Archive of Our Own

Illustration by Miegusta

JISAN — The Jisan Fire Station received an emergency report at approximately 3.50am on 5 April, 20XX regarding a fire that had ignited inside the sanctuary of a main religious building in the district.

Firefighters were immediately dispatched to the scene. According to initial recovery assessments, the entire nave of the building was completely destroyed. Authorities have since issued a request to worshippers of the Nameless Religion to suspend all services in the main building until further notice. No injuries have been reported.

The cause of the fire remains under investigation. Witnesses are encouraged to come forward if possible.

Jisan, 31 March, 20XX

The dreams of the newly-born always taste like saltwater.

This is a fact of life. There is no need to question it. The beginning of birth is nothing if not painful, and not every Mother manages to survive the crossing. Heogong is one of the Church’s newest Hands, yet even as a novice he has witnessed more births than most. A baby’s first cry is thus not a sound but a signal: a herald of its journey from the realm of Darknesses into that of Being, oftentimes alone.

Being is a terrifying place, and it falls to Heogong to soften that arrival, insofar as such a thing may be softened. In slow circular motions, he dabs at a baby’s cheek. A small hand—strong for how tiny it is—fastens upon the cloth and will not let it go. He tugs, gently at first, then with greater purpose, before relenting altogether. There are always others. He reaches without looking to the bench beside him, and selects another..

Though he has performed this office more times than he cares to count, it never grows easier, attending to these children. Truthfully, he is not particularly fond of them. But fondness has little to do with duty; the task is his, and so he does it. There is, however, a minor diversion he has discovered: if he coos at them, sometimes they pull the most hideous faces in reply, and those faces are sometimes so exceedingly ugly that a laugh escapes him despite himself. There is little more within the Church’s four walls to entertain one of its orphans.

Heogong knows he leads a lucky life. He doesn’t dare to forget it. But for all that, it is a dull one.

“Brother,” says Sister. “Father’s calling for both of us.”

Heogong has to suppress the instinctive urge to ask, Which one? It is not, strictly speaking, improper, but it is ill-regarded. The Church is abound with Fathers and Mothers, each bearing the same title, and the Children—so they are all called—are rendered indistinguishable in turn. Within these walls, they are all Heogong; they are essentially nameless, and therefore blameless and equal. Only here can an eighty year-old man's conscience be as light or as heavy as a newborn baby's. A Name, properly bestowed, belongs only Outside, conferred by God and not to be used lightly within. The result is a taxonomy so needlessly intricate that Heogong has long since abandoned any attempt to parse it.

Thus they rely upon makeshift distinctions: he becomes the Brother with the unsettling face, while Sister—this one, at least—is the Sister with brown hair and kind eyes, though privately he considers it all a sham; her most defining feature is, in truth, a broad forehead; a physiognomy more generous than it is precise. When he is granted a Name, which is a more exact mode of address, he thinks he will insist upon its use in all circumstances availed to him.

“Brother,” the large-faced Sister calls again, closer now. A tug at his sleeve startles him, and he nearly drops the child. The newborn begins to cry once more. He tries, without success, to soothe it, but the sound only intensifies.

He frowns at her.

“There is no need to concern yourself with it,” she says, her gaze softening momentarily at the infant in his hands before shuttering, her voice lowering. There is something conspiratorial in the way she leans closer, as if no one else must hear; a futile thing, for the Church has Ears everywhere. Until she tells him: “You are to be Named soon, after all.”

Seoul, 24 March, 20XX

They don’t cross paths very often within the Bureau. It is only natural; they belong to different teams, and their roles operate along different axes, and the identities they now wear rarely require intersection. When they do meet, it is incidental, rather than intentional.

Even so, Yeongeun still hears rumours. A whisper of a promotion, perhaps, that might place her into a more specialised unit.

Possibly even into Black Tortoise Team 1.

At that, her shoulders draw tight without her meaning them to.

It’s not something she welcomes outright. And yet, if it were to happen—if she really were assigned there, and if it meant being able to work alongside Kim Soleum again—she finds that she does not entirely mind the thought. There is, after all, a certain practicality to it. They’re both here for... similar reasons, and reasons that don’t necessarily consider the Bureau at its core. Familiarity breeds efficiency; trust, even more so. And she trusts him.

Kim Soleum is among the most reliable employees she has come across at Daydream Inc. in her short time there—if not the most. She trusts him enough that the thought of having someone to cover for her, should something go wrong, loosens the tight knot of anxiety in her chest. Enough that the uncertainty that usually weaves itself through every assignment feels… momentarily diminished. But even with this fear—

The reward isn’t something she can refuse. Even knowing what it entails. Even knowing the nature of the work she has chosen, or more accurately, been chosen for.

After all, she has already registered her funeral arrangements. Twice.

No—she’s getting ahead of herself again.

She exhales, steadying herself, and returns her attention to the present. There is work to be done.

Across from her, Kim Soleum looks up from beneath the rim of his glasses.

“What do you need my help with?” she asks.

He startles just slightly, though it’s gone almost as soon as it appears, his expression quickly smoothing back into its usual, carefully maintained neutrality.

She watches him for a moment longer than necessary. He really is good at that, she thinks—how easily he subdues himself into something unremarkable, how little of himself he lets show. It is difficult, sometimes, to reconcile this version of him with the one she remembers from their orientation at Daydream, or back at the Manor. There, he had managed to save many of their lives. Managed to save her own life, twice over.

There is little Kim Soleum can ask from her that she wouldn’t be willing to give.

“Nothing much, really,” he says slowly. Then with a faint hesitation, adds, “...but can you keep a secret?”

Yeongeun tilts her head. If she’s being honest, she isn’t sure. In principle, she trusts him; more than almost anyone else at Daydream Inc. But trust isn't an unconditional blank check. It all depends on what Kim Soleum’s asking for, after all; there are reasonable limits for it. If it’s something that’d endanger herself, or worse, her family, then she can’t allow it. Not even from him.

But Kim Soleum isn’t her former Squad Leader. He isn’t someone who’d weaponise that kind of trust or authority; if anything, she suspects the opposite—that he would sooner remove himself entirely than allow harm to come to someone else on his account.

They are aligned in that sense.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “What do you need?”

