these chats once a week or more, and Jay’s fine when they’re talking about general things - the easy stuff, like celebrities, gossip and movies and shit. It was only when the conversation turned back to Korea that he was at a loss, or felt a loss, or there’d been a loss somewhere, somehow.
Whatever the case, it’s as awkward as hell.
He can almost hear Junho nodding, can imagine the tilt of his head, the way he’d be scrunching his eyes up as he thought back to the last time he’d seen Taec. “He’s been gone since Thailand. Chansung said he looked a bit worn out on the plane.”
Jay remembers a life when overseas trips were a regular thing, and tries very hard not to compare it to his current state of affairs. “He’ll turn up,” he replies eventually, when it becomes apparent that Junho is waiting for a response. “Did he take his phone?”
Another slight rustle - Junho nodding again. “Yeah. But he’s not answering. We never do.”
Jay remembers. “Yeah.”
A pause. Jay wills Junho not to ask but knows he will anyway, can tell from the intake of breath he hears from an ocean away. “So...what have you been doing?”
Jay shrugs, looks around, starts drawing circles on his knee. “Dancing, mainly. Hanging out. Relaxing - it’s good to have time, you know?”
“Ha, I wish!”
He smirks. “My grandma - you know the crazy one? She’s got me signed up to these email lists, so I keep getting these quizzes to-“ he adopts a stern military voice, “-assess my suitability for protecting the nation. Shit, I didn’t even know she could use a computer!”
Junho snickers. “So? How is it? Are you ‘suitable’?”
Jay thinks his grin might look a bit evil right now, so it’s probably a good thing he’s home alone. “Man, I hope not. I gave them joke answers for everything, like under ‘skills’? I put stuff like ‘singing through stockings’ and ‘flips and shit’. Oh, and I dedicated a whole paragraph to my list of things that short guys can do better than the tall ones.”
“No way! Even the dirty stuff?!”
“You better believe it.”
Junho’s laughter is cut short by talking on the other end - the murmurs are stifled by the squeak of a hand over the mic, but Jay thinks he hears Wooyoung relaying a message. He waits, and after a few beats Junho is back.
“Sorry, hyung,” he says, and he sounds like he means it, “my car’s here already. I have to go to a shoot.”
“’Course man, go do your thing.” Jay wishes him luck and they end the call.
Jay listens to the dial tone until he hears his mom at the door, and, setting the phone back gently in its cradle, goes to help her bring the groceries in.
- - -
Nichkhun’s updating his Twitter when Chansung gets up the next day, laptop cords and network cables obstructing every path across the living room floor.
“Why is our wireless so crap?” Chansung grumbles on his way to the kitchen, poking through the cupboards in search of food.
“It does drop out a bit,” Nichkhun agrees, padding into the kitchen after him. “And if you’re looking for something to eat, prepare for disappointment. We’re down to the last packet of ramyun.”
Chansung scowls into the fridge and concedes the point - they have four cans of beer, a container of kimchi, and, inexplicably, half a melon. “Ramyun it is.”
Closing the fridge door, he turns to find Nichkhun standing in front of the pantry, arms spread out protectively to prevent him from reaching past. “I’ve already called it!” he protests. “I didn’t think you’d be up for ages, otherwise I would have cooked it already!”
Chansung crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Is this really how you want to play this?”
Nichkhun mimics the pose and does his best to look fierce. “I do what I need to survive.”
“Wrong answer, foolish mortal!” Chansung whips out his fist but Nichkhun was anticipating the attack, and a few furious rounds of rock-paper-scissors later, Chansung finds himself donning a beanie and a pair of sunglasses in readiness to leave the dorm and hunt down some food of his own.
“Mmm,” says Nichkhun, back in front of his computer, mouth full of ramyun, “this is delicious. It tastes like - what is this taste? It’s familiar, but you may not know it that well - ah, it tastes like victory.”
Chansung does something rude with his finger. “Shut up, there’s no need to rub it in.”
Nichkhun lifts the pan towards Chansung. “I said I’d share it with you!”
Chansung scoffs. “As if half a packet of ramyun would fill me up.”
“Suit yourself.” Nichkhun shrugs and chews for a bit, grinning blissfully, while Chansung tries to ignore his rumbling, hungry tummy.
“Oh!” Nichkhun’s eyes snap open and he sets down the saucepan, pulling the laptop closer and clicking a few keys. “You might want to put a face mask on when you go out - there’s some sort of virus going around, something like swine flu? Apparently it’s knocked out a quarter of the city, they keep posting updates on the government website telling people to be careful.”
Chansung is pretty sure that Nichkhun is the only person in the entire world who checks online health and safety warnings, but he appreciates the heads up. “Thanks, hyung. I’ll do that.”
“Get me a drink, please~” Nichkhun replies, eyes still on the screen.
Chansung curls his lip at him. “Get your own drink. I’m probably going to stop by and see Jinwoon, so I won’t be back until later.”
Nichkhun nods to show he heard him. “Okay, have fun!”
Tugging on a face mask, Chansung steps outside, the door beeping twice and locking shut behind him.
- - -
There’s a convenience store near the dorm that he can get to in less than two minutes’ walk, but it’s a popular stalking spot for paparazzi and fans. (They’re smarter than he gives them credit for; it didn’t take them long to figure out why so many JYPE artists were being snapped in the same place). Chansung’s hungry, but not that hungry, so he takes his time, shoving his hands into his pockets and ambling through back and side streets, slowly moving away from the dorm.
