Chapter 40: You'll Go Down In History

“It’s the ash. It was killing us.”

Minseok would benefit from the Farlands’ account of the Society’s capitalist takeover of the diamond market. He enjoyed unexpected historical reconfigurations—validation has taken stranger forms. Jongdae heaved a yawn; evidence testifying to the Haven’s superiority complex was already stacked Tower-high. 

“The dome above their Blessed heads is 84.56% diamond and counting. When the Holy Father decided to expand its walls, he turned to the soot-covered, simple-minded denizens of Asher’s Drop,” Lay begun, voice hoarse. Cracking on stressed syllables. Throat affected by breathing in his home’s second greatest export: ash. 

“We were children who loved arts and crafts, but He offered a food surplus and Jewelers lost interest in luxuries,” Nefaria added, incessantly wiping away the black smudges on Lay’s face to no avail. 

“You couldn’t find a single boy at St. Theresa’s who didn’t dream of Asher’s Drop,” Han confessed. Arm, bloodied by misguided survival instincts, hanging around Jongdae’s shoulders. Not bothering to freshen up for Lay’s lady guest. He maintained a perpetual state of stinking like —you can’t teach an old Shisa new tricks.

“Starvation became an irrational fear,” Lay continued with a cough, “until we struck oil.”

Noxious gases were released from an oil deposit some hundreds of feet beneath Asher’s Drop. 24 children dropped dead. Nefaria was almost the 25th, but she miraculously recovered—latent homo homo sapien genes kicked in. 1:100.

The epidemic didn’t end there; surrounding rock absorbed the miasma. Refining diamond released ash laced with poison into the air. The Society’s steady supply of superfoods kept the symptoms at bay. 200 years had passed when the plague’s long con revealed itself with a force of 2,000 corpses strong.

The Tower offered early retirement. A one-way trip to the Haven. Where the sun kept shining and the food kept coming. “Home” for those who passed the Blue’s medical trials. Comfort for those willing to donate their bodies to scientific innovation.

“Then Daddy Farland split town,” Han interrupted, having heard this part of the history. “Months later, a pint-sized girl with a penchant for kickball asks what some brutish fellas dressed in white want with her lil’ big brother.” Laughter rolled over him—a sadistic tide: “Show me your fancy footwork sometime, Miss Farland?” 

Wavering candlelight cloaked the knee-jerk reaction that accompanied Nefaria’s giggle. “I’m afraid you’ll need to get in line,” she replied. Teasing! Feminine wiles magnified by 100. Her history lesson became priority number one—Jongdae begged to learn.

215 years after entering a deal with the Society, Asher’s Drop experienced a mass exodus. Humans feared asphyxiation first and foremost. “Children can fight off their parent’s mistakes, but we couldn’t save this place,” Lay lamented. 

The lil’ big brother gestured to the abode generations of Farlands once called home. Built for irreplaceable comfort. Forgotten luxury falling into disrepair. The Dog Catcher’s excessive gagging halted any chance of perusing its failing floors for family secrets. 

“Sitting up there. Gloating. Bloated on that ing food—” Lay spit out a chunk of goopy soot. Nefaria rushed to catch it. Desperate to hold her genetically inferior brother together. Minseok should’ve been here. Drowning in black bile, he declared, “Let ‘em choke on it,” before promptly vomiting.

Laete Farland naively believed June would find his father, an old stray seeking shelter and sustenance, wandering December Lanes. 84.56% of himself labeled the hope absurd. He slaved away under the guise of a society-employed Dog Catcher nevertheless. Know thy enemy and all that jazz: Han vaguely quoted. 

“Cerberus sure did a number on me, huh, Doc?” Said Shisa appealed to June for a segue. Good, bad, or otherwise news about Hun fell on Han’s deaf ear. “Tore these poor fingers to bits,” he said, ignoring Jongdae’s tale of death, disease, and discontent. 

Lay hacked up all three behind the medical stacks. June’s prognosis: he’d survive. He had a missing father to thank for that. Having a ball-kicking sister helped, too.

“Since when have ligaments been essential to a pianist?” June took his patient’s side, bandaging Han’s exposed bone. The ex-doctor was all white smiles, clean cuticles, sterilized to the smallest pore. Provided ample time to pass judgement, Jongdae attributed his orderly lifestyle to a disorder. “Your silence worries me—is it too late?”

Words directed towards the hulking man who strayed into the basement without a sound. Towering above Jongdae. Vanilla wafted off shallow breaths; habits are hard to break. Gaze alone capable of chaining Jongdae to a fiery lake, Yeol remained mute. 

“Speak,” Jongdae demanded punishment for his sins. 

So Gabriel obeyed: “Laete Farland drilled into the Haven’s central water main. I extinguished the smithies, but fumes from the smokestacks have contaminated the pipeline beyond repair. Offering your assistance wouldn’t save anyone. Thousands will die, Dr. Kim.” 

Order, morals, innovation: let ’em choke on it.