Work Text:
By a stroke of rare luck, Jun-Ho found something invaluable.
He has crept from his room when everyone has just gone to sleep. Only at night will he receive this opportune moment, he thinks, as he follows the siren call of the archive room from down the hallways, its song audible to his ears only. His hand curls around the knob and lets himself in. He closes the door behind him before dashing straight for the filing cabinets.
He roots through the folders, unable to contain his excitement. At last, he has found the material evidence he needs to incriminate every single person here.
To the Hole they will go once he pops up to his chief. He wants to see these pink fucks crying at trial. He will plaster on the biggest smile when he puts those necrophilic shit-sticks into the slammer in particular.
But, life is all about balance. So it fits his situation that a harsh wind will come blowing his way, bringing a nice smattering of bad luck.
Like now.
He doesn’t bother suppressing his sigh when he hears the door open.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Tell me it’s not that Square asshole.”
Jun-Ho slowly turns to face the —well, what do you know— the Square that has caught him slacking in work. It is a damn shame that he managed to avoid the player unmasking him in the nick of time.
“I couldn’t find a good reason to dispose of you —but this is perfect.” The Square reprimands him in a dispassionate tone, “Didn’t you read the manual given to you beforehand? It instructs utmost obedience to superiors, and nowhere does it state that you should snoop around.”
Jun-Ho places a hand against his hip. “I didn’t read any of that. Stay mad.” And with that, he rushes him.
Thank God he doesn’t have a gun.
They struggle on the floor. Jun-Ho is on top but is wary of the man below him finding an opening to strike his kidney. He knees his side repeatedly and grabs him by the throat to subdue him. His fingers claw under the mask, and with a flick, it flies off —skidding across the floor. His lips curl as he balls his fist and starts punching him.
“These guys are chumps without their weapons."
Jun-Ho ties his hands with a pair of plastic cable ties, lugs him against the wall and sits him.
He smiles as he leans back on his feet to examine his work. He is relieved to find that his skills haven't rusted. He hasn’t cuffed anybody in a long time. It’s pretty exciting to finally do something like this.
Wait. That sounded wrong.
Jun-Ho shakes his head and redirects his attention to the man in front of him. They stare at each other. In the darkness of the room, he is a hollow porcelain doll whose owner gouged out its eyes.
“Tell me everything you know about this organization.”
He says nothing.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Jun-Ho threatens.
“You’re an investigator?” he asks, instead of, you know, answering his question. God, it’s so annoying when they do that. Jun-Ho crouches to meet his eyes, his harsh tone emitting impatience as he speaks, “What is worse to you? Being found out by the company you work for, or being arrested by the police? You have two choices: turn yourself in jail or go through who knows what the people do here to those who have jeopardized any information that can expose them. Look at you, I know what you look like. You won’t get out of this mess without a limb or two missing.”
The Square, his young face laid bare for him to see, smirks. And for a second, he had looked vulnerable. Young. But then he catches the cold pair of abyss gazing back at him from his pupils, reminding Jun-Ho that this man had full capacity and capability of making the choice to come and work here. “Could’ve at least tried a little harder on your threat.” He huffs, “How undemocratic. Seems like the police haven’t changed their tactics —do you still go around crushing activists?”
Jun-Ho rolls his eyes. “Don’t even play me. Are you really going to school me on the concept of democracy?”
“The people I work for disseminate rules of equality all the time —that’s the foundation of the Game.”
“That argument holds no water. One of your underlings had bribed a player with hints of what the future rounds will be in return for his service.”
“I’ll choose my company over your soy-boy cops.”
“Your company? The same company that uses PlayStation logos for the masks? You serious?”
The whole time he has been talking, Jun-Ho realizes that not once have he seen a tic or a tremor of facial muscles moving.
What a creep.
Well, this interrogation is not getting anywhere. He decides to flip through the pages of the binder in his hand. Hopefully he can bear some fruit in this.
Flip. Medical information. Flip. Wait, are those social security numbers as well? Dang. He should get a paper shredder once he goes back. Identity theft is a legitimate fear for him.
Every now and then he would glance at the man.
He’s still like a statue.
Jun-Ho cautiously steps up to him. The man doesn’t give him a hint that he is aware of his presence.
Jun-Ho presses his finger into his cheek. He didn’t blink.
Was he surrounded by robots the whole time? This is unreal. Whatever trauma-resistant training they do here is unmatched to the exercises mandated at the military camp.
Suddenly, something harsh collides onto his nose. He extends out both of his hands below him to prevent himself from falling completely onto the floor. Warm blood dribbles from his nostril.
This guy just head-butted him.
The unruffled young man grabs the cuff of his pink suit. “You’re literally fucking stupid.” Pure, unbridled irritation contorts his face.
He made an expression so human, it fills his heart with static shock. He gulps. "Yeah, I guess I’m a little dumb."
The ex-Square grabs his mask off. He smirks, gloating in triumph at his relinquishment. But then he stops as he blankly stares at the menace still in his hold.
He has on a mask… that was beneath the one he just took off. The only thing visible to him is his eyes through the eye-holes.
“What, you thought you were going to have a look at me? I’m not easy like that. Take me out on a date first.”
Jun-Ho catches a slap to the face. He palms his cheek as if it stung - which it didn’t because of the protection of his mask. He did it because he took offense at the gall of this knave.
Jun-Ho has long accepted the fact that these guys lack proper manners, but, still, rude. You don’t just slap a guy. That’s different from punching. Punching is the only right mode of fighting between men.
But slapping? Only his parents are allowed to do that.
(And his brother.)
He hears footsteps thundering in the corridor outside. They look at each other, sharing the same feeling of horror. For the prying investigator, it’s getting caught. For the worker, it’s getting caught with his mask down.