The shop he goes to instead is grimy and old, and the microwave only works fifty percent of the time, but today is apparently a good day and before long he’s tucking into ramyun of his own, with a serve of pickled carrots and some instant beef soup to top it off. He pulls down his mask and blows on the soup to cool it, leaning comfortably against the eating bench with his chin resting on his hands. He watches the world pass by through the grubby window, the handful of pedestrians blurry and unfocused through years of accumulated grease, and is surprised at how slowly people can move when they have no one to hound them, or thirty different appointments to get to in the space of a few hours. It’s relaxing, just watching them, and he’s almost glad he lost to Khun now - it’s nice to leave the dorm sometimes, to get outside and pretend to be anonymous again for a while.
He likes this place even more because the ahjussi who runs it either doesn’t know him or pretends not to, and he never charges him for extra sauce.
When the ramyun’s demolished (with only a brief pang of regret for not picking something healthier), Chansung gathers his rubbish and goes to pay, snagging a can of juice from the fridge.
“How much, ahjussi?” he asks, tucking the drink under his arm and pulling his wallet out from his pocket.
The old man doesn’t answer, and when Chansung looks up expectantly, it’s to find the ahjussi with his mouth gaping open, bloodshot eyes vivid and staring in his pale, sweaty face.
“Ahjussi? Are you all right?”
Again, he doesn’t answer, just stares at Chansung with red, unfocused eyes. Chansung fumbles the face mask back on - clearly he’s affected - and pulls out a 10,000 won note, dropping it on the counter and taking a slow step back.
“Keep the change!” Tucking his wallet back in his pocket, he turns carefully and starts towards the door.
The tackle, when it comes, is not entirely unexpected, but the man’s strength is surprising, and though Chansung shouts and struggles, there’s no one to hear his cries.
- - -
Wooyoung’s sweating, the combination of the stage lights and four layers of clothing proving too much for even his prized composure. They’ve been filming the first episode of a new variety show for the past six hours, and if they don’t wrap it up soon he’s going to go crazy and punch everyone. He gives the guests a baleful once-over. Starting with UEE.
His co-host, an annoyingly fresh-looking Song Joong-Ki, unscrews the cap from a bottle of water and takes a long drink. “Ah!” he exclaims, wiping his mouth and turning to Wooyoung with a dazzling smile. “It’s going well, don’t you think?”
Wooyoung feels his mouth flatten into an unattractive line, so he takes a deep and calming breath. “Mmm,” he murmurs noncommittally, eyes drawn to the water and wishing for a bottle of his own.
Joong-Ki takes another sip and practically glows with satisfaction. “Funny how UEE keeps messing up, though.” He shakes his head at her fondly. “So many retakes!”
Funny would not have been on a list of possible words Wooyoung would use to describe the last six hours, but Joong-Ki is clearly cut from the same ridiculously positive cloth as Nichkhun, so he tries not to hold it against him. “She’s clearly something,” he agrees, peering surreptitiously past Joong-Ki to see where he’d managed to filch the water.
PD Lee and assorted crew members (fewer than usual, tonight; it seems like half the production team have managed to catch that nasty virus going around) are huddled around one of the cameras, gesturing at the power pack with expressions of alarm. Wooyoung watches them and wonders if anyone will notice if he sneaks off for a bit, to wash his face, cool down and find the secret stash of water (wherever that happens to be).
“What’s wrong with the camera, hyung?” he asks Joong-Ki, indicating to the murmuring crew.
Joong-Ki shrugs. “Some sort of power issue? I’m not sure; they said it would take about half an hour to sort out. I think someone ordered jjajangmyun to eat during the break, it should be here soon.”
Wooyoung gapes. “When did they tell you this?”
“Um...” Joong-Ki gives him a blank look. “Five minutes ago? You were there?” He tilts his head consideringly. “Are you okay?”
Wooyoung blinks and rubs his temple. “I think I need a drink.”
“Oh!” Joong-Ki holds up his bottle and points with it off stage. “There’s a whole basket of these in the dressing room.”
“Thanks.” Inclining his head in gratitude, Wooyoung brushes past him, stepping down off the stage and making his way off the set. The corridors are deserted - not a surprise, considering the time (he doesn’t wear a watch while filming, but last time he checked it was after midnight, and that had been a long time ago) and he reaches the dressing room without being accosted, for which he grudgingly accepts as the only advantage to working late night shoots.
There’s a wicker basket full of water bottles sitting on the centre table, and Wooyoung tucks one into his back pocket (no easy feat, considering his tight-fitting pants) before going over to the makeup mirror and taking stock of his face.
The liner around his eyes is smudged from perspiration, and his hair has developed a limp curl, much to his dismay. There’s a sink set into the low counter under the mirror; he knocks the lever up with more force than necessary before sticking his hands under the heavy flow and lowering his head. He’ll definitely need a touch-up after this, but he’s beyond caring at this point; he’d rather have no makeup at all than gross, sweaty stuff, and the cool water is just what he needs to wake up a little and feel better about the night so far. He leans on the counter, the water continuing to gush into the sink, filling the room with welcome, distracting noise, and eventually he feels improved enough to return to the set. He turns off the tap with a gentler hand than before, and, without lifting his head, reaches for a towel off the pile beside the sink.
His fingers find the soft cotton, and he tugs it over, patting down his face and letting out a deep breath. He opens his eyes to the mirror and almost swallows his tongue in surprise to discover in the reflection one of the crew members standing behind him, close enough to touch.
“Ah!”
Wooyoung gulps, almost dropping his towel in shock. Catching it before it slips from his fingers completely, he flicks it around his wrist in a move that he hopes seems casual and smooth, but probably looks as dumb as it felt. He clears his throat and pretends to look busy, until he realises he’s holding a towel and standing in front of a mirror, so there’s nothing to look busy with. He feigns a yawn instead, stretching exaggeratedly and dropping the towel into the sink.