He studies her for a moment, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the edge of the table. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles.

"I'm just kidding," he says lightly. "I know you can. It's nothing too serious, I promise. I just wanted to give you something."

"...A gift?"

It is her birthday, but she hasn't told anyone. Then again—

“For now,” he amends, “You can think of it that way.” He reaches into his pocket, adjusting his glasses with his other hand with a small, habitual motion, and slides an object across the table to her. She catches it with the heel of her palm reflexively, planning to slip it into her lap to tuck it away without inspection; but his hand closes briefly around her wrist, stopping her.

“You can look at it.”

So she does.

A small plastic card. Multicoloured, almost iridescent; the glossy gleam of its surface shifting faintly in the light to reveal other textures. At the top, in barely-legible chromatic lettering that shimmers irritatingly even in the shade, reads:

We can help! VIP CARD

Beneath it is a number that she doesn’t recognise. It’s not any of the emergency lines she’s memorised, nor any of Daydream or the Bureau’s internal codes.

“What is this?”

He hesitates, then draws his seat closer to the table and glances around quickly. For all anyone can tell, they look like two friends having coffee.

“It’s a calling card,” Soleum explains, though the explanation does little to clarify matters. “From... a Darkness. My Squad Leader gave it to me, and I kept it. I thought it might be useful to you.”

She flinches, almost dropping it.

From a Darkness? They aren't supposed to bring things like that out at all, and for good reason. Every finding has to be reported to the Research Team. This is a risk she isn't sure she's willing to take. She's seen what happens: once, a squad member became so contaminated that she had to be transferred from active duty to the Security Team, never to be seen again. Yeongeun tried to visit her, but was chased away.

And then there was Looky Mart—

She winces.

Besides, hadn't something similar happened to one of Soleum's old colleagues? Why isn't he afraid?

“Mint,” he says gently, “It’s free from contamination. I checked it.”

Her thoughts run to a halt. She blinks at him.

Then, apologetically, she lifts a hand to her face and presses her fingers into her cheek, pinching her own expression into something more optimistic.

“Um—S-Sorry, Grapes!” she says quickly, “I’ll be more careful—”

“No, don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head. “If something really bad happens, call the number on the card.”

She frowns. Something really bad?

“I heard your team was assigned to—” He leans closer then, voice dropping just enough to avoid being overheard.

Her breath catches. “How did you—” She stops herself. It is not, strictly speaking, a confidential assignment. Not within the Bureau. Still, the fact that he knows and still worries, entirely unprompted, sends a small, uneasy ripple through her.

“I heard some senior agents might be involved,” he adds.

That does sound bad. Her throat tightens.

“I see.”

More softly: “I wouldn’t want to see Miss Yeongeun hurt.” He pets something in his pocket—a soft, pink rabbit, she realises absently—as if grounding himself through the motion. “It’s better to be safe than sorry, after all. Won't you take it?”

The card in her hand is heavier now.

“Grapes,” she says, more sternly this time. “You should keep this. It’s yours. I can’t possibly—”

There’s something uncomfortable in accepting it. Something that reminds her of all the other moments—of taking and taking, with little else to offer in return.

She moves to return it, but the pressure on her wrist increases.

“It’s just for the mission,” he insists. “If nothing happens, you can give it back later.”

“And if you need it—”

“I’ll let you know.” He says. Then, as if to close the matter entirely, he glances down at the rabbit in his pocket and gives it one last, absent-minded pat. “Isn’t that right, Braun?”

Jisan, 31 March, 20XX

The Church in which Heogong has spent the entirety of his remembered life is not, in the strictest architectural sense, a large one. This, however, depends greatly on what one chooses to compare it against.

In the surrounding districts, and mostly the city—places he knows of, though not through direct experience—there exist structures of such scale and ostentation that they are referred to, somewhat derisively, as megachurches. Buildings that ascend to four stories or more, attached to a massive landing strip of commerce and capitalism, furnished with polished glass and gilded with gold and excessive lights; their congregations swelling in proportion tot heir visibility. Such places are regarded, within most branches of their Religion, with a degree of suspicion; excess, after all, suggests a certain anxiety to be seen.

Their own sect prefers a different approach. Modesty, they would call it.

The building itself is unremarkable at a distance, but within its boundaries it expands in a way that makes it difficult to account for. The courtyard alone is broad enough to eclipse the peripheries of most people’s imaginations, its enclosing walls rising to a height that, at certain hours of the day, seem almost sufficient to obscure the sun.

There are, of course, those among their congregation who bear the unmistakable air of having been Named. An affluence that stems not from wealth, but of... identity. They move with a clarity and confidence that others lack. Heogong has been told that this too, is a natural consequence of the Naming ceremony.

He finds it difficult not to resent them.

Which is why this Sister’s announcement lands with such deep, forceful pleasure.

He startles, nearly dropping the child again, and this time does let out a small, inelegant sound before recovering. A few heads turn towards him, before returning to its proper focus—back to their shared responsibility of care.

“Pardon?” he says, setting the infant back into its cot with only minimal care for its continued distress. “You’re certain about this?” His eyes flick, almost involuntarily, toward the calendar affixed to the wall, just to be certain she isn’t lying to him.

Much time has passed since the last one; the time for the monthly Naming is almost upon them now.

“We do not tolerate lies within these halls,” she replies, a touch too quickly. “Only Outside.” Then, more evenly, “I have conveyed only what was given to be conveyed. We must not delay.”

She takes his hand to pull him forward. He finds the gesture unnecessary—he knows exactly what lies within these four walls and can get himself where he needs to go, if she were to share it—but it isn’t unwelcome.

“Do you know what Name we will receive?” he asks, maybe a little too eagerly. “Or which Father will be present?”

It is, after all, not an insignificant matter. Mothers are seldom involved in such ceremonies. There are... practical considerations. Emotional excess is regarded as disruptive to the process, and so it falls, more often than not, to the Fathers to preside. Above them all, of course, stands the Grandfather, whose role is to mediate and to receive, in whatever form it is granted, the Name itself. It is a form of baptism then, to be reborn anew.

