My parents were Christian. I don’t think I’ve prayed since I was a kid. Not like he ever answered me. But today I deserve a miracle. I ask for one thing: get me out of this city alive.
It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Before the facade came crumbling down. At my apartment door looking back at it now. The holograms are off, dusty wood floors, brown leather couch, ripped out panels. Lanterns outside the window, laundry hanging neighbour to neighbour in our small syphoned block. Most windows bolted shut, harsh blue of LED light’s slipping through the cracks in the metal. Only one window remains open year-round, warm bulbs: Pak Hyo-Jung, eighties, maybe nineties, cooking her meals. Reminds me of my mum. You could see prints on her walls, photographs of family, friends. On my walls? Nothing.
Out the elevator into the streets and you’re hit by the goddamn noise. The ads, the music, not even from my block. Echoing down the boulevard, Jellen Street. Deafening and loud, I can see the lights- so bright so colourful says the ADHD ridden child in me. Holographic man with a nice cock stands over the sex club. Wearing skin-tight jockstrap. Great censorship, Korea. I wish he was real. I wish robots could look like humans so I could fuck one.
It’s cloudy and hot, a humid night and stained with summer sweat. Perfect night for Gasan. Steams blasting out of vents as I walk to my car. It’s boxy, it’s grey. It’s a car. Overhead I hear the electric hum of a cruiser. Flying car, here? In my part of town? Bad juju.
Driving through the city you forget what night looks like, that the sky isn’t meant to be purple and red with light, that holograms and skyscrapers and cruisers and rocket launches aren’t all there are. You forget there were once stars.
Now I’m cruising. Traffics lite, even on streets with no CCTV. Plates are censored, anyway. Three sure ways to tell when you’re going east, out of Old Seoul to the shit part of town. Slimier than Gasan, I know. One: immigrants start piling the streets like rats. The signs read less like Korean and more like a jumbled mix of Hindi/Japanese/wasteland/whatever. Two: the bots get shoddier. Uptown they’re sleek, they’re shiny, they’re quiet and out of site, or trying to sell you something with the perfect pre-recorded Gangnam accent. Here they’re loud, uneven, tagged by kids with metal plates bent out of place with no money to get straight. Three: everyone’s packing. They try to hide it, but you drive down the wrong street you can see it in their eyes, and in their augs.
I’m approaching Yangyang. I see the water. I see my ride. An orange freighter, something Hindi on the side. Leaving my car behind. Keys in a dumpster. Good luck, criminal scum.
Lots of shirtless men, lots of tattoos, lots of sweat. Hatch is closing. Neo-Seoul slips away.
Look, I’m numb to this shit. Don’t know what to say. It’s home, but home is hell.
Used to think the city was broken; result of bad cops, bad mayors, bad people in power- a neon Seoul for our neo souls. And I thought if you fight hard we could change things. If enough good people fought hard D.U.S.K. could change things. And we tried, we really fucking tried. But I was wrong. Nothings broken. It works exactly as it’s meant to. The system isn’t broken because it’s run by bad people… the people are bad because of a broken system.
No winning when the rules aren’t about doing right.
Dot. Dot. Dot.
Sweat dripping off moist skin, dotting the paper with wet periods. The D.U.S.K. inspector paused her writing, the warm glow out the end of the laser-pen illuminating the page, waiting for her to write another word. But none came. She sat in her cabin, a single red light swaying above her head, and the metal walls thinly veiling the noises of the other rooms. Laughter and yelling in foreign languages, wine-bottles being shot open, a Japanese couple arguing next-door, the loud echo of the frigate’s electric motor.
No better than Gasan on any given night.
She scribbled the the final words down before flicking the pen’s switch, the device dying down and being tucked away inside the binds of her case book. This was no night for writing, and from the sounds of things no night for sleeping either.
Shirt unbuttoned- fiber weave off-white, sweaty armpits, suit pants. She needed some air. The hatch door led out into a corridor, wide-enough for one sailor at a time but right now filled to the brim with sea-sick or unconscious passengers. With a judgmental look and not much else the inspector began to trudge through the waste of life lining the level corridor, getting closer and closer to the spiral staircase at the end. Her hand grasped the rail, yellow paint chipping off metal, when suddenly a sweaty palm tapped her shoulder. In a heartbeat she flew around, pinning the stranger against the metal corridor wall, causing a few of the stowaway passengers to look up in curiosity. He was a boy- sixteen, seven-teen. Thin teenager mustache, cut up eyebrows. Dry lips.
“Sorry, miss, sorry! I- I didn’t mean to!” The young man began in his best Korean, raising his arms innocently as the Inspector held him against the metal, forearm over neck. “I was just-look, you’re- you’re a Korean going to Neo-Tokyo is all.”
The inspector squinted. "Koreans not allowed in your city anymore?”
“No! Of course, I’m just-“ The man slobbered over himself slightly, sweat dripping from his brows into his eyes as he tried to figure out the words. “I just- I don’t- I wanted to know why.”
The Inspector let out a sigh, releasing the man reluctantly and making her way up the base of the stairwell again, not answering his question. “You don’t look like the rest of us here, ya know! No offence, I just wanted to know why you were leaving, is all! I’m- I’m a curious guy!” The Japanese man called, scurrying up the metal stairwell after the woman. “They call me Shifty!”