He turns to greet the crew member (a camera guy? he’s not sure) but somehow he just keeps on turning, a heavy hand on his arm sending him spinning around and down. And then he’s on the ground, pinned and thrashing, head pressed to the floor, and the last thing he sees is his bottle of water rolling away across the room, and out the door, out of sight.
- - -
No one is more surprised than Jay when he gets a call from a recruiting centre affiliated with the Department of Defence.
“Mr Park.” The woman on the other end has a crisp, no-nonsense edge to her voice that has his spine straightening involuntarily from her very first word. “My name is Madison Carruthers. I am in charge of recruitment for a specialised division existing outside of regular Marine operations, and I received your application this morning.”
It’s been a couple of days since he sent it off, but Jay remembers exactly what he wrote, and wishes, not for the first time, that he had a time machine on hand. “Uh...okay?”
“I’m interested, Mr Park,” she continues, her brisk, impersonal tone somehow intimating that she doesn’t interest easily. “Your combination of strengths and skills seems eminently suitable for the team I’m in the process of building.”
Jay is pretty sure it’s physically impossible to actually die from embarrassment, since otherwise he’d probably have expired a few years back, but he feels it’s a close thing right now. Unbidden, his laptop screen flashes before his eyes and he sees the questionnaire boxes, filled with the most ridiculous answers he could think of at the time.
“I understand you are an accomplished performer?” Carruthers - she didn’t mention rank but she’s probably a fucking General or something - makes the question mark almost perfunctory, and he can hear the crisp snap of paper over the phone as she reads his answer off a sheet. “Well-versed in the arts of ‘flips and shit’?”
Jay seriously hopes his phone line isn’t tapped. He goes to speak but his throat’s all clogged; awkwardly he clears it and manages to squeak out a, “Yeah...”
“You appear unfazed by pressure, and cite previous examples of performing entire songs after having a stocking fitted over your head?”
Jay pushes his chair back from the table and crawls underneath it, rolling onto his side and beating his head against a table leg. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Hmm.” Another rustle of paper. “A final question, Mr Park - please don’t be offended, you must understand that I’m required to confirm your results as your own work - but in the privacy section you listed your greatest strength as ‘keeping your trap shut’.“
He doesn’t know why he wrote that - some security question had popped up towards the end of the questionnaire and he’d just entered the first thing that came to mind. “...yeah.”
She makes a possibly approving noise. “You should that know that secrets are sometimes necessities within governments, kept to protect their people from panic, disorder and harm. We value the ability to keep secrets, Mr Park. It is an excellent strength indeed. Have you signed a non-disclosure agreement before?”
(Pages and pages of Hangul, bullet points and numbered lists and clauses and stipulations and cold, set stares, an outstretched hand, a fountain pen, a dotted line and his name.)
“Yeah,” Jay replies, staring up at the underside of the table. “I’ve been there, done that.”
“Excellent.”
Jay lets out his breath in a long exhale and tries to forget what he’s already forgotten.
“Expect a car tomorrow at 1400 hours, Mr Park. I look forward to meeting you.”
Jolted from his stupor, Jay pulls the phone away from his ear and gives it an incredulous look. “Huh?” he cries, slapping it back against his face. “What? I - how do you even know where I live?” That definitely hadn’t been part of the quiz, he would have put ‘Hobbiton’ or something otherwise.
Carruthers chuckles, the first sign of personality she’s shown throughout the entire call. “This is the government, Mr Park. We know everything.”
A click, then the dial tone. Jay stares at the phone dumbly until his mother comes home with Chinese, and it’s a mark of her unrelenting awesomeness that she doesn’t even ask him why he’s lying on the floor, instead just commenting drily that she’d prefer to eat dinner on the table, if that’s all right by him.
- - -
Junsu shifts uncomfortably under the cardboard box resting heavily on his lap, thankful for the fruit it contains but bitter at the fact that he has to lug it home. His van has some sort of engine trouble and their usual mechanic is out sick, so his driver grabbed the first free car from the pool and now they’re both folded into a tiny Kia coupe, shiny and sleek and utterly impractical for men over four-feet tall.
He tries again to stretch out his legs, hoping to alleviate the persistent pins and needles that have been plaguing him since they left the studio, but he only manages to move another centimetre. Defeated, he gives up.
His driver, a man of similar height and build, notices the slight movement (or perhaps his perpetual grimace) and nods apologetically. “Sorry, Junsu-sshi. I didn’t expect it would be this cramped.”
Junsu manages to shrug - barely - the box hampering his movement. “All good, hyung. I didn’t think I’d have so much stuff on me either.” Snaking a hand up and into the box, he rustles carefully through the packed fruit, identifying some apples, a bunch of bananas (Chansung will be pleased), and a few waxy globes he guesses to be oranges, from the faint scent of citrus that clings to his hand when he extracts it.
The fruits are a prize from an unexpected game show win - usually he kind of sucks at them (he’s the first to admit this sort of stuff to himself, but would deny it to the death if queried by someone else), but he’d been paired with Taeyeon from SNSD and she’d carried their team to victory. Afterwards she’d had to leave in a hurry (one of the other girls had come down with something, and she’d wanted to check it out) and since his pickup had been delayed he’d hung around, receiving a few amused looks from the crew along with an entire box of premium grade fruit.