Heogong doesn’t possess a Father of his own, being orphaned, but there are many within the Church; some of them he is more familiar with, and others he prefers. Of those he interacts most with, there is one Father, in particular, whose manner he admires: composed and articulate, capable of answering even the most ill-mannered and ill-formed questions with a patience that borders on indulgence.

Others fare less well in his estimation. There is, for instance, the sallow-faced Father, whose presence he would greatly prefer to avoid. The man always carries by his side a thin bamboo cane, and bears upon his person the visible remnants of some earlier misfortune, which has left him both altered in form and sharpened in temperament—and with it an enthusiasm for correction that Heogong finds excessive and disproportionate. Then there are those assigned to the kitchens, who are kind enough but possessed of a certain dullness that renders any extended conversation a trial.

If one were to be particular about such things—and he sees no reason pretending otherwise—there are certainly better and worse options.

“Hurry,” she urges. “And enough questions. We’ve already dallied too much.”

He falls silent.

Soon enough, they arrive at a descent. At the heart of the Church, arranged to the left of the Scriptures Room, and near the pulpit, is a hidden door. The passage is narrow at first, then opens gradually into a space he has not been permitted to enter before. As a Hand, his duties have only been confined to his assigned wing; any room for disobedience on their part had long been knocked out of them, like air.

When they emerge, he sees that they are not alone.

Other Children have gathered. There are some familiar faces, but most are not. The divisions between them are practical rather than hierarchical: Hands, Feet, Eyes, Ears—each assigned according to purpose. The Feet, in particular, have always inspired envy in him; to step outside, even in service of the Church, is a privilege not lightly granted, and he has never quite understood why others were chosen in his stead.

“Ah.”

The Father before them smiles. It is the one he had hoped for.

Relief settles in his chest, only to be displaced by something else—a strange tension, or density to the air, that resists easy explanation. Closer now to the true heart of the Church, the most sacred place, the light seems to catch on surfaces in a strange, glimmering off-focus. His toes curl inside his shoes.

“Come closer,” the Father says.

They obey.

“It is not often that we conduct a Naming,” he continues, tone measured. “Which is why, when the occasion arrives, it is to be treated with the gravity it deserves.”

Heogong feels it then: a tightening low in his chest. A lightning bolt of anticipation, and something else. A sense that this moment is not merely being experienced, but... observed. As though, somewhere beyond the immediate confines of the room, there exists an attention that has, at last, settled upon him.

Ah. He presses his lips together, attempting and failing to suppress the smile that threatens to spread. So this is what it means, he thinks, to be noticed. To finally be known.

To be, at last, worthy of a Name.

Seoul, 2 April, 20XX

Kim Soleum goes to bed early for the first time in months.

The day has been so uneventful, so mundane, that it feels almost like a gift. Little had happened earlier beyond a civilian rescue that turned out to be a cat stuck in a tree; a small, sullen girl who dialled the wrong number, who then hid behind her mother's back as she apologised on their behalf; Agent Bronze accepting the situation and handling it with the same grave focus he might bring to a collapsing building. They even strolled around Seoul City looking for more work—there's always work, given their visibility as government agents—but today those extra tasks eluded them completely, as if repelled by the kindness the universe had decided to extend toward them that day.

Though there was still that lingering animal tension in Jaekwan's shoulders even at the end of the day, waiting like a lion about to strike the nearest Disaster-to-be. As if he doesn’t know how to be at ease unless something goes wrong. The two of them—Agent Choi and Jaekwan—are alike like that.

It’s a little unlike him, but Soleum can’t help laughing at the thought, drawing a few curious glances from passersby—and one softer, more private look from Jaekwan himself, brows knit with something between surprise and awe.

“Agent Grapes.” His voice is hesitant, almost awkward; yet threaded with a strange delight. “Why are you laughing?”

Soleum only laughs harder. It is, he thinks, a good day. Quiet. Entirely forgettable in the way that makes it all the more worth remembering.

That night, he barely dreams.

Seoul, 4 April, 20XX

In the end, the whole mission unfolds with an almost disappointing smoothness.

Despite her fears (and Soleum’s, though he isn’t even here), everything proceeds without incident. It isn’t that nothing happens, since there's always something, with work like this; but nothing goes wrong, which makes her feel a little bit uneasy in hindsight.

The senior agents carry most of it; they always do. They’re competent in a way that borders on mechanical, every moment focused, reduced to only the essential. They make quick work of their blades, the sharp snap of their wrists as they unsheathe their weapons—and then there is Agent Haegum, the most senior Agent of their team, who seems to move through the operation as if she’s already lived through it once before and is merely correcting it in real time.

Yeongeun always finds her eyes drawn back to Agent Haegum, whenever they work together. It isn’t out of envy, not exactly—admiration, perhaps. The feeling that if she were stronger, if she were that capable, then things might’ve turned out very differently for her. She could've been reassigned to an elite team earlier, which would’ve been a change of fortunes for her: she’d always been very average, after all, and had landed herself into Squad R, which she’d thought was quite respectable, until she’d found out from the Batch Chatroom just how severe the difference in treatment was between the elite and the non-elite. Back then, the only thing that had comforted her was the knowledge that she hadn’t ended up in the Round-off Teams—no offence to Heowoon, of course!—but if she had that strength, then she might’ve been able to close the gap between teams, and might’ve found—

She slaps her cheeks lightly.

No use thinking about things like that, Mint! Thoughts like these always lead nowhere she can afford to linger on.

Lately, she’s begun thinking too much. That’s the problem. Thinking and worrying, as if either will change what has already passed.

Still, if she’s being honest, she’s luckier than most! The Bureau is kinder than expected—not soft, of course, but considerate in small, yet human ways—and entirely different from Daydream. People greet each other warmly, and remember names beyond their assigned ones. They even ask about things that don’t strictly matter to the job, and sometimes they even head out to eat together, when their breaks align.

The hours are long and the work is relentless, yes; but the rewards, tangible or otherwise, feel deserved.

And so far, every mission she's been on has been... survivable. She hasn’t been sent anywhere dangerous yet, and even this assignment, which had come with enough warnings to make her feel uneasy, had resolved itself into yet another mundane mission.

More importantly, here in the Bureau, there are no hidden knives, no incompetent, backstabbing leaders, nor uncooperative or strange colleagues to worry about—

...though there's no point comparing either.

