Chapter 20: Nest Egg

The Tower.

13 floors. 4 residential. 4 industrial. 3 secretarial. 1 lobby. 1 miscellaneous. 

Jongdae lived on the sixth floor, stuck between the “5th level of Hell" laboratories and the “7th level of Heaven” government offices. The juxtaposition provided enough wonderings to last the first few days. After all, he didn’t have to sleep on it long. Dreams became reality in the form of a steady intake of pills and needles. 

Room 66 was sparsely decorated. Made-up for him at the last minute. He missed nothing about the Underground in particular. Though the smell of mold always stopped him in his tracks. He grew a glass on his windowsill. It was hardly the same. Women in white, reminiscent of a bloodier, vanilla-scent-filled time, took to cleaning it before it could fester. 

His clothes were all black. Thin. Easy to keep tidy. Though he never tried to dirty them. The neck line ran short. Indentations reading “Cerberus” stood out due to the clash of the color against his skin. He kept his hair black for sentiments sake. One luxury easier to come by was hair dye. Thankfully, no one could clean him of it.

“Always the early riser, aren’t you, John?"

K, the Adlet, sported his mane of golden brown brilliantly yet again today. Bare feet padding across white marble, he sprinted to reach Jongdae within mere strides. Excitable to a fault, he informed Jongdae of the day’s “Treat:” the special dessert served alongside their indistinguishable pile of slop. Though K would argue against calling green vegetables, fresh fruits, and rich meat “slop.” Everything tasted the same since the Dog Fights.

“Macarons.”

K announced with an exuberant smile.

“Each box holds a rainbow!”

“Those are some magical boxes.” 

Jongdae’s first and last response to K for the day. The male had a tendency of making mountains out of mole hills. Surely when they interviewed him for his tenant-ship at the Tower, he listed “talking” as his favorite hobby in the miscellaneous box. If allowed, his tongue could form words for hours — a not at all charming personality trait that made him the very definition of an “annoying neighbor.” 

It was all thanks to K’s unsteady jaw, however, that Jongdae had learned so much about his new role as a “Black Coat.” He’d heard “Savior of the World.” He hadn’t heard “Angel of Haven.” In fact, it seemed like a downgrade. The Tower invested years of research into expanding the walls of the Haven. Population density was at an all time high. Promises needed to be made.

The sentiment is what counts. 

“Are you going?”

“No.”

A reflexive response to whatever K was going on about now. The entire walk to the cafeteria, from residential to industrial, K talked about something or other. Jongdae should have cared more. K stood staring,  blocking their fellow Black Coats’ exit from the elevator. A sweet smell quickly overtook the sterile aroma of lemon-scented alcohol — macarons.

“You’re not curious?” Before Jongdae could wonder what he could possibly be “curious” about, K made a face and said, “You're from the Dog Fights, afterall.”  

Thus began the weekend-ly visits to the Underground Dog Fights. The pampered Adlet K looked on with eyes filled with wonder later that night. Jongdae would have done the same.

“How long?”

“We’re allowing the bacterium to incubate for two weeks. Death is said to occur within human patients two to seven days following initial infection.” A voice buzzed in his ear from a broadcast system transfixed at the head of the large room. “At which point we will introduce another host into the room — provided Cerberus survives.” 

“Have more confidence in me, why don’t you?”

“Should both hosts remain healthy in the next set of two weeks that follow, a thorough blood test will be done for the purpose of detecting traces of Yersinia pestis within eithers’ system.” The script-reader continued in spite of Jongdae’s question. He’d endured this rigamarole on multiple occasions since arriving at the great and almighty Tower. It irked him, though not enough to have the gall to do something about it. “The entire test will last the span of one month. Cerberus will receive two ‘Prayer Tickets’ upon completion.”

Prayer Tickets: pieces of paper that could have given him the world. Influenza gave him one. Breakfast in bed. Salmonella. A mini-ecosystem on his windowsill. Meningitis. An Adlet free week. Tuberculosis. Free hair dye for a month. He’d never had more than one at a time. He’d never kept one for more than an hour.

“Let’s get this over with then.” 

Plopping himself onto the cot before him, he waited as fleas feasted upon his flesh. Each one like a feather drawing goosebumps up his skin, two weeks went by without incident.

Angels of Haven don’t die so easily.

The trouble came in the following two the detached buzz had promised him. On the morning of the fifteenth day, the door to the white room opened. Black: the first color Jongdae saw when he looked up from the rebellion-calling lines of George Orwell. The familiar stature, the 190 degree gait, the sanguine expression atop it all secondary. 

“Hun.”

“It’s Raphael here.” Hun, the Shisa, corrected, eyes trained on the broadcast system like it was Jongdae’s extra bread ration — sogged with mold to the smallest grain. “I hear you’re going to infect me with the Black Plague, John.”

Jongdae tuned out his response, a long-missed hunger gnawing in his gut. “Where did you and Yeol disappear to that day? What’s happened to you since then? Have you heard from Han?” 

“Apparently after two weeks we’ll both get our Prayer Tickets and be on our merry ways off this floor for good. No more plagues for the rest of our Society-employed lives.” 

Hun, or Raphael, spoke quickly, having hit a growth spurt since the last time the two met as Strays in the Underground’s Dog Fights. A distasteful hint of sarcasm laced his words, reminiscent of the meat-loving Han. Though their appearances vastly differed, there was no doubt now the two were related.

Speaking of apperances, Hun's had changed drastically. Fingernails clean from cuticle to blunt tips. Hair bleached an unhealthy blond. Skin nearly translucent. Hun looked more decrepit than he ever had. 

Jongdae believed he’d fall over with a single push. Placing a hand on Hun’s shoulder, he felt a sturdy set of muscles flex into his palm. Waves rolling through his black clothes with each spasm, Jongdae pulled back his unwarranted touch. Hun was stronger than he’d ever been.

Settling into the flea infested sleeping arrangements, Hun propped his head up and asked, “I’ve been saving mine up for something nice. What about you, John?”

Two weeks went by within the blink of an eye. Hun barfed three separate times. Bulbous swellings the size of whole eggs welled up under his arms. They popped after several days. Hun’s flesh mended over the gaping sores left in their wake over the span of mere hours.

Both Cerberus and the Shisa survived. From the Dog Fights to the Haven. As Hun said they would, they then went on their merry ways. Jongdae to the sixth floor; Hun to the ninth. Not once did they speak of what happened over half a year ago — though they’d be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.

“We’re Angels of Death, Disease, and,” Hun coughed during one of his fever dreams, regurgitating a bubble of bile, “Discontent.” Not Saviors of the World. Not human in the least. Angels who sailed too closely to the ground. “Praying to a god to release us from the coils of these mortals.”

Jongdae began to save his Prayer Tickets.

A/N: K = Kai.