So okay, he might not have deserved them (Taeyeon really had done all the work), but somehow he’s ended up with them, and since he’s had to endure quite possibly the most painful car ride ever (right up there with that one a couple of years back, when they were all squashed in together and Chansung just kept licking everyone) he is damn well going to enjoy them.
Suddenly defiant, he reaches in and feels around for a couple of apples, passing one to the driver, who takes it carefully, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Thank you?”
“I’m hungry,” Junsu replies, angling his elbow up and managing to get the apple near his mouth. He takes a bite and decides to partner up with Taeyeon all the time, because he hasn’t had something this delicious in what feels like forever. He chews uncomfortably, keeping his head up above the box, and doesn’t realise how loudly he’s doing it until the driver (his own apple relegated to his lap) casually reaches over and turns on the radio. Junsu swallows immediately and drops his hand, suddenly self-conscious.
It must be close to the hour because the news is on, and the reporter is speaking quickly, words still clipped and well-articulated, but with an underlying sense of urgency. “-stumped at the unexpected turn the virus has taken, early research linking it to H1N1 has been soundly disproven by the recent change -“
“Oh, my cousin has that virus-thing, he’s been sitting at home and staring at the wall for a couple of days now,” says the driver, leaning forward again to turn the volume up. “He’s usually pretty dumb, though, so not much of a change.”
Junsu tilts his head towards the speaker, mostly thwarted again by the box on his lap.
“-taste for human flesh! While authorities are urging the press not to sensationalise this news there can be no doubt that the virus is spread from person to person through biting and scratching! Those infected are immediately contagious and at around 72 hours from the initial exposure the symptoms will change, causing the infected to act in a violent manner and pose a threat to loved ones and strangers alike! Listeners are advised to isolate the infected and to reduce or eliminate contact with those suspected to be infected. Listeners are also advised that the infected appear to have lost all faculties and sense, and families should be prepared for the worst if they have not been in contact with friends or loved ones over the past two days.”
Junsu drops his apple. “Taec...”
The driver’s face is white. “My cousin...”
For a moment all they can do is stare at the radio, and then the Kia earns its premium fuel as the driver smashes his foot down on the accelerator, screeching through the streets back to the dorm. Junsu notes, distantly, that they’re not the only ones with somewhere to be; it seems everyone’s forgotten the speed limit and they pass at least two pile ups, along with one particularly horrifying incident where he sees a pale-faced man staggering away from a crash, eyes blank and hands reaching, for all the world like a horror movie, only worse, of course, because it’s real.
They pull up outside the dorm and Junsu fumbles with his seat belt, his fingers numb and useless from shock. Eventually he succeeds, stumbling out of the car, dropping the box to the ground and swallowing, realising for the first time that a chunk of apple is lodged in his throat.
His driver taps the wheel frantically. “I - my family - I -“
“Go!” Junsu slams the door; the driver sends him a grateful look and then car is away, zooming off into the darkness as quickly as they had come. Junsu watches the taillights disappear around the corner, then sprints up the path in what feels like slow motion, punching his PIN into the keypad and flying through the complex doors.
There’s a sign in the foyer that he’s never really noticed before, one of those things your eyes skip over because it’s so familiar and irrelevant and not important at the time, but tonight it seems like its just for him when it says IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, DO NOT USE ELEVATOR, and so he heeds its words of wisdom and takes the stairs instead, two, and three, and four at a time.
- - -
“I’m sorry,” Jay says, and he really is, because clearly he’s become retarded, or his ears are broken, or something, because he thinks he’s just heard the most ridiculous thing in the entire world. “Could you repeat that? Please?”
Madison Carruthers gives him a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t manage to reach her eyes. “You heard me correctly, Mr Park.”
He brings a hand up to his ear to check for wax build-up, before remembering he’s ‘in company’, as his grandmother would say (and, more importantly, probably being filmed) and it would not be wise. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
The elevator stops, and with a soft whoosh the doors slide open to reveal an open-plan floor filled with training mats, rows of weapon lockers and people in fatigues going through drills. Carruthers gives him the ‘after you’ gesture and he steps out in a daze, noting with mounting disassociation someone using a flamethrower on a man-sized dummy.
An enormous black man with arms the size of both Jay’s legs combined marches up to them, saluting Carruthers crisply before turning his attention to Jay.
“This the last of them?” he rumbles, giving Jay a once-over so thorough he wonders if he should blush.
Carruthers nods. “He’s athletic, adaptable and entirely unflappable. I think you’ll find him a worthy addition to the team.”
The man laughs. “It’s do or die here, boy. You ready to bet your life?”
No, Jay wants to whimper, but manages not to. He takes a deep breath and looks at Carruthers again, willing her to have been mistaken, willing himself to have misheard. “Please. What am I here for again?”
This time her smile has a trace of genuine amusement, and she opens her arms, inviting him to take in the activity all around them. “I should think it obvious, Mr Park. You’re here as part of a special division, brought together to combat the spread of a deadly infection currently working its way across the globe.” She drops her hands and leans closer. “You’re here to protect what’s left of humanity, Mr Park. You’re here to defeat the zombies, and save the world.”
Jay’s shoulders slump. “Oh. I was afraid that was what you said.”
Fandom: 2PM
Length: ~4500 words, chapter 2 of 4.
Character/pairing: All members, gen.
Ratings/warnings: I'm going to rate this as PG-13 for language and horror themes - there are zombies, and they kill people, and some of those people are in 2PM. (I've also taken some liberties with family members - hopefully it's okay).
Notes: (Still) somewhat-AU zombie apocalypse crack. Constructive criticism is not only welcomed but encouraged - I'll never become a better writer if I don't know what I need to fix. Thank you again to both lookatmoiye7 and insipid_paragon for being fabulous betas - any remaining errors are my own. ♥
Summary: This is the way the world ends.