Her hand slips into her pocket out of habit, and her fingers brush against something thin and smooth before they find her phone.

The card.

Right.

She stills, thumb pressing lightly against its edge, as if to confirm it’s still there. It’s... grounding, in a way she can’t quite articulate. But it makes sense, she reasons with herself; it had been a gift from Kim Soleum, and he had been one of the few people in Daydream who didn’t feel—

She lets the thought fall away before it finishes forming.

Instead, she pulls out her phone.

She’d texted him a few days ago, though it had been nothing urgent. Just a short message—How have you been? Let me know if you want to meet up after the mission—which is the kind of thing that usually gets an immediate reply from him. Or at least a delayed one with an apology attached. Glancing at it now, the little grey bubble of her own words hanging there unanswered, she sees that he still hasn't responded. So she decides, almost on impulse, that she’ll text him again tomorrow morning, at a more reasonable hour. Just in case.

Just before she slips it back into her pocket, the screen of her phone flickers. An unknown number flashes across it.

Nausea creeps up her chest. She presses her fingers into the fabric of her shirt, just above her collarbone, pinching a small fold between her thumb and forefinger. The slight sting of it grounds her. Something must be wrong. She hopes she isn't right.

But she answers anyway.

"Hello?" The word comes out thinner than she intended. She clears her throat, tries again. "Who's calling?"

A pause. Then a crackle. And then—

"Oh dear." The voice is light. Almost amused. It drifts warmly through the speaker with an almost salesman-like drawl. "You don't sound very pleased to hear from me."

Her grip tightens around the phone.

“...Who are you?”

A soft answering chuckle, as though she's asked something trivial. Something almost beneath answering.

"Well, I should think I'm rather well-known." The speaker on the phone pauses, almost theatrically. "I am the one and only legendary television host, after all."

Yeongeun nearly hangs up.

She's certain it must be a scam call. Her thumb hovers over the red button, twitching with the urge to end it. She could pretend it never happened and go back to the quiet, uneventful evening she'd been having. But the strange roiling nausea in her gut holds her there.

“My poor Friend has gotten himself into a most fascinating situation,” he continues, tone dipping with playful drama. “And I find myself... disconnected. How terribly unfortunate.”

She blinks.

"...Your friend?"

"Yes." A brief pause, then, more pointedly: "Which is precisely why I thought of you! After all, you’re the only one who might still be able to contact that irritating alien, aren’t you?"

Her fingers still. Her gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to the card now pinched between her fingers.

“Alien...?”

"My friend gave you his call card that day, didn't he?" the host says. His voice is sharper now, static threading through it like fraying wire. He clicks his tongue once. "Unless you threw it away."

It's not a question. How had he—

She looks at the card again. At the number printed on it in that bizarre, shimmering script. Her thumb traces the raised edge of it, back and forth, back and forth.

"The disappearance of a dear friend," he sighs, faintly wistful now, as if mourning something. "It would be such a wonderful reunion! But our connection has been severed. A pity, given our relationship."

Something about the way he says that makes her skin prickle. A cold flush runs up the back of her neck.

This is wrong.

Everything about this is wrong.

He’s suspicious. Obviously so. There is no reason for her to trust him. For one, she hasn't even been given a name, only a pseudonym—legendary television host—which isn't much for her to work with, is it?

And yet—

Kim Soleum had told her, very clearly: if something really bad happens. I'll let you know.

She presses her free hand flat against her thigh, and rubs small, anxious circles into her own knee with the pad of her thumb.

“...Thank you for letting me know,” she says, the words coming out more formal than she intends. Her hesitance draws another chuckle from the person on the other end. Warmer this time, but not in a way that reassures her—if anything, it only sounds like he's enjoying himself. Like this is just another game for him. Mere entertainment. “Um. Mr Host.”

"Just as well! I hardly wish to be called by name by those unfamiliar with me."

Their conversation feels finished. She could press him for more details, but the thought of it makes her stomach curl inward like a fist. She doesn't want to know, and she doesn't want to give him anything—not her curiosity, not her fear, not the small, shaking breath she's trying very hard to keep steady on the phone. Not the way her pulse has started to drum against her ribs, rabbit-quick and stupid and too-loud.

So she hangs up.

If something really bad happens, call the number on the card.

She bites down on her lip. Hard enough to feel it. Even if the earlier call—suspicious as it was, strange as it felt—had been nothing but an elaborate prank, it would still be better to check. Better to be wrong than to do nothing and wonder later. Soleum wouldn't be upset, she decides. If anything, he'd probably say she did the right thing.

She presses her phone into the crook of her sleeve, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat that had formed on the screen. Then she turns it over, and keys the number on the card quickly with shaking fingers.

One digit. Two. Three.

She presses the phone to her ear.

The line connects.

When Yeongeun regains consciousness, her stomach lurches. She's never liked rollercoasters, and this feels like the moment right before the drop—except the drop never comes, and instead she's just... floating.

When she looks down, she sees why. She's looking at herself from above. Her own body, still standing, still breathing—but with someone else's face layered over hers.

It's a familiar face.

"Squad Leader Lee...?"

"Yes."

"...Why can I hear you like this? And why can't I move—"

She tries to lift her arm. Nothing happens. She tries again, concentrating harder, the way she used to concentrate on moving pieces in board games when she was a child after watching Matilda, as if sheer will could tip the dice in her favour. But her arm stays where it is.

"Your consciousness has been temporarily displaced." A pause. "More accurately, your body is now under my control."

"What?!"

Squad Leader Lee seems to consider this for a moment, as though deciding whether an explanation is worth the effort. Then he simply says, "Report."

"...R-report?" About what?

"Explain the situation. Do not leave anything out." His voice is flat, unhurried.

Right. There must be a good reason for why all of this is happening. She forces herself to focus on Squad Leader Lee's task, though it's hard to think clearly when she can feel her own lungs expanding without her permission.

"I received—there was a call," she says, stammering slightly. "A man—he said he was a TV host, but—anyway, he told me Soleum-ssi was in trouble. And that I should use the call card he gave—"

"I understand," says Squad Leader Lee. Her... body begins to walk. Without permission.

Since he seems to understand that, she decides to mention the other crucial piece of information she has been given.

