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I am sure, you all have read the works of the Bard of Avon at some point in your life, be it for academics or for the simple love of literature. And if you have read most of his famous plays, you must have wade through As You Like It. We see, that not unlike, most philosophers and moralists of the past, Shakespeare too, had tried to distinguish between the stages of life a man goes through. “And then the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth.” – these signify the third and the fourth stages of a man’s life, as per the Bard. Lover and soldier. A very foolish man falling in love passionately and then he grows a beard and is transformed into a great man of honour seeking dangers, such as the cannons of war. Now, I am not here to scrutinize the Bard’s sonnet but then, personally, I can discern no difference among the phases of life. What if a foolish soldier falls in love? As per my observations, I am positive the deputy commander, is not enthusiastic about poetry but his life would’ve certainly inspired Lord Byron.
When the Frontman put him in charge of running the games, the commander had seemed quite pleased with this new responsibility. It was a good opportunity to expand his “side business”. It has been a decade and then some, since he had entered the game himself. He had been a participant wearing those green hideous tracksuits, wishing he had never taken that card from the recruiter. By the end of it all, it was quite clear to him that, the game, was in fact his true calling. He was meant to win this and stay on this remote island as the Frontman’s right-hand man. Back then the Frontman, was sometimes, in the streets, recruiting hopeless bankrupt desperados all over the country. He remembers that fateful night in Seoul when the Frontman had found him standing on the precipice of the Mapo bridge.
“I have an offer for you.” The Frontman’s voice was clear and without a lick of pity, which made our commander look back. It had been sometime, since he had heard his name being spoken without a hint of pity or disappointment.
“Get the fuck out of my face.”
“If you are looking for absolution, my friend, you are taking the wrong path.”
“Who said I was looking for absolution?”
“You lost your daughter; your wife wants nothing to do with you and you have no one left who would lend you money. Well, obviously you do not need the money anymore, your daughter’s already dead.”
“How do you…?”
The Frontman had cut in, stopping him from asking the question, “You know, if you do not pay the loan sharks back, they will find your wife. Do you want to leave her to deal with it or do you want money to pay them back?”
“How will I…”
Once again, the Frontman had interrupted, shoving a card in his hand. “You will know what to do.”
And then he was no longer a gambling-addict banker but Player 279. The motto was pretty simple – you either live or die by the rules of children’s games. But then came the night of the attack. The X-gang against the O-gang - just-one-more-game” vs. we-want-to-get-out-alive-instead-of-a-pretty-coffin. And that night would’ve been the final night of Player 279, if not for the Frontman’s intervention. He was bleeding out profusely from his very gaping wound, just below his left ribcage, when, someone dragged him away out of the room – the act concealed by the darkness of the hall and the chaos of the ongoing fight. The Frontman seemed like the grim reaper to him, ready to reap his rotten soul. But he had been wrong. The Frontman had crouched down to his level and removed his black mask to reveal the face that he had once seen before.
“Are… you… here.. to finish the job?” he spoke through gritted teeth.
The Frontman had not spoken a word, only a sliver of forlorn smile flashed for five seconds before Player 279 lost consciousness. When he woke up, he was back on his bunk bed. Did he hallucinate the events of the previous night? No, he did not, as was proven when his fingers touched his neatly bandaged wound. Somehow he was alive and back in the game. He took it as a sign that he was meant to win the games and so he did. He remembers that last car ride before he was thrown on the coarse pavement, in the middle of a moonless night with his eyes big bag of winnings. He was blindfolded and his hands tied, which were cut seconds before he was discarded from the vehicle.
“Why did you do it?”
“What?” he knew the Frontman was riding with him.
“Save me.”
“Does it matter?”
Player 279 paused for a while. Did it really matter? He was alive, had money to pay off his loans and live a cushy life from then on. Why does he need to know about the Frontman’s intentions?
“Yes, it does. To me. Why me?” He felt a sudden rage bubbling in his chest – was he saved out of pity?
“It wasn’t that. Not out of pity.”
Is this guy a fucking mind-reader?
“Then tell me! Why did you do it?”
“Live your life, my friend. Do not reminisce.” And with that Player 279 was kicked off the car and the last thing he saw was a glimpse of the black limo disappearing round the corner of the empty street.
He had genuinely tried to move on. To not think about his life as Player 279. But when you take lives to survive, you will find that it leaves a lasting effect on your existence. His nightmares were a frightful disarray of his daughter’s cries as he went from door-to door collecting money to get her a working set of lungs. But then he began to hallucinate loud screams of people, begging him to help them. Not unexpectedly, he turned to the bottle. Going to a psychiatrist was useless ‘cause they kept asking him why did he think he was experiencing such delirium tremens, to which he could offer nothing but silence. When the Yamazaki and the Matheson had failed to get him a good night’s sleep, he was once again back on the Mapo bridge.
