Welcome back, Exo! In honor of your official Overdose MV release (in addition, pls continue to pray for the Sewol tragedy) I have updated this fic. Readers - if you're interested in making posters/video trailers for this fic, message me, and I'd love to include them in later updates! Thus, thanks for the poster, friend! Happy reading, and I'm excited to travel on this journey with you guys.

I am the first citizen of the Argent region to retake the national test and pass. It began three years ago. I took the test with a distracted mind, and I failed.

75, the screen pulsed. 75.

I waited another year, I studied for another year, and I succeeded with a perfect score of 100, marking myself down in history as the only Argent to retake the test and achieve a grade that, statutorily, should have made me eligible for the highest positions in the Government.

But people haven't forgotten my failure. Although I'm eligible, I'm not accepted. Government departments refuse to accept my second score and reason that their employee quota has been filled for the year, which is impossible because there were less test takers two years ago than when I first took the test.

If it weren't for my mother, I would probably die as a recluse in our home with shelves of untouched novels for company; but being a previous council member, she pulled the right strings and gifted me the lowest and recently invented position in the Government - a lackey.

Lackeys weren't common back when the Government hired Exons for unworthy duties, but ever since the Institute’s 2^nd Generation Exons began to deviate from programmed responses, the Government has become paranoid. There are rumors that the Institute is actively preparing for the release of the 3^rd Generation Exons, which they boast in their advertisements as "stronger, faster, smarter - what an Exon should be" along with a photograph of an Exon that has been stripped of its standard human traits and clothed with the skin of metal. Gone are the Exons that look like humans. We are left with a product of the Institute holding its breath as it waits for the Government to lose suspicion.

Judging from the increased advertising in the Market, the Institute is finally ready to exhale.

"Could you refill this?"

"Right," I mumble, "yes."

I run out of the room with a pitcher in my hands. I rush to the nearest water fountain and press the pitcher against the black slab, watching as the stream of water splashes against the half-empty container. I begin to return to the room, but the door is locked. I knock. No one answers.

I don't think I can do this for the rest of my life.

"I'll leave the water here." I place it on the floor and walk away to fill the whims of another government worker. But when a person from within the room opens the door, the pitcher is tipped over, pouring water all over the once pristine floor.

He swears, and since I haven't anything with which to clean, I use my jacket to wipe the mess.

"You don't have to do that." I thought he was being polite, but then he adds, "It looks pathetic."

I guess that's what I've been reduced to in the eyes of the world. Pathetic.

-----

"Am I due for a promotion?" I ask my mom as she eats lunch across from me. "I've been wiping people's hands for two years. On average, government workers get a raise every year." I sip my drink. "That was on the test."

"I don't know," she sighs. She's deteriorated ever since she was demoted. Gone is the confident and sleek woman I know, replaced by a thin weakling without grace or impact. "I'm trying, Emer, I really am. Frankly, no Argent likes you. In failing, you proved yourself different. The Brasses have a holiday for you, you know. They celebrate it."

"I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know."

"I was … busy."

Her grip on the fork tightens. "I know."

I stand. "I'm going back. I'll see you whenever, I guess." I grab another jacket and head for the trains. I watch the water dance as the magnificent monorail flies above it like a bird that dips from high to low, teasing us with its dexterity. When I reach the Government, I walk to the basement and enter the key code for the lackey department.

I'm the only employee in the lackey department. I'm certain this room was a storage room before it was remodeled. No room would look so isolated had it been actively used before my sole membership.

On the far wall is a wired map of the first floor of the Government, which is the only section I serve. Each location is marked with a bulb that sparks gray whenever someone needs assistance. Presently, there are no lights, but I know that as soon as I turn my back, someone will call for me.

Like I predicted, a light flashes. It's the meeting room I was in the other day.

On my way to the scene of my embarrassing pitcher accident, I jog past Government officials and workers. They don't look me in the eyes even if I stare at them. These days, I'm as faceless as the 3rd generation Exons. Despite my flawless second score, I haven’t been branded as a significant Argent, having been refused the tradition of the blue spherical tattoo on my wrist. I can't casually talk to people anymore, either. They are rarely receptive, and they regulate their distance. It's as if my failure will contaminate them, a judgment based off of mere prejudice, and I am one advocate of the fact that what we think of people never matches who they actually are.

I know. I know, because I have the memories of a flower, a Rubik's Cube, and distasteful hot chocolate to prove it.

When I arrive at the meeting room, I take a breath to compose my lungs and my aplomb. If I do well, perhaps I can be promoted. Maybe they'll consider a lackey for the second floor, I joke to myself.

I press the door, and it opens with an exhausted sigh. The government employees seem to be discussing a critical business plan, something I judge from the virtual screen on the center of the table. They pause in their debate when they see me. Nobody responds. In fact, there is confusion on their faces, as if they didn't set off the light in the department.

"What are you doing here?" The man at the head of the table asks. "We are having an important meeting."