“Taec-hyung hasn’t been home in a few days,” Junho tells Jay over the phone, his tone matter-of-fact. They did that, sometimes, just upped and left for a weekend or something, when the pressures of their lives became too much, and they had to take a break from it all.
Taec had never been the kind of guy who needed that sort of breathing space, but it's been a while. Maybe things have changed.
“Ah,” he says instead, as always a bit uncomfortable when discussing their formerly shared world. They have these chats once a week or more, and Jay’s fine when they’re talking about general things - the easy stuff, like celebrities, gossip and movies and shit. It was only when the conversation turned back to Korea that he was at a loss, or felt a loss, or there’d been a loss somewhere, somehow.
Whatever the case, it’s as awkward as hell.
He can almost hear Junho nodding, can imagine the tilt of his head, the way he’d be scrunching his eyes up as he thought back to the last time he’d seen Taec. “He’s been gone since Thailand. Chansung said he looked a bit worn out on the plane.”
Jay remembers a life when overseas trips were a regular thing, and tries very hard not to compare it to his current state of affairs. “He’ll turn up,” he replies eventually, when it becomes apparent that Junho is waiting for a response. “Did he take his phone?”
Another slight rustle - Junho nodding again. “Yeah. But he’s not answering. We never do.”
Jay remembers. “Yeah.”
A pause. Jay wills Junho not to ask but knows he will anyway, can tell from the intake of breath he hears from an ocean away. “So...what have you been doing?”
Jay shrugs, looks around, starts drawing circles on his knee. “Dancing, mainly. Hanging out. Relaxing - it’s good to have time, you know?”
“Ha, I wish!”
He smirks. “My grandma - you know the crazy one? She’s got me signed up to these email lists, so I keep getting these quizzes to-“ he adopts a stern military voice, “-assess my suitability for protecting the nation. Shit, I didn’t even know she could use a computer!”
Junho snickers. “So? How is it? Are you ‘suitable’?”
Jay thinks his grin might look a bit evil right now, so it’s probably a good thing he’s home alone. “Man, I hope not. I gave them joke answers for everything, like under ‘skills’? I put stuff like ‘singing through stockings’ and ‘flips and shit’. Oh, and I dedicated a whole paragraph to my list of things that short guys can do better than the tall ones.”
“No way! Even the dirty stuff?!”
“You better believe it.”
Junho’s laughter is cut short by talking on the other end - the murmurs are stifled by the squeak of a hand over the mic, but Jay thinks he hears Wooyoung relaying a message. He waits, and after a few beats Junho is back.
“Sorry, hyung,” he says, and he sounds like he means it, “my car’s here already. I have to go to a shoot.”
“’Course man, go do your thing.” Jay wishes him luck and they end the call.
Jay listens to the dial tone until he hears his mom at the door, and, setting the phone back gently in its cradle, goes to help her bring the groceries in.
- - -
Nichkhun’s updating his Twitter when Chansung gets up the next day, laptop cords and network cables obstructing every path across the living room floor.
“Why is our wireless so crap?” Chansung grumbles on his way to the kitchen, poking through the cupboards in search of food.
“It does drop out a bit,” Nichkhun agrees, padding into the kitchen after him. “And if you’re looking for something to eat, prepare for disappointment. We’re down to the last packet of ramyun.”
Chansung scowls into the fridge and concedes the point - they have four cans of beer, a container of kimchi, and, inexplicably, half a melon. “Ramyun it is.”
Closing the fridge door, he turns to find Nichkhun standing in front of the pantry, arms spread out protectively to prevent him from reaching past. “I’ve already called it!” he protests. “I didn’t think you’d be up for ages, otherwise I would have cooked it already!”
Chansung crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Is this really how you want to play this?”
Nichkhun mimics the pose and does his best to look fierce. “I do what I need to survive.”
“Wrong answer, foolish mortal!” Chansung whips out his fist but Nichkhun was anticipating the attack, and a few furious rounds of rock-paper-scissors later, Chansung finds himself donning a beanie and a pair of sunglasses in readiness to leave the dorm and hunt down some food of his own.
“Mmm,” says Nichkhun, back in front of his computer, mouth full of ramyun, “this is delicious. It tastes like - what is this taste? It’s familiar, but you may not know it that well - ah, it tastes like victory.”
Chansung does something rude with his finger. “Shut up, there’s no need to rub it in.”
Nichkhun lifts the pan towards Chansung. “I said I’d share it with you!”
Chansung scoffs. “As if half a packet of ramyun would fill me up.”
“Suit yourself.” Nichkhun shrugs and chews for a bit, grinning blissfully, while Chansung tries to ignore his rumbling, hungry tummy.
“Oh!” Nichkhun’s eyes snap open and he sets down the saucepan, pulling the laptop closer and clicking a few keys. “You might want to put a face mask on when you go out - there’s some sort of virus going around, something like swine flu? Apparently it’s knocked out a quarter of the city, they keep posting updates on the government website telling people to be careful.”
Chansung is pretty sure that Nichkhun is the only person in the entire world who checks online health and safety warnings, but he appreciates the heads up. “Thanks, hyung. I’ll do that.”
“Get me a drink, please~” Nichkhun replies, eyes still on the screen.
Chansung curls his lip at him. “Get your own drink. I’m probably going to stop by and see Jinwoon, so I won’t be back until later.”
Nichkhun nods to show he heard him. “Okay, have fun!”
Tugging on a face mask, Chansung steps outside, the door beeping twice and locking shut behind him.
