Chapter Text
Papers scattered about, flying across the messy floor but, unfortunately, not creating any kind cathartic “crash” as he might’ve hoped. Here, Yul Choi sat alone in a formerly empty room of an abandoned office building, hiding from the consequences of his mistakes. The bags under his eyes betrayed his anguished attempts at repentance, and the frustration in his brow conveyed his lack of progress.
Impossible, he thought, that there would be no way to even compensate for the damage.
He turned his gaze to the glass wall, protecting him from being discovered only due to its height. It wouldn’t be long before they found him and his desperate research, now that the city had mostly been stabilized after the first mission.
He stood up weakly, not caring for the physical state he had left his poor body in over the past weeks. Perhaps if he parted his retched soul from this pitiful body, the citizens could then receive what he had stolen from them.
He shook his head, walking over to look upon the open view provided to him. If he were to end it all now, what of the future? He could hope the people of City 08 would thrive without him, but would he be able to step away in good conscience, knowing what’s to come? Or perhaps, even then, he would only be harming them further by staying and taking control.
His thoughts raced by in a matter of seconds as he contemplated the dilemma, a multitude of possibilities formulating in his mind. Three more steps, and he reached the glass pane. Placing his hand on it, he watched people go about their days, trying to settle into their strange new lives.
In many ways, things were still the same. Mothers and their surviving children walked down the streets together, playing in the small park the game piece afforded them. Organizations were showing the beginnings of formation that could either help or harm the wellbeing of ordinary people—or maybe both, as large corporations often did in the “real world”. The world they had all left behind.
I suppose fiction must always reflect reality. After all, I still find myself unable to fix my biggest flaws.
Yul smiled bitterly at the thought, turning away from the window and ignoring the ache in his joints as he returned to the floor.
One more time. I’m sure I can find something this time. I’m sure of it.
———
A paper crumpled, another torn to shreds. Blood, dripping onto the floor, went unnoticed by its frantic owner as he desperately fought for an answer. As though in a manic state, Yul’s eyes flitted about wildly as he searched for something, anything, that would tell him what he is to do. He wiped the blood from his nose.
His comprehension, normally his strength, was now his weakness, his enemy. His speed of thought fluctuated violently, as though unable to keep up with his never-ending pursuit of something that didn’t exist. If someone were to read his mind, they would get dizzy from the constant imbalance of opposing ideas and logics.
One said that he needed to take responsibility for his mistakes. Another claimed it wasn’t his fault. A third cried that his body couldn’t take the stress, that it needed a break. A fourth simply asked if he was trying to end his existence. A fifth answered with vicious laughter, as though mocking the question. A seventh said he wasn’t even thinking clearly enough to count properly. He was inclined to think that one, at least, was right.
He froze, wondering when he started talking to himself. What day was it? How long had it been since he started this fruitless research? How many people had died because of him? Was that even relevant to this line of thought?
Standing up—staggering, really, like the baby deer in that one movie—what was it called?—not important—Yul began to back away from the papers littered across the floor. Where had he even gotten them from in the first place? What was the point of all this? What was he searching for? What could he possibly gain from destroying himself like this? Twisted satisfaction? No, he wasn’t a masochist—or maybe this was making him one? Coping? That’s possible, but coping with what? He could no longer remember. He desperately scanned the room for a clue, his bloodshot eyes landing on the glass wall overlooking the city.
Yes. That was it. For them. The people he had hurt, though deep down he knew it was not his intention. The conviction for his suffering brought a comforting smile to his face as the small world he had trapped himself in tilted sideways.