Lickety-split: that’s how fast Jun-Ho needs to act.
Time to haul ass.
“Shit, get the guy —he ran that way!” A Triangle barks out to his triad of Circles… Maybe it’s better to call them the Circlet?
He’s not sure. Naming stuff isn’t his strong suit.
Once his men run ahead to catch up with the miscreant, he walks into the archive room for a cursory inspection.
He notices two cable plastic ties on the ground at the far side against the wall. It looks like someone took them off. But why would they be wearing it in the first place?
He glances at the cabinet. Did that fucker steal anything? Front Man will hurl brimstone down their asses if he did. Shit. All he wanted to do was snooze the night away. The workers have split sections. The first half will remain awake for the better portion of the night to step in when the contestants have thinned down. He and the rest make up the remainder of the workers —they’re allowed to sleep, but they have to pick up double shifts to make for the work of the night-guards.
He grits his teeth. That bitch could’ve been considerate and waited till the morning or somethin’ to start up trouble.
He pulls open the first drawer. Files in their usual place, good.
Second drawer is the same. So is the third.
The last drawer is empty, he knows. But it doesn’t hurt to check.
He pulls it, looks down, and has his sight met with a man staring up at him with dead eyes. His mouth is gagged with cable plastic ties.
He closes the drawer. And promptly walks out.
The Games be damned. He takes out his walkie-talkie and calls in the night-guards.
“When are they going to come in?! Don’t they want players to be left alive for the prize? Fuck I knew this was a scam!”
“Man, I’m not sure —I don’t think they’ll stop this. I’m worried about that old guy on top of that bunk. He’s been shouting forever. You think he’s gonna stop?”
“Who gives a crap! We’re probably going to die before him. That old coot’s got the high ground!”
“….What?”
“You never heard of that saying? If you’re at a higher place than your enemy, then you basically rule the game!”
He internally praises himself for ordering a balaclava tailored to his making in hindsight. Sure, people look at him weird for wearing it. But it is a fashion item he likes to don for a stroll in the park during cold weather. Or hitting up the bank.
“Ugh, this place is so twisty.”
The obnoxious colors amplify his confusion in traversing the labyrinth of this place.
He catches the sight of pink men in a side-to-side file, each one holding a rifle. They see him running to them in complete silence, like wolves waiting for their prey to come upon their den.
What do they think he will do? Stop?
“Move out of my way, people!” He shouts as bullets pound his body. He can imagine the flabbergast expression beneath their masks when their only weapons have been rebuffed by the bulletproof clothes worn under his pink suit.
A bullet scrapes past his temple. But he speeds on, undeterred.
Yeah, his balaclava is bullet-proof, too.
Bullet-proof clothes are required if you are a character in a crime noir film.
It’s like mowing through traffic. These guys have started to grab after him, but he’s quick and nimble.
“I am a legend,” the sagely thought passes through his head as he avoids a body launch from one enthusiastic pink-man. He chops a neck of an unfortunate fellow with his binder. “Yes, I’m an icon… The moment.”
He kicks open a random door.
Ok, but real talk: he has screwed up, by a magnificent magnitude of ‘Shit I’m going to die.’
He was doing so good in maintaining his stealth. What the hell happened?
His mouth drops open when he realizes that he is in the accursed Doll Room.
“Think fast, think fast!”
He monkey-climbs the Doll. He heaves himself up on its shoulders by using its pig-tails for leverage. His chest feels like it is about cave in from the amount of exertion.
The pink soldiers burst in the room the same time he takes off his pink suit and wraps it around the eyes of the Doll.
Euphoria hits him as he oversees the sprawling bed of irate workers.
In his usual bout of emotional whiplash, he thinks to himself: “I’m doing pretty well right now, all things considering.”
He may have one kidney and haven’t had his immunosuppressants for a while -
Oh shit he’s been off of that for a month.
“I’ll just conveniently ignore that for the sake of my mental health.”
He glances down at the pink soldiers, and shouts, “Which one of you guys know anything about Hwang In-Ho!?” Because sometimes you have to shake the tree to get the apple.
Hands folded behind his back, the man in the black stands in front of the screen displaying the happenings outside his dungeon.
His command is soft spoken, but impossible to miss, like smooth velvet hiding a dagger treated with poison. “Repeat what you have said.”
The Square dutifully gives his report, “No.29 has acted out and revealed himself as an unauthorized worker. And, well, he is on top of the Doll, preventing us from getting to him.”
“And what is ‘preventing’ us from enabling automatic fire? He doesn’t have his pink suit on, which prevents the system from targeting workers, so what is stopping them?”
“He… has thrown clothing over its eyes. The Doll needs to see the target for the machine guns to come out. And we can’t shoot him because he has a bullet-proof everything it seems.”
“What.”
“Additionally, he is requesting an audience. Someone named Hwang In-Ho? I will confirm the name again. He had said that the name is the name of his brother whom he’s searching for.”
“…”
“Sir?”
“May I ask why you are still here instead of bringing him down?”
“Right, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do. Not. Kill him.”
Garden variety of different torture techniques concocts in the Square’s mind. He has never heard the order to not kill workers acting out. Oh God, what will he do to him?
“Am I clear?”
“Ok but promise me you won’t hurt him,” is what he wants to meep out, but he loves his life too much.
The Front Man looks over his shoulder. Black mask gleams as the screen light reflects off of it.
The soldier deeply bows. “Of course, sir.” The door clicks shuts, indicating his exit.
The Front Man examines the lone crazed man shouting at his workers on the screen. He glares at a suspicious detail, specifically how his hand clutches his side intermittently.
He’s not supposed to be running around like a maniac with one transplanted organ.
He checks his phone as he turns around, walking straight for the door. He searches the black market list for harvested kidneys.
It’s time to give his little brother another one.