- - -
There’s a convenience store near the dorm that he can get to in less than two minutes’ walk, but it’s a popular stalking spot for paparazzi and fans. (They’re smarter than he gives them credit for; it didn’t take them long to figure out why so many JYPE artists were being snapped in the same place). Chansung’s hungry, but not that hungry, so he takes his time, shoving his hands into his pockets and ambling through back and side streets, slowly moving away from the dorm.
The shop he goes to instead is grimy and old, and the microwave only works fifty percent of the time, but today is apparently a good day and before long he’s tucking into ramyun of his own, with a serve of pickled carrots and some instant beef soup to top it off. He pulls down his mask and blows on the soup to cool it, leaning comfortably against the eating bench with his chin resting on his hands. He watches the world pass by through the grubby window, the handful of pedestrians blurry and unfocused through years of accumulated grease, and is surprised at how slowly people can move when they have no one to hound them, or thirty different appointments to get to in the space of a few hours. It’s relaxing, just watching them, and he’s almost glad he lost to Khun now - it’s nice to leave the dorm sometimes, to get outside and pretend to be anonymous again for a while.
He likes this place even more because the ahjussi who runs it either doesn’t know him or pretends not to, and he never charges him for extra sauce.
When the ramyun’s demolished (with only a brief pang of regret for not picking something healthier), Chansung gathers his rubbish and goes to pay, snagging a can of juice from the fridge.
“How much, ahjussi?” he asks, tucking the drink under his arm and pulling his wallet out from his pocket.
The old man doesn’t answer, and when Chansung looks up expectantly, it’s to find the ahjussi with his mouth gaping open, bloodshot eyes vivid and staring in his pale, sweaty face.
“Ahjussi? Are you all right?”
Again, he doesn’t answer, just stares at Chansung with red, unfocused eyes. Chansung fumbles the face mask back on - clearly he’s affected - and pulls out a 10,000 won note, dropping it on the counter and taking a slow step back.
“Keep the change!” Tucking his wallet back in his pocket, he turns carefully and starts towards the door.
The tackle, when it comes, is not entirely unexpected, but the man’s strength is surprising, and though Chansung shouts and struggles, there’s no one to hear his cries.
- - -
Wooyoung’s sweating, the combination of the stage lights and four layers of clothing proving too much for even his prized composure. They’ve been filming the first episode of a new variety show for the past six hours, and if they don’t wrap it up soon he’s going to go crazy and punch everyone. He gives the guests a baleful once-over. Starting with UEE.
His co-host, an annoyingly fresh-looking Song Joong-Ki, unscrews the cap from a bottle of water and takes a long drink. “Ah!” he exclaims, wiping his mouth and turning to Wooyoung with a dazzling smile. “It’s going well, don’t you think?”
Wooyoung feels his mouth flatten into an unattractive line, so he takes a deep and calming breath. “Mmm,” he murmurs noncommittally, eyes drawn to the water and wishing for a bottle of his own.
Joong-Ki takes another sip and practically glows with satisfaction. “Funny how UEE keeps messing up, though.” He shakes his head at her fondly. “So many retakes!”
Funny would not have been on a list of possible words Wooyoung would use to describe the last six hours, but Joong-Ki is clearly cut from the same ridiculously positive cloth as Nichkhun, so he tries not to hold it against him. “She’s clearly something,” he agrees, peering surreptitiously past Joong-Ki to see where he’d managed to filch the water.
PD Lee and assorted crew members (fewer than usual, tonight; it seems like half the production team have managed to catch that nasty virus going around) are huddled around one of the cameras, gesturing at the power pack with expressions of alarm. Wooyoung watches them and wonders if anyone will notice if he sneaks off for a bit, to wash his face, cool down and find the secret stash of water (wherever that happens to be).
“What’s wrong with the camera, hyung?” he asks Joong-Ki, indicating to the murmuring crew.
Joong-Ki shrugs. “Some sort of power issue? I’m not sure; they said it would take about half an hour to sort out. I think someone ordered jjajangmyun to eat during the break, it should be here soon.”
Wooyoung gapes. “When did they tell you this?”
“Um...” Joong-Ki gives him a blank look. “Five minutes ago? You were there?” He tilts his head consideringly. “Are you okay?”
Wooyoung blinks and rubs his temple. “I think I need a drink.”
“Oh!” Joong-Ki holds up his bottle and points with it off stage. “There’s a whole basket of these in the dressing room.”
“Thanks.” Inclining his head in gratitude, Wooyoung brushes past him, stepping down off the stage and making his way off the set. The corridors are deserted - not a surprise, considering the time (he doesn’t wear a watch while filming, but last time he checked it was after midnight, and that had been a long time ago) and he reaches the dressing room without being accosted, for which he grudgingly accepts as the only advantage to working late night shoots.
There’s a wicker basket full of water bottles sitting on the centre table, and Wooyoung tucks one into his back pocket (no easy feat, considering his tight-fitting pants) before going over to the makeup mirror and taking stock of his face.
The liner around his eyes is smudged from perspiration, and his hair has developed a limp curl, much to his dismay. There’s a sink set into the low counter under the mirror; he knocks the lever up with more force than necessary before sticking his hands under the heavy flow and lowering his head. He’ll definitely need a touch-up after this, but he’s beyond caring at this point; he’d rather have no makeup at all than gross, sweaty stuff, and the cool water is just what he needs to wake up a little and feel better about the night so far. He leans on the counter, the water continuing to gush into the sink, filling the room with welcome, distracting noise, and eventually he feels improved enough to return to the set. He turns off the tap with a gentler hand than before, and, without lifting his head, reaches for a towel off the pile beside the sink.
