by Axie Oh
Bora hurries after me, but I lose her once I walk into the restroom, running my hands beneath the hot water of the sink. The evidence of the fight isn’t showing too thickly on my face yet — just a scratch across my cheek and a purpling along the corner of my bottom lip. I lift up my shirts to see the skin underneath. It’s already bruising. Still, it’s nothing I won’t recover from in a day or two. MediTape would heal the ache quicker, but I won’t waste money on it.
I walk out of the bathroom to see Alex and Bora waiting.
“Jaewon-ah,” Bora begins, “I’m so sorry, I — ”
I reach over to ruffle her hair, cutting her off.
“Ya!” she yells, batting my hand away.
Alex watches us, not amused. “Let’s go,” he says. “The assembly’s about to start.”
We follow him out the academy’s front entrance and down the short set of stairs. Like all military academies, the school has an entrance courtyard situated between the gates and the main building of the school. It’s an open space meant for conducting drills and gathering for assemblies like this one.
Seats for the assembly are positioned facing a stage set up at the west side of the courtyard. Technicians are on the stage making last adjustments to the holo-screens suspended overhead. Each holo-screen holds an image of the Neo State of Korea’s black-and-white flag whipping in an imaginary wind.
While I’ve been in the restroom, the seats have filled out, underclassmen to the back and upperclassmen at the front. The chairs are divided by an aisle, and the principal, the head teacher, and the rest of the faculty are already seated in the first row. The principal shoots me a hard look as I approach with Alex and Bora. I duck my head in a bow, Alex and Bora following suit. We take seats on the other side of the aisle. As student president, Alex is required to sit at the front. I plop down beside him and stretch my legs out. Bora takes a seat to my left and pulls out her phone.
A girl taps Alex on the shoulder, and he turns to speak with her.
“Where’s Minwoo?” Bora asks, looking down at her phone and scrolling through a list of flashing messages.
One message reads: I heard Lee Jaewon got in a fight. What was it about? Was it over you?
Bora furiously types her answer: Of course.
“Seonbae?” A small voice breaks my attention away from Bora’s screen. A girl, her low fringe brushing the tops of her eyelids, stands in front of me. I don’t recognize her. She addressed me as “seonbae,” so she must be a first- or second-year. “I bought these for you,” she whispers, pushing a cloth package into my hands. “Eat them and get better quickly.” She pivots and hurries away down the aisle, disappearing into one of the back rows.
I look down at the bundle. I can feel an assortment of items through the cloth, some of them hot enough to heat my palms. When I untie the knot at the top of the package, the folds fall apart, revealing three warm milk buns, a hot bottled-tea drink, a roll of MediTape, and four heat patches.
“Daebak!” Bora yells, eyeing the package’s contents.
Alex turns back around in his seat. He holds a satin box.
“What?” Bora shouts, her volume making Alex and me flinch. “She gave you cookies? What the hell? Is this how you live your lives?”
Ignoring her, Alex holds up a brown, flower-shaped cookie. “I’ll trade you for a heat patch.”
I nod.
We make the trade.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m witnessing this.” Bora scratches furiously at her hair. “Life must be so easy for you two.”
I pop the cookie in my mouth and open a heat patch, peeling the filmy paper away from the sticky side. Gritting my teeth, I lift the layers of my shirts — the shock of cold air against my skin causing me to tense — and ease the heat patch underneath, sticking it directly onto my stomach. Instantly, the rich heat of the patch spreads to the rest of my body.
I sigh in contentment, sinking into my chair.
“That girl should have more pride,” Bora mutters to herself. “What’s the point in giving you a gift? It’s not like you’d date her. I bet you don’t even know her name.”
I hold up a heat patch. “Do you want one? I’ll give you one if you help me with the MediTape.”
Bora smiles, immediately placated.
I stand, lifting my shirts as she unrolls the tape, circling around me as she wraps it. The effect of the MediTape isn’t instant, not like the heat patch. Knowing that it’s healing the bruises helps, though.
“She’s watching us,” Bora says. “You should see the expression on her face.” She slaps her own heat patch onto her stomach, then peels the last one and sticks it to my back. “She looks about to kill me.”
“Who’s about to kill you?” Minwoo asks, coming up from behind and putting his hands on her shoulders. “I could offer some good tips. It’s a subject I’ve thought about a lot.”
“Ai — shhh!” Bora curses, swinging a hand at his head. “Where have you been? The assembly’s about to start.”
“I’ve been gathering important information. I’ve already put my bet in on who’s performing at the assembly. If it’s not CODA, I’ll be down five million won. I could go to ten concerts with that kind of money.”
A clamor of voices erupts from the back of the courtyard. Reporters amass outside the school’s steel-plated gates, the lowTech cameras in their hands flashing. HighTech cameras hover in the air above, angling for a shot. The school guards keep most of the reporters back, only letting through a select few individuals.
A small entourage of black-suited men and women enter through the gates, surrounding the slight figure of a girl.
Alex pops another cookie into his mouth. “So much for your five million.”