“I have an offer for you.”
Same situation, same voice.
“I am not joining the game again.”
“What if, I offered you a different position?”
“What did you say?” He stepped down from the ledge to face the Frontman.
“Work for me. I need someone to oversee the games at all times.”
“And what will I get in return?”
“A routine, an escape that you are so desperate for.”
“Okay…umm… thank you, sir.”
“Inho. My name is Hwang Inho.”
That night, he slept well, except for the sudden coughing fit that woke him up early. The last remnants of his dream quickly fading from his conscious mind - Inho, my name is Hwang Inho.
“I hope I do not have to wear that bogus pink uniform.”
The Frontman had chuckled, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Once more, he was back at that godforsaken island, but this time with a brand-new purpose. Player 279 had been promoted to deputy commander.
A typical day for the commander was him waking up, getting dressed, oversee the games, see that no loser goes un-shot, have a drink on breaks, get lunch, see a few more participants get shot and retire to his quarter. The first hiccup happened on his daughter’s birthday; she would’ve been six that year. He had kept himself busied as much as he could but once the day was over, the whiskey felt a bit too good on his lips. He had drunk a bottle and was on his second, when he was forced to get up to answer the aggressive rapping on his door.
“Just what the fuck do you think you are doing?” Inho had shut the door behind him.
“Oh…it’s you. My saviour. What can I do for you?”
“Can you do your job properly tomorrow? Do you think you can call in sick?”
“I can’t? Bit of a toxic work environment, don’t you think?” the commander was not himself!
Inho grabbed him by the collar of his faded black t-shirt, “You son of a bitch, do you think this is a joke? Those VIPs are will replace you, if they see you like this.”
“Okay….”
“You will be executed, not returned safe to the city. Stop this nons….” Inho’s eyes fell upon the calendar on the table.
Oh.
Inho let go of his commander’s collar.
“That was a bit anti-climactic, cat got your tongue?”
“I am sorry, commander. I didn’t realise that today’s the…”
“That’s right Inho, today’s the day I failed as a father.” He continued his slurred speech, “Failed as a husband, failed as a son, failed as a father, failed as a basic human being. Never did amount to anything. Unable to protect my own family, what a shame, what a damn shame. And now I am a murderer, killing people based on whims of a bunch of fuckas-.”
It would appear that the Frontman is incapable of letting the commander speak uninterrupted for very long. “Pull yourself together, commander. Wallowing in self-pity will only bring you more pain.”
“And then there’s you, always dropping in like some sort of messiah to save me. Why do you care so much?”
“I care because I do not want my deputy to get killed. You’d be awfully hard to replace.”
“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” he replied with a chuckle. “Now, get out before people start to speculate.”
The Frontman left with the remaining bottle of liquor while hearing a slurred “son of a bitch” as he closed the door behind him.
The commander’s fitful slumber was broken when he woke up hacking up a lung and had to run to the sink to throw up a handful of bright bracts of red.
Flowers? The fuck? Is he that drunk?
When the alarm rang at 6 the next morning, our blackguard was ready to wipe off the memory from the previous night, except he woke up on the floor with red petals strewn everywhere. He was not dreaming, the flowers were very real.
You all know how that idiom goes, there is no smoke without fire, I’d like to think that it’s true for every folklore or old wives’ tales, because, no one would come up with such stories one fine afternoon after a hearty lunch. They might get exaggerated with time; little details erased or added over centuries, but they all must have a very real origin. For example, Hanahaki has been nothing more than a fictional myth so far, but the deputy commander might agree to disagree, given his current condition.
So far, the deputy commander had been nothing short of clueless about his predicament. Since he was never much interested in literary texts, he had never even heard about Hanahaki. Not that he could discuss it with anyone! His mind was picturing Inho’s face You’re what? Are you boozing again? Deputy, this is concerning. A sudden searing pain spread through his chest forcing him to lean against the wall for support. That’s when he heard, on the other side of the wall, two pink guards talking and giggling among themselves, “did you develop feelings for Player 120?”, “shut up! The commander will hear you!”, “ooh so you really have! Be aware, lest you catch Hanahaki hehehe.”, “you’re gonna get us killed, idiot! The blackguard will shoot us both!”, “Are you throwing up flowers yet?” “I’m gonna kill you myself, Bora.”
The commander turned the corner and that was enough to make the guards scatter quickly.