His fingers find the soft cotton, and he tugs it over, patting down his face and letting out a deep breath. He opens his eyes to the mirror and almost swallows his tongue in surprise to discover in the reflection one of the crew members standing behind him, close enough to touch.
“Ah!”
Wooyoung gulps, almost dropping his towel in shock. Catching it before it slips from his fingers completely, he flicks it around his wrist in a move that he hopes seems casual and smooth, but probably looks as dumb as it felt. He clears his throat and pretends to look busy, until he realises he’s holding a towel and standing in front of a mirror, so there’s nothing to look busy with. He feigns a yawn instead, stretching exaggeratedly and dropping the towel into the sink.
He turns to greet the crew member (a camera guy? he’s not sure) but somehow he just keeps on turning, a heavy hand on his arm sending him spinning around and down. And then he’s on the ground, pinned and thrashing, head pressed to the floor, and the last thing he sees is his bottle of water rolling away across the room, and out the door, out of sight.
- - -
No one is more surprised than Jay when he gets a call from a recruiting centre affiliated with the Department of Defence.
“Mr Park.” The woman on the other end has a crisp, no-nonsense edge to her voice that has his spine straightening involuntarily from her very first word. “My name is Madison Carruthers. I am in charge of recruitment for a specialised division existing outside of regular Marine operations, and I received your application this morning.”
It’s been a couple of days since he sent it off, but Jay remembers exactly what he wrote, and wishes, not for the first time, that he had a time machine on hand. “Uh...okay?”
“I’m interested, Mr Park,” she continues, her brisk, impersonal tone somehow intimating that she doesn’t interest easily. “Your combination of strengths and skills seems eminently suitable for the team I’m in the process of building.”
Jay is pretty sure it’s physically impossible to actually die from embarrassment, since otherwise he’d probably have expired a few years back, but he feels it’s a close thing right now. Unbidden, his laptop screen flashes before his eyes and he sees the questionnaire boxes, filled with the most ridiculous answers he could think of at the time.
“I understand you are an accomplished performer?” Carruthers - she didn’t mention rank but she’s probably a fucking General or something - makes the question mark almost perfunctory, and he can hear the crisp snap of paper over the phone as she reads his answer off a sheet. “Well-versed in the arts of ‘flips and shit’?”
Jay seriously hopes his phone line isn’t tapped. He goes to speak but his throat’s all clogged; awkwardly he clears it and manages to squeak out a, “Yeah...”
“You appear unfazed by pressure, and cite previous examples of performing entire songs after having a stocking fitted over your head?”
Jay pushes his chair back from the table and crawls underneath it, rolling onto his side and beating his head against a table leg. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Hmm.” Another rustle of paper. “A final question, Mr Park - please don’t be offended, you must understand that I’m required to confirm your results as your own work - but in the privacy section you listed your greatest strength as ‘keeping your trap shut’.“
He doesn’t know why he wrote that - some security question had popped up towards the end of the questionnaire and he’d just entered the first thing that came to mind. “...yeah.”
She makes a possibly approving noise. “You should that know that secrets are sometimes necessities within governments, kept to protect their people from panic, disorder and harm. We value the ability to keep secrets, Mr Park. It is an excellent strength indeed. Have you signed a non-disclosure agreement before?”
(Pages and pages of Hangul, bullet points and numbered lists and clauses and stipulations and cold, set stares, an outstretched hand, a fountain pen, a dotted line and his name.)
“Yeah,” Jay replies, staring up at the underside of the table. “I’ve been there, done that.”
“Excellent.”
Jay lets out his breath in a long exhale and tries to forget what he’s already forgotten.
“Expect a car tomorrow at 1400 hours, Mr Park. I look forward to meeting you.”
Jolted from his stupor, Jay pulls the phone away from his ear and gives it an incredulous look. “Huh?” he cries, slapping it back against his face. “What? I - how do you even know where I live?” That definitely hadn’t been part of the quiz, he would have put ‘Hobbiton’ or something otherwise.
Carruthers chuckles, the first sign of personality she’s shown throughout the entire call. “This is the government, Mr Park. We know everything.”
A click, then the dial tone. Jay stares at the phone dumbly until his mother comes home with Chinese, and it’s a mark of her unrelenting awesomeness that she doesn’t even ask him why he’s lying on the floor, instead just commenting drily that she’d prefer to eat dinner on the table, if that’s all right by him.
- - -
Junsu shifts uncomfortably under the cardboard box resting heavily on his lap, thankful for the fruit it contains but bitter at the fact that he has to lug it home. His van has some sort of engine trouble and their usual mechanic is out sick, so his driver grabbed the first free car from the pool and now they’re both folded into a tiny Kia coupe, shiny and sleek and utterly impractical for men over four-feet tall.
He tries again to stretch out his legs, hoping to alleviate the persistent pins and needles that have been plaguing him since they left the studio, but he only manages to move another centimetre. Defeated, he gives up.
His driver, a man of similar height and build, notices the slight movement (or perhaps his perpetual grimace) and nods apologetically. “Sorry, Junsu-sshi. I didn’t expect it would be this cramped.”
Junsu manages to shrug - barely - the box hampering his movement. “All good, hyung. I didn’t think I’d have so much stuff on me either.” Snaking a hand up and into the box, he rustles carefully through the packed fruit, identifying some apples, a bunch of bananas (Chansung will be pleased), and a few waxy globes he guesses to be oranges, from the faint scent of citrus that clings to his hand when he extracts it.