"He also said—he said you were an alien."

"That is correct."

"W-what?" So it wasn't a codename or some strange metaphor for a person he disliked. Squad Leader Lee was an actual alien, like the ones in the movies? She'd seen a few, some of them she liked more than others—like Alien versus Predator, or that other title she'd watched when she was younger that she can't quite remember the name nor director of now; the one with the little bug-eyed green men and the ray guns. That there are aliens in this world is a fact that shouldn't surprise her, given how closely she works with the supernatural; but she still feels her thoughts stop and and spin around it anyway, like a single, wet sock stuck on the rinse cycle.

"We are not here for a take-over," he answers, as if reading her mind. "We are simply here to help. Continue. And don't leave out any detail."

It... ought to be reassuring, but it really isn't. Yeongeun swallows—or tries to. It's strange, not being able to feel her own throat. Still, she pushes on valiantly, recounting everything she can remember, anything that might be the slightest bit relevant, down to the pair of glasses Kim Soleum was wearing (the same scratched-up pair he always wears, because she's only ever seen him with one), and the colour of the toy rabbit he was petting (pink). When she finishes, there is a brief silence.

"I see."

Her body stops. The momentum carries her shoulders forward for a moment before Squad Leader Lee steadies her. Then he stands perfectly still, cupping her hand to his—her?—right ear, as though listening to something far away.

"I've located Kim Soleum. He is in Jisan."

Jisan?

"But—that's—" she falters. "His team isn't scheduled to—"

"Then we must make haste," interrupts Squad Leader Lee.

There's a pop, like a cork leaving a bottle, and suddenly the ground beneath her feet is gone.

She's inside something now. A bubble, almost. It's translucent, thin as plastic wrap but completely unyielding when she tries to push against it. When she tries to focus on the world outside, her vision blurs at the edges, like she's looking through smeared glass.

"What is this—"

"Borrowed transportation," Squad Leader Lee says. She recognises the attempt at explanation for what it is, though it explains little. "It will get us there faster."

"I see." She does not.

"You do not need to," he continues, "and you cannot. What you're sensing is the connection between your visual cortex and your optic nerve. I've temporarily hijacked it and am sending images into both of our brains. I will only be piloting your body for fifty minutes more."

She bites her lip, pushing down the instinctive disgust at the thought of her body being used like a puppet. "And what happens after fifty minutes?"

"Your body will be returned to you. I can only control it for sixty minutes total, but I will return it early if possible."

"How fast is this… transportation?"

"We're already here," announces Squad Leader Lee.

She blinks. They're now standing in front of a church—large, ornamental, the kind of building that looks like it belongs on a postcard from Rome. Ornate stonework climbs up the facade, carved into large, looming shapes she can't fully identify in the night. The windows are all dark, except for a faint, moving flicker past the entryway, the kind of light that might be candles or a night lamp or something else. But the churches in Rome, she imagines, probably don't see strange visitors like them at night. "You're sure he's is in there?"

"Yes."

"How are we going to find him?"

"I will locate him."

"Maybe he's here of his own accord—"

"He is not."

She wants to ask more, but her body is already moving again. Under Squad Leader Lee's control, her legs carry her forward at a steady, measured pace. Too measured. It feels mechanical, like watching someone else play a video game with her body as the playable character. Because that is exactly what it is.

"Shouldn't we go around the back?" she asks.

But it's too late for that.

Two faceless churchgoers stand guard at the entrance, their white sheets glowing faintly in the dim light. They've already spotted them. One of them yells something—she can't make out the words, just the loud murmur of alarm—and they both begin to advance, arms raised, fingers curling around their weapons. One clutches a medium-sized knife, glinting under the light of the moon. The other pulls out a gun.

Her stomach drops. "Or find another entrance?"

"Do you know of another entrance?"

"I don't, but—don't you have alien technology that could—"

A gunshot rings out.

Jisan, ?? April, 20XX

When Soleum wakes, he knows immediately that something has gone wrong.

The ceiling above him is unfamiliar. He had let his guard down—just once, just for a night—and now here he is, staring up at cracked plaster and shadowed rafters that definitely don't belong to the motel room he rents in these days.

In front of him stand several faceless figures. Not hidden behind the animal masks of Daydream, nor the wood-carved goblin headdresses of the Bureau. Just full white sheets draped over entire bodies, head to toe, with only dark slits for eyes. He can't tell if they're human or Darkness.

But Braun—

Soleum turns to the bedside, where Braun usually rests. It's empty.

He turns his head back to the front, still slow with the weight of sleep. Of course he wouldn't be there. He must have been transplanted into some new kind of Disaster—but usually, in situations like this, Braun registers as another participant, or at least a second presence in the back of his mind. Now, when he reaches for that connection, he finds nothing. Only silence.

"The miracle from our Soma Sect has finally risen! All hail!"

"Aaaaall ha-il!" "A-aaall hai-i-i-ill!" "Ah-all hail!"

Sensory overload.

His brain hurts. Their voices are too loud, layered over one another and overlapping like waves crashing against the same shore a second too late. The pain grips him, tight and pulsing behind his eyes, and for a moment he can't do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to pass. When he finally manages to pull his head upright and squint at the scene in front of him again, everything feels wrong. The people move at half speed while he perceives everything at four times that: the lag of their bobbing heads; the drag of their voices, pitchy and unpleasant; the slow, synchronised sway of their bodies, as if pulled by some strange hypnotic rhythm.

He lifts his hand to his temples again, and this time the movement seems to drag out a sloth-like reaction of surprise from the figures around him. They lean back, just slightly, as if unsure whether to approach or flee. Only then does he finally notices his new features: a heavy set of antlers branching from his temples, that strangely don't feel heavy at all. And a tail. He can feel it curling behind him, the way it lashes out automatically, responding to every thought.

Fuck.

Agent Bronze had been right after all. There really was something wrong.

He glances down at his arms. His tattoos are still there, but greyed out, as though covered by a thin, milky film. When he looks up at the figures again, they seem terrified by his grotesque appearance, yet somewhat impressed. Reverent, even.

They must think he's their god.