“Is that name supposed to make me trust you more?” The Inspector asked.
“Nah, I mean, nah, it’s just cool name,” Shifty dismissed, continuing to follow.
“Wanted out.. Simple as,” The Inspector grumbled, passing by the level above, the mess-hall where heavy smoke, boxing holograms, and holo-cards could be seen on boxes and makeshift tables. “Just like the rest of you.”
“Wanted out?” Shifty repeated, pausing on the stairs behind her. “Not me, miss. Not… honestly, not anyone else here. My visa ran out. But Neo-Seoul is- it’s the destination, does that make sense?” The man swallowed, trying to find the words. “When I first arrived, it was like a gemstone. It was bright, and magical, and… advanced. It was like all the stories of paradise over the ocean were real.” He smiled to himself.” Neo-Seoul… is the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen.”
The Inspector looked down at Shifty. And though she couldn’t understand it, why anyone would love the haven of disgrace that was her home, there was sincerity in his words. “Stay in school,” Was all the Inspector responded, continuing up the stairs. “Change the name.”
Cool ocean air hit her as she reached the metal walkway of the deck, save for a single orange lantern on the side of the freighter the world ahead mostly consumed by darkness. Beside her the black waves of the Sea of Japan smashed against the freighter’s side. She felt every sway the vessel made as it pumped forward. The Inspector leaned on the railings, breathing in the salty sea air as another wave smashed up against them.
There was darkness here. Actual darkness. The neon lights of Seoul had faded away, and above her in the sky, the Inspector could swear she could even make out the glint of a star through the night-time clouds. And fuck, if not for the first time in her life did she feel like God had listened. Like he’d delivered her miracle. She was free.
It took her only a moment more to realize that the light in the sky wasn’t a star at all.
---
An explosion lit up the dark screen of the monitor, the freighter having ignited into fire as the drone strike hit. “Down she goes,” A suited man spoke. Fire spread across the orange freighter as it’s hull cracked in two, pixels on the screen clearly vaguely displaying the flailing arms of the passengers being pulled out to sea as the waves consumed the vessel. The man leaned forward, pressing the button again. A few moments later a second strike smashed into the sinking ruins, making sure to destroy what was left of the wreck, and the survivors.
With a sharp breath he let his finger off the button and turned back, looking across the blue control room. “That’s it.” He said. The other operatives in the room looked at each other, and though the atmosphere was tense, on all their faces was relief. An Indian operative in the corner simply glanced down bitterly at the news. “That’s the end of D.U.S.K.”
And then: the music starts playing.
CASE 00: REFORMATION OF THE GUARD
8 Years Later,
November 14th, 2117
District 2
Pink holograms and day-dream vibes, the baseline shaking the plaza as the shoppers moved to-and-fro across the illuminated walkway. The holographic dancer grew in size above the fountain, her form changing between pink and yellow light at seizure inducing rates, deafening music accompanying her moves to the delight of the passing consumers of the plaza. The rich Gangnam shoppers holding overfilled bags of bought goods, lit-up logos on the sides matching their flashy clothing. And, whether he liked it or not, Meon Jong was one of them.
He watched from afar, arms crossed at the edge of the plaza, pink neon light shinning in under the brim of his hat. His pupils lit up at the spectacle, but all he managed to say was: "Jesus Christ I hate winter."
Through the crowds Jong spotted something- the flashing of a police safety vest, walking straight for him. Jong sighed, igniting a cigar as he prepared to face the N.S.P.A. boy. The fourth one they'd sent this month.
"Officer Mun-Tong," Jong began, turning to face the man, lit cigar in mouth as he gave a cheap smile to the uniformed patrol officers. "We saw you arrive, Mister Jong," The officer replied.
"Right, of course. Gangnam matters enough for your camera, of course," Jong smirked poisonously, his voice barely audible over the music. "Listen, rookie- I'll tell you the same thing I told Rusty, the same thing I told those two who stopped me in midtown. The Dhavale case is a civil lawsuit, there are no charges against my man. The police have no right to interfere with my investigation," Jong squinted. "Quote me on that, jackass. Same words as the last three times."
"I’m not here for that, Mister Jong," The officer called, his voice lost in the sound. "I came to deliver a message, one too important to send via hypernet," He yelled, before leaning in to Jong's ears. "December 1st. N.S.P.A. Headquarters. You've been summoned by Commissioner Dikshil."
As the officer moved away from his ear Jong smirked at the man. "Summoned, huh? On what charges?"
"No charges, Mister Jong," The officer said, handing him a sealed N.S.P.A. plastic evidence bag. "A job offer." With the package delivered Officer Mun-Tong backed away into the crowd of flashing shoppers, leaving the private-eye alone. Jong rose an eyebrow before unzipping the evidence bag, pulling out the stiff paper print within. At the top of the letter was one clear word, written in all caps: D.U.S.K.
Meon Jong held the letter and almost let out a laugh. "Jesus Christ," He breathed as the music continued, the world around him lost in the music as he read. "Dikshil, what are you doing now."