Minwoo doesn’t respond, speechless. His eyes are on the girl. The moment the rest of the students recognize her is palpable. Whispers of C’est La Vie spread through the crowd. One boy tries to reach out and touch her as she passes, and is immediately pushed back by one of her bodyguards. She turns to blow him a kiss, easing his wounded pride.
Another group of people enter the courtyard behind them.
Beside me, Alex tenses.
The Director of the NSK strides forward, backed by a platoon of heavily armed soldiers. His chest is lined with medals — all earned from five decades of war.
My eyes focus on the soldier who follows directly behind the Director, dressed all in black. He’s around fifteen years old, slight and small in body. He wears a gun holster beneath his military long coat. He lifts his head, and I immediately recognize him from the Herald’s coverage of the war.
General Tsuko, the NSK’s greatest hero-soldier. In two years, he has risen to one of the highest positions in the state, much to the resentment of older, more experienced soldiers. Though no one can deny his accomplishments — he’s won more battles than most senior military leaders in their lifetimes.
“Attention!”
It’s the principal, shouting from the stage. His harsh voice silences the whispers.
My body automatically responds to the command. Along with the rest of the students, I stand and turn to face the aisle.
“Salute!”
In unison, every student bows toward the Director, bending at the waist with our eyes downcast.
We hold our positions for a minute as the Director strides down the aisle, taking a seat with the rest of the faculty — and Sela — in the front row before the stage. Our heads are still bowed to the ground as the principal announces the Director of the Neo State of Korea.
I wonder what we look like to the people watching the televised assembly from home. If we all look the same, a sea of bowed heads without faces.
Even though I can’t see the Director, I can hear the click of his metal-heeled dress shoes ascending the short few steps to the stage. Another minute passes before his p
owerful voice, amplified by a mike, issues through the speakers. “Be at ease.”
We collectively ease out of the salute, straightening our backs. Everyone but the guards — now spread out amidst the crowd — takes their seats, Alex at the extreme edge of his.
I glance from Alex to the Director. They don’t look alike. Then again, the Director is in his late sixties. If they’d shared features once, the Director’s age has wizened them past recognizable. I’ve never seen Alex’s mother, a Korean American citizen of the American Neo States. Whether he looks like her, I wouldn’t know.
Overhead, a flight of clouds drift by, throwing the stage and the Director into shadows. For a moment, we’re in the light, and he’s in the dark. And then the clouds pass.
“Citizens of the NSK,” he begins, his image repeated on the large holo-screens behind him, “the new year marks a change in the wind. The forces of the Neo Alliance have quelled the latest rebellion in South China. Our own soldiers at the war front have represented our neo state with pride and glory.”
The holo-screens switch to an edited feed of the war front. General Tsuko’s famous God Machine, the Shi, stands on a field of a battle, the flag of the NSK protruding from behind its left shoulder. It’s an impressive image, if a little contrived.
I know what comes next — the usual spiel we get whenever anyone discusses the history of the Great War of the Pacific: “The First Act, fought between the East Asian nations over territory and pride, resulted in the creation of the Neo Council, a governing body to make decisions for all East Asian states, humbling and unifying us. The Second Act, fought between the East and the West, resulted in a victory for the Neo states in the Alliance, and a cementing of our governing body. We are nearing the end of the Third Act, and the rebels who seek to destroy our way of life will be defeated.
“Soon,” the Director continues, his voice dropping, “the war will be behind us, and peace will finally reign throughout Asia. Let us take a moment to pray for this long-awaited day.”
He closes his eyes, letting the silence ring out loudly.
I raise my head and look around at the crowd. Everyone’s eyes are closed except for mine. And General Tsuko’s. I wonder what this says about us; maybe it shows a poor upbringing, or a coldness of heart.
“When we will have nothing to fear,” the Director says, opening his eyes, his teeth glinting in a smile, “except for whether or not Sela will grace us with her lovely presence. Sela-ssi, would you indulge us with a song?”
Sela stands, mike already in hand. “Of course, Director.”
She makes her way up the steps, bowing to the Director as she passes him. Two dancers wearing bright pink trench coats hurry to the stage, positioning themselves on either side of her.
It’s a strange transition, from the solemnity of the Director’s address to the heightened anticipation of a performance.
The Director reclaims his seat beside the principal and Tsuko. The music starts. Sela lifts the microphone and begins to sing.
I lean back in my chair, my gaze traveling to Sela’s projected image on the holo-screen.
“I only ever saw you in my dreams,” Sela sings. “What am I supposed to do? Now that you stand here in front of me.”
It’s a love song, I think.
Two minutes into the song, it breaks into a dance number. Sela’s two backup dancers hurry away, giving her space for a solo. Her movements are graceful. She’s obviously as skilled a dancer as she is a singer, which makes sense. Being a pop star is her job, whether she’s in a band or performing solo.
The screens only show Sela, so my attention wanders to the backup dancers waiting at the edge of the stage. One girl watches Sela carefully, readying to rejoin her. I look to the other dancer.
Her eyes aren’t on Sela, but on the Director.
It all happens in the breath of a second. The dancer reaches inside her long trench coat, fingers wrapping around something within.
I stand up, knocking back the chair.