Soleum shifts, unsettled. His tail snaps out behind him without permission, catching the edge of a wooden crib and sending it skidding across the floor. It tumbles into one of the figures at the front, who stumbles but doesn't fall.

He freezes.

"...Right," he murmurs to himself. "Better not do that again."

One of the figures at the front drops to his knees.

"He has spoken."

"He must be displeased."

"Aaaaall hail!"

He grips his head again. He still needs to get used to the sensory input. Not for the first time, he wonders if this is how Lee Jaheon feels when he has to deal with humans.

...though at least these ones don't seem like they're going to murder him immediately.

Jisan, 5 April, 20XX

Everything happens too fast for her to follow. One moment they're walking toward the front doors, towards the armed men, and the next thing she knows, her arm is swinging up and her elbow is connecting with the side of the gunman's head. A sickening thunk echoes through the entryway, and he crumples without a sound.

The other guard goes down just as quickly. A sharp pivot, a second strike, and then there's nothing but a soft yelp and the thud of a body hitting stone.

Yeongeun stares at the two figures sprawled on the ground. They're not moving. She can't even tell if they're breathing. They can't possibly hurt her—them—now.

But instead of relief, she only feels a bone-deep wrongness.

"Squad Leader Lee! That's my body!"

"You won't be injured," he cuts in. "I have ensured that. For the next thirty-five minutes."

"Oh, thank goodness—" She stops. "Wait. What do you mean by 'next thirty'—"

"Emergency escalation required. Requesting authorisation for 'Holy Flame Artillery Fire'."

"What?" Her voice rises. "But there are people inside—"

"Yes."

She wants to scream. This isn't help. This is a massacre. And with her body, too!

"Then why?"

Squad Leader Lee tilts her head—his head? their head?—as if the answer should be obvious. As if she's asked something silly, like why the sky is blue or why water is wet.

"They cannot die. Commencing operation: Save Roe Deer."

Soleum still doesn't understand what's happening.

The kneeling figures had risen as one, their movements slow and synchronised, and before he could react, they had guided him—herded him, really—deeper into the church. Now he stands at the centre of the sanctuary, surrounded by even more faces hidden behind white sheets. None of them dare to look at him directly for too long.

The worshippers, if he can call them that, seem at once entranced and repulsed. When he glances around and catches fragmented glimpses of his reflection in the polished ornaments, he thinks he understands why. With antlers branching from his head and his lower half twisted into something reptilian, he really does look as much a monster as he feels.

"This is fine," he murmurs, clenching his hands into fists. His nails—longer and sharper now—dig into his palms. He's certain they'll leave marks.

"He has spoken..."

"It must be a decree..." "Yes, a decree..." "An important one..."

"Only..."

A murmur ripples through the church, voices layering over one another, echoing off the stone walls.

Then someone removes their headdress.

"Grandfather!"

Another loud shushing noise from the crowd. Then the old man in front turns to Soleum, eyes gleaming. "Your name?"

Soleum blinks. The question catches him off guard. After all the chanting and kneeling, something so mundane feels almost absurd. "My name?"

But before he can answer, Grandfather whirls around to address the congregation, arms spread wide in triumph.

"His name is Ireum-nim!"

A stunned silence. Then—

"Our Ireum-nim?" "Then he's…" "The prophecy…"

Grandfather is still speaking, his voice rising with fervor. "Ireum-nim has come to us at last! The one we have waited for! Now, our Soma Sect—"

The congregation erupts into chants again, louder this time.

Soleum tunes out the rest. He doesn't know what will happen if he plays along, but at least they seem too overcome by religious fervour to hurt him. For now.

More importantly, he needs to figure out what's happening. Whether he can escape. And, he thinks just as miserably, staring at the reflection of the antlers crowning his head; whether any of this is reversible.

"They've all gathered at the nave."

Yeongeun doesn't ask how he knows.

Her body continues forward under Squad Leader Lee's control, loud footsteps echoing across the polished floor. Surprisingly, they've been allowed inside without much fuss—though Squad Leader Lee's weapon—The Divine Bolt Taser, as he calls it—has ensured that anyone who might have objected is no longer in a position to do so. Most of the worshippers seem to have gathered elsewhere anyway, their attention pulled toward something deeper inside.

At the far end of the hall, the congregation begins to kneel. Not in unison, but like a ripple passing through water. Yeongeun feels it too: a pull toward the center.

And then she sees him.

For a moment, her mind refuses to process what she's looking at. Soleum's silhouette looks all wrong: his figure elongated, his head crowned with root-like shapes that don't belong on a human body. They branch outward from his temples like the antlers of a deer, dark and twisted. His lower half seems different too, though she can't quite make out the details from this distance.

His eyes widen as he catches her gaze across the chancel.

"Target confirmed," Squad Leader Lee announces.

And then—

A loud burst of sound, almost like a gunshot. The room fills with pinpricks of light.

Squad Leader Lee... really is... insane.

Heogong does not recall the exact moment of it happening.

One moment, he stood before the Father—his Father, the one he had hoped for—feeling the weight of that long-awaited attention settle upon his shoulders like a hand laid in blessing. The next, he was elsewhere.

No longer in the chamber. No longer fully in his body. Still here, in the physical sense, but the sensations of his body feel deadened. Like a pitcher entirely emptied of its milk.

Now he drifts.

The Children had been arranged in a circle. All of them, lying on their backs with their arms at their sides, like spokes radiating from an invisible centre. Then they were told to close their eyes.

The ritual had seemed pleasant at first. Almost soothing. Heogong could feel the coolness of the stone seeping through his clothes, rising up from the floor into his back. The murmur of the Fathers' voices, low and rhythmic, like water over stones, as they recited the rites for the Named. From each of the Children, their limbs were extracted: Hands, Feet, Ears, Eyes, Tongue. To be fashioned into a vessel for a story not their own. To become a container for something inhuman—something that had been waiting a long time for a body to occupy.

Their life's work, he understands now, is to give and give to one God only. To empty themselves until nothing is left except for...

Ireum-nim. The God of their prophecy.

Now he feels nothing at all.

Not pain. Not fear. Not anger, nor betrayal, at the loss of his left hand. Not even the satisfaction he had once imagined would accompany the receiving of a Name. Only a vast emptiness when he fixes his gaze upon the ceiling, following the slow arc of Grandfather's gesture, where the light gathers most, strange and shimmering. He watches it the way one might watch clouds pass. Thoughtlessly.