What was that they said? Hanahaki? Is that some kind of disease? Disorder? Is it communicable? Is it curable? He needs details and he needs them asap. But there’s no internet here, and he’s obviously not going to that giggly girl duo for details, so who’s gonna tell him about it? Inho? Wait, Inho? How the fuck would he know about this? Why would he immediately think of Inho? He might be losing his mind! He could feel his throat beginning to itch which means it’s time for a smoke-break.
At the end of the day, he found himself knocking on Inho’s door. Yeah, he’s gonna ask him about it. Tactfully.
The Frontman opened the door on his second knock, “Yes? What is it?”
“Can I have my whiskey back?”
Inho sucked his lower lips for a moment, “I don’t know, can you?”
“C’mon, man! Please?”
“Okay, but keep your inebriation to an acceptable level.”
“Yes boss!”
“I see you have a Macallan 64, did the VIPs gift it to you? Can we share it?”
Inho was about to close the door when the deputy spoke up about his expensive whiskey collection. He paused for a while, before opening the door all the way to let his commander in.
“Best boss ever!” earned him a chuckle from the Frontman.
“I have something to discuss.” Inho said, once they were seated with their drinks.
“Sure, what is it?”
“I need to know about your secret operation here.”
Ah shit. He knows.
The commander took a big swig of his drink before answering, “I think you already know.”
“Harvesting organs? I could have you killed for that.”
“The VIPs know about this?”
“No, they do not.”
“Then why do you care? And please don’t start with your morality lecture.”
“I would have actually shot you, you know. If I did not know that….”
“What?”
“That you send the organs to underfunded children’s hospitals.”
“These participants are worthless, they have the chance to leave and yet they don’t, or if they do, they come back. Greedy useless people. And then they die.”
“But that gives you no right…”
“Then why don’t you shoot me? Why are we still talking?”
“Because killing you achieves nothing. Death is not a punishment for you.”
“Boy, you know me so well, it’s uncanny!”
“I think I would let 011 do the honours, on my behalf.”
“Oh, she would definitely love that!”
If you would have caught a glimpse of the Frontman and the deputy commander at this very moment, you would’ve thought that they are a couple of old school buddies catching up. Drinking, tittering – it seemed so normal, so ordinary. Maybe in another lifetime, the Frontman and his deputy are just that – friends. Gradually, the moment ended and both of them parted ways.
While trying to fall asleep, the commander’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Inho.
“I think I would let 011 do the honours, on my behalf.”
“Oh, she would definitely love that!”
No, he definitely does not want 011 to do it. He hoped that when his time comes, he dies by Inho’s hand.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he was jolted awake from his somnolence by an excruciating pain in his chest. It was severe and piercing, like a bunch of knives going haywire inside him. He ran to the sink clutching his chest, and as expected, began upchucking flowers. But this time, the petals were painted with blood. The stark white of the washbasin enhanced by his blood and the rubicund corollas. For the first time in a decade, he was scared. He had no idea what was going on with him. The deputy commander was in dire need of help but he’d rather bear the suffering than admit his helplessness. It would be correct to conclude, that, he was irrevocably doomed.
And as if the commander did not have enough on his plate, there was Seong Gihun. He could see how interested Inho was in Player 456. Not only interested, he was obsessed with that idiot. What the fuck was Inho so enamoured by Gihun?
“You like Player 456, don’t you?”
“You sound jealous, deputy!”
“Why are you so interested in him?”
“I think he can end it.”
“End it? The squid games.”
“Yes, I think Seong Gihun could put a stop to the games?”
“Well, I think he will end up dead.”
“Do you wanna bet?”
“Sure, let’s do it!”
To be honest, the deputy was betting on Sangwoo but alas! That halfwit let Gihun win. He was so confused and irritated as to why the fuck would Sangwoo let Gihun win! Why would he die for another? That was a downright silly way to lose your life. And because of that halfwit, the deputy had to stop drinking because that what Inho wanted for winning the bet. That man is odd!
Meanwhile, his little “flower problem” was ever present. He was bone-tired every day, trying to walk around as if his insides were not fire. But the sickness increased almost ten-fold when Inho joined the games as Player 001.
“You wanna what? Inho, are you fucking crazy?”
“You have seen what Gihun can do, I need to break him before he poses a problem for the game.”
“You still believe he can stop the games? Even now?”
“I do. So, I will do what I think is right. I know you can keep the games running. After all, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To be my successor?”
“That’s what you think I want?”
“Is it not?” Inho was looking at him curious with his knitted eyebrows.
The deputy let out a sight, “Let me know before you leave.”