The dancer whips around, a long, black-edged knife in her hand.
A gasp runs through the crowd.
The dancer turns, springing off the stage and into the air — her agility arresting in the moment of the jump — the knife in her hand raised high above her head. She lets out a harrowing scream, full of fury.
Tsuko slides a long-barreled gun from his uniform jacket, lifting it level with his shoulders.
He shoots her out of the sky.
06
The Test
The dancer plummets to the ground, her legs splayed awkwardly beneath her, a short distance away from the Director’s polished boots.
Tsuko shot her in the chest.
Quickly guards circle around the Director and the dancer, forming an impenetrable wall, their guns trained outward upon the chaotic crowd of students rushing from their seats.
Alex strides to the circle, attempting to shove through the guards. When they block him, he punches the nearest guard in the face. Turning, the guard jams Alex’s shoulder with the butt of his gun. Alex stumbles backward from the blow, twisting to fall on his hands.
My wounds still smart from earlier, but it’s better to repay a debt sooner rather than later. I rush the nearest guard and tackle him to the ground. Alex grabs a chair and brings it down on the head of another.
We break the circle.
Beyond it stands General Tsuko, the barrel of his gun aimed at Alex’s chest.
Alex ignores the gun. “You need to move my father. Now. There might be a bomb on her.”
“There is no bomb, son.”
Tsuko lowers his gun and steps to the side, revealing the Director. He sits in the same chair he’d occupied during Sela’s performance, one leg casually crossed over the other. His face is calm, holding only the slightest frown.
Alex and I bow.
“General Tsuko searched the young woman,” the Director explains. He waves to the dancer on the ground, whose shirt is torn open from Tsuko’s examination.
“Why wasn’t she searched before the performance?” Alex glares at the general.
I’m wondering the same thing. On the ground, the assassin holds still, but barely. Her lips are pressed tight to keep from trembling. Her eyes are closed. She can’t be much older than me.
“Her body was scanned,” General Tsuko says calmly, “but the knife is made of non-metallic components. It didn’t register.”
The circle opens again, letting in Sela and an older man. Sela approaches the Director and immediately drops her head in a low bow. The older man, most likely her manager, falls to the ground in a deep genuflection. I flinch as his forehead hits the cement.
“My sincerest apologies,” Sela says, her voice small.
“The girl was a last-minute hire,” the manager explains, his words stifled from his position. “Our primary dancer became ill. Please forgive us.”
“I’ll need the name of the group you hired her from,” Tsuko says, “and the name of the dancer who became ill. And both of you will have to have your brains scanned.”
The Director stands, bringing his fingers to Sela’s chin. “For precautionary reasons,” he adds, his voice placating as he lifts Sela out of her bow. “It’s not that I suspect you, my dear. You are the victim here. The scan will only take a moment of your time.”
Sela nods, her eyes downcast. “Of course, Director.”
One of the guards leaves the circle, and Sela and her manager follow behind him. For a brief second, Sela looks up at me, her gaze traveling from the cut below my eyes to the bruising along my lips. Her eyes narrow in confusion before her manager tucks his hand against her back, pushing her out of the circle.
I bring my attention back to the Director, who’s now leaning over the body of the dancer.
“Father,” Alex cautions, “be careful.”
“Careful?�
�� The Director laughs without a trace of humor. “I’m always careful. With this state and its people. It’s when individuals go through such unfathomable lengths to become martyrs that it proves hard to be careful.” He brushes the hair above the dancer’s closed eyes. The act is almost gentle, fatherlike. Her eyelids quiver at the touch, and wetness forms at the corners, slowly seeping beneath the lids. “Who are you,” the Director croons, “young woman with broken legs? It’s hard, isn’t it? To live after you’ve chosen to die.”
The dancer opens her eyes, and although she’s crying, her tears are just the body’s form of rebellion, a reaction to the pain. She hocks and spits directly at the Director’s face, some of the phlegm reddened by the blood in her mouth.
“Traitor,” she cries, her voice heated with wrath.
Alex curses and moves to drive a kick into the dancer’s splayed legs, but the Director holds up a hand.
“No, anger will only make her willpower stronger. She’s already decided to die. Let us finish what she’s started.”
Standing, the Director takes Tsuko’s gun in one hand and a linen handkerchief in the other, wiping the dancer’s spit from his face.
“I’ll do it,” Alex says, reaching for the gun.
Again his father refuses. “I think I owe the girl this much.” He hands the handkerchief to one of his guards and lowers the gun. “You see, I’ve failed her. I’ve allowed her to build hatred in her soul. And on such a hopeful occasion as this, the final push to end the war once and for all. I should have known there would be discontent. Luckily, this day’s events won’t spread past the courtyard.”
The dancer sputters, “You’re wrong. A picture will get out, and then they’ll . . .”
“Even so,” the Director says, cutting her off. “It really does pain me to say this, my dear girl, but nobody knows who you are. Who are you? You are nobody. You are nothing. Did you think that your death would be noted because of the life you have lived? What life have you lived? How old are you? What is your name? I know none of these things. And you will die with no one knowing any of these things.”