He supposes this is what makes hungry ghosts of them all.

It is strange, the kinship he feels now. With everyone. Even with the Father with the limp, who once made him flinch. Even with the dull-eyed Fathers in the kitchens, whom he had once looked down upon. He does not feel betrayed by the Father who had brought them there—the one with the kind voice and the patient smile. How could he? They are all hollow now. All of them walking receptacles for something that was never meant to be housed in flesh. Their bodies, made in the image of God, now returned to God Himself.

When he thinks about it like this, he cannot help but find the light upon the ceiling beautiful.

Quietly, he thanks Ireum-nim for the miracle.

A thin, needle-like point of light appears in the ceiling.

It's so small that, for a moment, Soleum thinks he imagines it. A trick of the eye, a fleck of dust catching the light just wrong. But he's seen this before, and he knows what comes next.

His blood turns to ice.

Pik.

Pikpik—

Pikpikpikpik—

The congregation stirs. A low murmur builds at the edges of the room, confused at first, then wondering. Heads turn upward, following the points of light.

"A miracle," someone—the man named Grandfather—breathes. "A miracle by Ireum-nim..."

Soleum watches as a column beside him cracks. A pin-sized hole burns straight through it, the edges cauterised by heat, now smoking faintly. The smell of scorched wood fills the air.

Pikpikpikpik—

More holes appear. The ceiling begins to blossom with them, tiny points of light flowering across the dark wood like some terrible constellation.

The worshippers fall to their knees.

"A holy miracle…"

No, Soleum thinks. It's not.

That crazy fuck.

He catches Yeongeun's eye across the congregation and feels his own expression mirror hers. Wide. Horrified. But the rest of her posture is wrong—less like someone caught in the act of doing something wrong, and more... triumphant.

Then it clicks.

Ah.

He gave the calling card to Go Yeongeun, after all.

The ornamented ceiling above him is already beginning to smoulder. The supporting beams holding up the roof of the church seem to buckle—barely, almost imperceptibly, like a ship leaning into a wave. But Soleum feels it in his bones. In the soles of his feet, swaying with the shifting floor.

He doesn't stop to think. He doesn't have time to.

Soleum grabs the nearest unmasked person—Grandfather, still murmuring about miracles—and shoves him toward the aisle. Toward the doors. Toward any open space he can see. It's easier than he expects. At that thought, his tail lashes out behind him, knocking a set of people out of the way of a falling ornament, and he doesn't have time to feel strange about that.

He will not let civilians die on his watch. Even if they're strange cultists who've led him here.

No matter what.

"Why did you use it again?" Soleum says, the words ripped out of him as he pushes another worshipper aside with his tail.

"What?" Yeongeun's voice is bewildered. Distant. Like she's calling out from the other end of a long tunnel. She wonders if Soleum can hear her, then figures it's for the better that he doesn't. 

She feels like she's slowly losing her mind.

"I did not," replies Squad Leader Lee.

Soleum blinks. His eyes narrow into slits as he shoves another civilian toward the aisle. "And this? We need to evacuate everyone!"

Yeongeun blinks too. Huh? She feels her thoughts stutter and skip, trying to catch up to their conversation. What are they even talking about? What does he mean, 'use it again'? Is he talking about the card? She hasn't done anything except—

Behind Soleum, a pillar bursts into flames. Dust rains from the ceiling in grey, coughing clouds.

"I took into account your concerns from the previous bombardment," Squad Leader Lee continues. His voice is as calm as if he's reading a grocery list, which is deeply unsettling given that he's currently sprinting at full speed with her body, somehow matching Soleum's frantic four-times pace. "And decided that 'Holy Flame Artillery Fire' was the more suitable weapon for this situation."

"What?" she parrots again, though it's a useless interjection. Her thoughts just can't keep up—the rising flames, the collapsing wood and stone, the fact that her body is still striding forward through it all, arms swinging in that too-efficient, mechanical gait that isn't hers.

Without her permission, her body steps forward.

Her arm reaches out.

Her hand closes around Soleum's wrist.

"Target secured," Squad Leader Lee says.

Above them, the ceiling is fully engulfed by creeping fire now. The flames have found something to feed on—old wood, dry as tinder, painted with decades of incense smoke. The load-bearing pillars fracture one by one, great splinters of wood and stone shearing away with sounds like gunshots. Then a massive beam breaks free from the burning ceiling.

It crashes down, lurching toward them.

Yeongeun stumbles, her boots skidding on loose debris. She feels the ghost-impact of Squad Leader Lee's control—her hand still gripping Soleum's wrist, her arm still extended—and then her body is being pulled sideways, dragged toward an opening in the collapsing wall that she hadn't noticed until now.

Her head is wrenched upward.

Not by her own will, but by Squad Leader Lee's, she realises belatedly, forcing her gaze skyward.

Through the burning rafters, through the smoke and the falling embers, she sees it: the expanse of the sky, painted a deep, bruised blue, barely touched by the glow of the fire. The large moon slipping through dark clouds, like a new coin glinting in murky waters. The kind of sky that comes just before dawn, when the world is still sleeping.

Then—

Boom.

The dust takes a long time to settle.

When it finally does, Yeongeun opens her eyes. She didn't realise she'd closed them at all.

Her body is on the ground. She can feel it now. The weight of her own limbs. The grit of debris pressing into her palms. Her own heartbeat, thrumming in her wrist and neck. Her own beating pulse. She gasps, sitting up too fast, and immediately regrets it as her head spins.

When the feeling of nausea subsides, she pats her arms down quickly. Her legs. Her face. Everything still there. Everything still hers.

"Fifty-five minutes," says Squad Leader Lee, standing a few paces away. He's entirely unruffled—not a smudge of dust on his suit, not a hair out of place. "I returned control early. You seemed distressed."

She stares at him.

Then she looks around.

The church is... gone. Not destroyed, exactly; parts of it are barely standing, still burning as the remaining supports give way. But the sanctuary, the altar, the place where the worshippers had been kneeling—

She can't look away.