The fruits are a prize from an unexpected game show win - usually he kind of sucks at them (he’s the first to admit this sort of stuff to himself, but would deny it to the death if queried by someone else), but he’d been paired with Taeyeon from SNSD and she’d carried their team to victory. Afterwards she’d had to leave in a hurry (one of the other girls had come down with something, and she’d wanted to check it out) and since his pickup had been delayed he’d hung around, receiving a few amused looks from the crew along with an entire box of premium grade fruit.
So okay, he might not have deserved them (Taeyeon really had done all the work), but somehow he’s ended up with them, and since he’s had to endure quite possibly the most painful car ride ever (right up there with that one a couple of years back, when they were all squashed in together and Chansung just kept licking everyone) he is damn well going to enjoy them.
Suddenly defiant, he reaches in and feels around for a couple of apples, passing one to the driver, who takes it carefully, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Thank you?”
“I’m hungry,” Junsu replies, angling his elbow up and managing to get the apple near his mouth. He takes a bite and decides to partner up with Taeyeon all the time, because he hasn’t had something this delicious in what feels like forever. He chews uncomfortably, keeping his head up above the box, and doesn’t realise how loudly he’s doing it until the driver (his own apple relegated to his lap) casually reaches over and turns on the radio. Junsu swallows immediately and drops his hand, suddenly self-conscious.
It must be close to the hour because the news is on, and the reporter is speaking quickly, words still clipped and well-articulated, but with an underlying sense of urgency. “-stumped at the unexpected turn the virus has taken, early research linking it to H1N1 has been soundly disproven by the recent change -“
“Oh, my cousin has that virus-thing, he’s been sitting at home and staring at the wall for a couple of days now,” says the driver, leaning forward again to turn the volume up. “He’s usually pretty dumb, though, so not much of a change.”
Junsu tilts his head towards the speaker, mostly thwarted again by the box on his lap.
“-taste for human flesh! While authorities are urging the press not to sensationalise this news there can be no doubt that the virus is spread from person to person through biting and scratching! Those infected are immediately contagious and at around 72 hours from the initial exposure the symptoms will change, causing the infected to act in a violent manner and pose a threat to loved ones and strangers alike! Listeners are advised to isolate the infected and to reduce or eliminate contact with those suspected to be infected. Listeners are also advised that the infected appear to have lost all faculties and sense, and families should be prepared for the worst if they have not been in contact with friends or loved ones over the past two days.”
Junsu drops his apple. “Taec...”
The driver’s face is white. “My cousin...”
For a moment all they can do is stare at the radio, and then the Kia earns its premium fuel as the driver smashes his foot down on the accelerator, screeching through the streets back to the dorm. Junsu notes, distantly, that they’re not the only ones with somewhere to be; it seems everyone’s forgotten the speed limit and they pass at least two pile ups, along with one particularly horrifying incident where he sees a pale-faced man staggering away from a crash, eyes blank and hands reaching, for all the world like a horror movie, only worse, of course, because it’s real.
They pull up outside the dorm and Junsu fumbles with his seat belt, his fingers numb and useless from shock. Eventually he succeeds, stumbling out of the car, dropping the box to the ground and swallowing, realising for the first time that a chunk of apple is lodged in his throat.
His driver taps the wheel frantically. “I - my family - I -“
“Go!” Junsu slams the door; the driver sends him a grateful look and then car is away, zooming off into the darkness as quickly as they had come. Junsu watches the taillights disappear around the corner, then sprints up the path in what feels like slow motion, punching his PIN into the keypad and flying through the complex doors.
There’s a sign in the foyer that he’s never really noticed before, one of those things your eyes skip over because it’s so familiar and irrelevant and not important at the time, but tonight it seems like its just for him when it says IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, DO NOT USE ELEVATOR, and so he heeds its words of wisdom and takes the stairs instead, two, and three, and four at a time.
- - -
“I’m sorry,” Jay says, and he really is, because clearly he’s become retarded, or his ears are broken, or something, because he thinks he’s just heard the most ridiculous thing in the entire world. “Could you repeat that? Please?”
Madison Carruthers gives him a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t manage to reach her eyes. “You heard me correctly, Mr Park.”
He brings a hand up to his ear to check for wax build-up, before remembering he’s ‘in company’, as his grandmother would say (and, more importantly, probably being filmed) and it would not be wise. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
The elevator stops, and with a soft whoosh the doors slide open to reveal an open-plan floor filled with training mats, rows of weapon lockers and people in fatigues going through drills. Carruthers gives him the ‘after you’ gesture and he steps out in a daze, noting with mounting disassociation someone using a flamethrower on a man-sized dummy.
An enormous black man with arms the size of both Jay’s legs combined marches up to them, saluting Carruthers crisply before turning his attention to Jay.
“This the last of them?” he rumbles, giving Jay a once-over so thorough he wonders if he should blush.
Carruthers nods. “He’s athletic, adaptable and entirely unflappable. I think you’ll find him a worthy addition to the team.”
The man laughs. “It’s do or die here, boy. You ready to bet your life?”
No, Jay wants to whimper, but manages not to. He takes a deep breath and looks at Carruthers again, willing her to have been mistaken, willing himself to have misheard. “Please. What am I here for again?”
This time her smile has a trace of genuine amusement, and she opens her arms, inviting him to take in the activity all around them. “I should think it obvious, Mr Park. You’re here as part of a special division, brought together to combat the spread of a deadly infection currently working its way across the globe.” She drops her hands and leans closer. “You’re here to protect what’s left of humanity, Mr Park. You’re here to defeat the zombies, and save the world.”
Jay’s shoulders slump. “Oh. I was afraid that was what you said.”