"I saw the light flash and -"

"We didn't call for you. Perhaps there's a problem with the system." The man beside him snickers. "You can go back."

"All right," I say, my confidence drained and my spine limp. When I arrive at the lackey department, the man's speculation was correct: the light hasn't stopped blinking, which it should have done after the floors sensed my arrival. I press the light, kick the wall, anything, but it doesn't stop.

It doesn't make sense that it would be broken. I haven't fiddled with the invention since I was hired. When I sit down to mull it over, the light winks luminously, and then fades away.

What was that?

The light is supposed to turn on when a person asking for my services clicks an option on their customized wristwatch. Everyone in the Government has been updated with the new system – lackey services included (and the few that use the service do so to antagonize me). Each wristwatch grants its owner access to the Government’s intranet. The Government passed a law last year that every government worker, with the exception of the council members, must possess it. One of its popular features is its ability to store data. It is locked by a security pass code known only to the user. The watch can contact any person as long as that person holds a wristwatch with a shared ID. This means that the wristwatch is embedded with a tracker code, which allows it to find and notify the people the wristwatch owner needs. It’s a simple task to send a signal to the lackey room, which sets off a light and alerts me to carry out a chore.

If one of the men in the room had sent the signal to toy with me, then that would explain why the light switched on. What I don’t understand is why it didn’t turn off. It should have turned off the moment I stepped into that room. If the floor’s sensors don’t work, then either there was a break in the circuit, or something more serious happened.

I’ve turned into a cynic. At my defense, I don’t think I’m close to who I used to be before he happened. Although I say I’m okay (factually, I am. Life moves on. I’ve learned to move with it), I wouldn’t stand still if he were to find me again.

But I’m not looking for him. I’ve accepted it. He’s gone.

Another bulb flashes. It’s coming from Hara’s office.

I’m reluctant to accept the bid, but I’m excited to see her.

When I reach the entrance to the security department, two Government officials, with their modern epaulettes and stiff chins, join together in blocking me.

“I was requested to come here,” I say feebly. I’ve become diffident, too.

“Hello friends. That’s my friend, too,” Hara pushes through them despite her size and pulls me into the room. Before I even get a chance to breathe in the papery dust and metal air, she shoves me into her office and turns off the lights.

“Hara, what are you doing?”

“It’s nighttime.”

“Why did you call for me –“

“Look,” she says. The room brightens. My eyes skim the lace decoration on the walls before landing on the ‘surprise’ on her desk. There are two picture frames on her desk, which might as well make this entire room antediluvian, because nobody uses picture frames anymore. Honestly, I don’t even know where she found them.

Shoving that thought aside, I focus on the photographs within the frames (which, again, who uses physical photographs nowadays?) and can barely withhold myself from stumbling when I see what it is.

The first picture is of Sehun. The second picture is of him.

“I asked for these to be made. They’re not real photographs; it was all made from computer graphics. Doesn’t it look real?”

She says it with a voice that seems to also ask, “Would you like sugar with that?” reminding me why I used to hate her.

“Hara.”

“I thought you would want one, so I asked for two.” She takes Sehun’s photograph and hugs it. Sometimes I forget she wasn’t the only one who lost a loved one when the Institute decided to retract their creations.

“That was a long time ago,” I say.

“Three years ago.”

“You still miss him?”

With those fearless eyes of hers, she asks, “You don’t?”

The word no is ready to leave my tongue, but I swallow it.

“Keep this here.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I can’t bring this to the lackey department. I’ll take it home later.”

“Okay.” I know I’ve insulted her with my unenthusiastic response, but my throat hurts, and so does my heart. I’ll thank her later, when I’m ready, and when I’m actually thankful.

“What did you call me for, anyway?”

“Oh … that was all.”

I nod. “I’ll head back, then.”

“Wait, Emer,” she says, clasping my hand. I want to shake it off, but it’s her robotic side, and I’m scared she’d tighten her grip with its inhuman strength if I attempted to weasel away. “There’s a chance. There’s always a chance.”

“I know you have connections in the Institute, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Emer … “

“I have to work!” I say. I also need to leave. I clumsily hug half of Hara – the part I know can’t hurt me. “I’ll be in the room if you need me. I’ll be running around. It can be busy in the afternoon. See you, Hara.”

And then I walk, out of that office, past the officials, away from that floor and down to the basement where I belong, because here? Here, I can be alone, and I can think, and I don’t have to question myself because I know all the answers regarding what I felt the moment I returned from the Brass region with a 75 burning through my heart, and what I felt when I saw that fake picture with that stupid little smile and that stupid glow of red in his eye.

I am paralyzed, and moved by puppet strings.

Yet another light curses me, and I swear, those lights are predicting my misfortune, and I’m meant to stay in this oppressed dungeon forever.

When I check the location, I see it’s a place to which I’ve never been called. Just then, a government official barges into the room. It’s the first time I’ve seen one look so disheveled.

“The Institute is here,” he pants. His next words make my head tighten. “The council wants you to meet them.”