Scattered through the wreckage are bodies. Dozens of them. The hooded figures. They lie motionless, limbs splayed at odd angles, some half-buried under beams, others sprawled across the broken floor like discarded clothes. For a terrible moment, Yeongeun's stomach lurches.

"They're fine," says Squad Leader Lee. "Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"The rest were already dead."

Yeongeun's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"What?"

"The ceremony," Squad Leader Lee says, as if that explains everything. When she stares at him blankly, he only continues staring back.

"The ceremony," she repeats.

"Yes. They stopped being people long before tonight."

Yeongeun doesn't even have the energy to entertain his cryptic line of half-assed answers anymore. He hasn't answered a single one of her questions appropriately all night, and she doubts he ever will. It's frustrating. But when she glances at the still bodies again, she can't help but think that maybe she doesn't want to understand after all. If Squad Leader Lee says so, then she will simply choose to believe him. "And we just leave their bodies there?"

"They will not be a concern," Squad Leader Lee says. "We just need to leave with—"

Yeongeun turns away from him.

A few metres away, she spots Soleum half-buried under a chunk of what used to be a pew, and hobbles over to him as fast as she can, ignoring the biting pain shooting up her ankles.

Soleum is trying very hard not to panic. She can see it in the way his hands hover over his own body, not quite touching, as if he's afraid of what he might find. His antlers are gone, as far as Yeongeun can see, and his lower half, twisted and reptilian just minutes ago, has returned to human again. His legs. His feet. All of it.

...though he's still wearing that strange, backless outfit. It drapes over him unevenly, like he's swaddled by the cloth like a newborn babe instead, now that he's returned to his original height. She watches as he reaches up, touching his own chest and neck, sticky-grey with sweat and dust. Almost imperceptibly, his shoulders sag.

He is, as far as she can tell, entirely human again.

Which is good. But the fact that his lower half is pinned beneath a chunk of what used to be a pew is less good.

Yeongeun nearly trips twice in her graceless scramble, but she makes it to his side. She grabs the edge of the pew chunk and hauls at it with everything she has. It doesn't budge at first—her arms are shaking, her palms are sweating, and there's a sharp sting somewhere in her forearm that she doesn't have time to look at. She pulls again, harder this time, and finally feels something give. It's almost too easy.

When she looks up, Squad Leader Lee's hand is now braced against the side of it, holding it up effortlessly with the pads of his fingers.

Soleum sucks in a breath of air at that. Then, lifting himself up slowly, he braces one hand against the ground to sit up, and runs the other over his own face afterward—smoothing down his cheeks, his nose, his jaw—as if to confirm it's still his.

"I'm back," he says. His voice comes out hoarse. "I'm—I'm me again."

Yeongeun doesn't know what to say to that. It's even more concerning that he hasn't mentioned anything about his broken legs yet. Shock, she decides. She digs around in her pocket for the medium-grade health recovery potion she always carries—which thankfully, hasn't been smashed to smithereens—and offers it to Soleum. She isn't sure how much help it'll be, but at least it's something.

He blinks at her hand with slightly glassy, unfocused eyes.

Squad Leader Lee tilts his head. "Were you supposed to be someone else?"

The question is so completely out of touch with the moment, that Yeongeun almost laughs. Instead, she hears herself responding, "We're just glad you're fine! Really!" She pushes the vial closer to him. "Though you should drink this and recover."

"I'll return it to you," Soleum finally says, taking it from her. "I promise."

"Take your time," she says. He doesn't have to, really, and she'll insist as much later—but for now she doesn't want to confuse him further when he's still in shock. "Don't worry—"

"Immediate evacuation is recommended," Squad Leader Lee cuts in firmly. "We cannot—"

"Squad Leader Lee," Yeongeun interrupts. She rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. It feels strange to interrupt a superior like that, even if it's deserved. Are all Squad Leaders in Daydream like this? She cuts a quick glance toward Soleum, who's now trying to move around on shaky legs, though he falters every few steps. "How much time can we reasonably pause here?"

"Eight minutes and thirty-nine seconds." He's back to looking at the flames again. "Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven…"

"Okay," Yeongeun says, and hobbles over to Soleum's side to steady him with a hand on his elbow.

She should call the fire station. Someone must have heard the explosion already. But—

She takes a shuddering breath. The scent of smoke and wet ash, thick enough to taste, fills her lungs.

Thank goodness we're alive.

Overwhelming relief rushes over her like a tidal wave. They'd nearly all died. None of this should feel like a victory. The church is in ruins, and there are bodies scattered through the wreckage which she cannot explain away. Her hands are still shaking.

But Soleum is upright beside her. Squad Leader Lee is still watching the flames with that unreadable expression of his. And she is here, in her own body, feeling everything. Every small pain is proof of that: the ache in her legs, the sting in her palms, the burn in her throat.

The fact that they're all still here; that has to count for something.

It's a beautiful day to be alive.

There’s a strange prickling sound that flickers at the edge of Baek Saheon’s consciousness.

Pik.

Pikpikpik—

It sounds… like a gunshot. Splitting through wood.

He jolts upright, rubbing his good eye to chase away the last traces of sleep, then taps his phone to rouse it as well. Light floods the room, making him wince; he squints blearily at the blurry numbers, struggling to make out the time. Barely four in the morning. It has to be those stupid kids from the neighbourhood again, messing around with their firecrackers and toy guns through the night, because they don't have anything better to do, like work. Unlike him. Though he's technically on vacation.

...maybe he'll yell at them from the window and tell them to shut up.

“Idiots,” he mutters, mostly to himself, turning to look out the window where the sound comes from.

Outside, there’s a building on fire.

Huh?

He scrubs at his eyes. Then, more soberly this time, he cranes his neck further out of the window, just to make sure he isn’t hallucinating the whole thing. The cool air slaps him right in the cheek, but the image remains unchanged. “Isn’t that the church in our nei—”

Boom.

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: hey goat

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: sent an attachment. Initial_fire_report_0504XX_Jisan.pdf

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: isn't this your place?

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: was wondering if you knew if the church was open so i could take a look at it kk

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: you know. while they're restructuring n all

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: less people around kk

Message not sent.

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: hello?

Message not sent.

Message from BATCH_17_PONY: ...

Message not sent.