Inho had handed over the keys to his room to his deputy before he left to don the infamous tracksuit.
Our deputy commander was not planning on it, but his inquisitiveness got the better of him.
Why did Inho have these many books? And they were of all kinds, plants, planets, paintings, even fantasy fiction! That was so uncharacteristic of him. Or maybe he never knew the real Hwang Inho.
He picked up a book about vegetation in the tropical and was browsing casually when his eyes stopped on a particular flower - Euphorbia milii. That was his flower, growing inside him, making it harder and harder to breathe. Euphorbia milii, also known as Christ Thorn, as according to Christian belief, the Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus during the crucifixion was made from the branches of this plant. The plant had exceptionally thorny stems which explains a lot of his conditions. He was searching for more information regarding its growth requirements but there was nothing of use. Disappointed, he locked Inho’s room and went by his day.
The deputy commander was watching the games unfold like a hawk, ever since 001 joined the game. As his health issues progressed aggressively, so did his attention towards Inho’s behaviour with Gihun. Why was Inho acting like this with 456? Inho’s eyes were trailing Gihun’s every step, like the minute-hand following the hour hand in a clock. The Frontman seemed obsessed with Gihun, and moreover, Inho seemed to genuinely enjoy himself during Six-Legged Pentathlon! What an absurd sight! Perhaps, in this ridiculous situation what the Blackguard missed, was keeping his behaviour in check. And he only found out about it when Inho came to visit sometime in between Mingle and Lights Out.
“Status, deputy?” Inho had barged into his deputy’s room dead into the night.
“Fine.” he had replied while blowing rings of smoke.
“That’s it? Show me the data! Any news from the VIPs?”
“What is your plan with 001?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you going to do with this bogus persona you’ve created, Mr. Young-il?”
Inho stared at him for a few seconds before answering, “I need to stop Gihun.”
“Stop Gihun? Is that really what you want? To stop him?”
“Enough, deputy. I have given you enough leeway to-“
“My name is Choi Chinhae. Do you even remember that, you bastard?” the Blackguard was screaming at Inho’s face.
As expected, all that shouting rattled his lungs and he was once again on his knees, struggling to breathe between his coughing fit.
“Chinhae, are you okay? You don’t seem-“
“I’m fine. Go back to the bunker. You must not be seen by any player.” He almost pushed the Frontman out of his room and shut the door on his face.
Inho walked back to his bed dwelling about Chinhae’s bloodstained lips. Was it serious? How long has this been going on? Why didn’t he say anything to him? Why didn’t he notice anything?
Back in his room, the deputy commander could swear that he breathed easy for two minutes. Why did Chinhae get so frustrated? Inho didn’t even say anything wrong! Was he drunk? He must have been. He, definitely, must have been drunk out of his mind to act that way.
Chinhae was sure that he was taking the mystery of his petal-malady to the grave with him, but life rarely follows certainty, especially when it comes to him. The clarity came to him unexpectedly, and he almost wishes he didn’t find out. Maybe it would’ve been better that way.
After Chinhae’s drunken theatrics, he had managed to drink some more and push himself into hypnagogia. It felt as if his bones had begun to rot from within – courtesy of the pulmonary Ikebana obturating his trachea. Between shallow gasps of flimsy breaths, a long-lost memory starts playing in the Blackguard’s mind. He’s thirteen, sitting on the roof if his ancestral home while his mother is peeling oranges. The sun is warm and kind on his face, the pulpy citrus tangy and sweet on his lips.
“Eomma, is Hanahaki real? What if I catch it?”
“It’s fiction sweetheart.”
“No, it’s not! You said it’s a folklore! And there’s certainly no smoke without fire.”
“Okay okay! You’re right. It’s a folklore. Let’s see, if you ever catch Hanahaki, it’ll mean that your heart is so full of love that it needs another heart to share it.”
“But, what if, the other heart is not meant for my love?”
“Then, my son, you keep searching for the right person to share it with. Do not let your love go to waste. You have such a big heart, Chinhae. Whoever it is, I know they will be so fortunate to be loved by you.”
The deputy commander awakened from convulsions of his cough. Petals strewn across the floor, that familiar taste of iron on his tongue. A hapless laugh filled the room. This wretched torment, the slow suffocation, the corsage around his lungs seeping the life away from him – it’s just love. Just love.
He knows who it is. A leader who’s forced to wear a crown of thorns. There’s only one person who fits the description.
Chinhae hopes he dies by his leader’s bullet. He hopes for a quick death.
I hope he sees my flowers, I hope he knows it was him. But he won’t. Gihun’s made sure of that.