Chapter Text
Hwang Il-ho, 4 years old, future frontman of the games.
Dark eyes - which even small, were unnerving to anyone who were targeted by them - small, chubby hands covered in bandages, long, thin white hair, sometimes a little messy, sometimes frighteningly orderly and exemplary, sharp and shiny canines - often appearing in mischievous smiles - a closet of colorful clothes - ironically avoiding black - and lots of emotions that no one but his father dared to regulate.
This was the small menace that ran through the corridors and staircases of the island, constantly disturbing any poor worker who was unlucky enough to encounter him, childish laughter so out of place in that nefarious replica of a child playground.
The older workers - the ones who kept coming back, the ones who dedicated their lives to the games - knew how he ended up on that island, how his father's victory in the 2015 games was futile when he couldn't save his wife, leaving the hospital right to leading the games with untouched 45.6 billion won and a small package that would cry if he let it go.
Now he jumped and played with masked soldiers, an innocence out of place among so much death, unaware of the world outside the island, of the society from which he had been taken and of all the pain and filth that brought new people to play with every year. That's what his father said.
Even though he was so small, he had more energy than an entire team of circles, gliding from corner to corner, a square or other worker tasked with babysitting close behind, always left to bite the hyperactive child's dust.
Being responsible for the day could be a simple job, watching while the boy was entertained with whatever he thought of, or simply running after him all day in a kind of tag game that couldn't be won, or in the worst cases , a quick shot to the head, given either by another guard, or, in most cases, by the boy himself.
Being around the boy himself was like a small time bomb, without a timer. Quiet and aloof would be the best to hope for, but then his mood would change in the blink of an eye and everyone would be reminded of the lockless weapon he carried.
The worst perhaps was how this anger and frustration came silently, born and raised in a work environment where conversation was discouraged, the boy had become accustomed to communicating with gestures and expressions and not with words, he knew how to speak - even very well for a 4-year-old - but on the rare occasions when he did, it was quick and without warning, startling anyone nearby, before quickly reverting to laughing and waving as his means of communication.
There was no way of knowing when he would get angry, or how seriously something could affect him, sometimes he would just ignore the inconveniences and carry on with his day, sometimes he would get angry over the smallest things and someone would get shot 2 or 3 times for it, sometimes he would simply remain silent and motionless, unpredictable for the poor guy of the day.
At the moment, he was sitting on the floor, numeral pieces from some game around him, he formed little orders of numbers that were unrecognizable to the guards around him, bobbing his head to the beat of a song that only he heard, humming.
The person responsible for him that day was none other than the officer , perhaps the only person who wouldn't be shot immediately if the boy got angry - Of the other guards in this case, he would only save himself from the boy's if he managed to avoid them. - the man was alternating between watching the boy and giving orders over the communicator, the games were going to start in just a few days and the island was chaotic, while everyone was rushing to perfect everything in time.
Peaceful in his own world, the boy continued playing with the pieces, watching for a few more seconds, the officer turned to the guard triangles.
“I need to go to the control room for a moment, if anything happens, call me immediately.”
None of the guards were happy at the prospect of being alone with the incarnation of instability, but without much of a choice, they nodded, watching their boss's back disappear down the hallway.
For a while, everything was fine.
The boy continued playing with his pieces, the guards continued to watch him in silence, and everything was fine.
But then he stopped moving, freezing like a statue, and the guards noticed.
Exchanging glances, - with number 11, he noticed - they debated whether that was reason enough to call the boss, returning their attention to Il-ho, moving again, looking around and rummaging through the pieces that were around him.
He's looking for something, he realized, maybe a missing piece? It was plausible, he looked around, the pieces were small but they were solid and white, they should stand out easily on the colored floor, before he could continue his search, a low rumble caught his attention.
Il-ho had thrown most of the pieces he was using away, moving a pile further away frantically, from afar, his eyes were already teary.
He turned to Number 11, who was already calling the officer over the communicator, as the boy grew increasingly frustrated with his fruitless search, messing up more and more piles of parts.
With his breath held, he slowly took steps closer to the small time bomb, noticing the only pieces he hadn't moved and kept in order, a number 1 and another with the number 3 in black engraving.
Looking more closely he saw that there were different colors, white pieces with blue engravings 1 to 10, pieces with purple, red and green engravings, the one that was missing must have been the black engraving piece 2 so maybe he was organizing them?
Ending his searches with no results, the boy noticed the adult next to him, gesturing to the numbers with a choking sound coming from his throat.
He was clearly about to cry, he had to find that piece right now.
He looked around, trying to find any pieces that might have gone too far when knocked over, or perhaps one that got lost in the sand in the area.
The boy watched him with trembling lips and restless eyes following the mask's directions, trying to find something along with him.
Neither of them saw anything and the realization hit them like a truck, he turned his head much faster than he thought possible.
He never thought seeing a child start to cry would be terrifying, perhaps uncomfortable, but he could feel his spirit leaving his body as Il-ho began to sniffle and shake, sobbing as heavy tears began to spill from his eyes.
And then a loud, shrill cry came out of his throat, taking over the room as the boy with power over his life fell into tears in front of him.
The most lethal tears in the world, and somehow, he knew the blame would fall on him.
He looked in panic at Number 11, who was alternating between desperate calls to his boss and looking around to try and find the damn missing piece.
He knelt beside him, trying in vain to draw his attention to the other pieces, but the boy was devastated, continuing to cry loudly to the dismay of the adults in the room.
He had to distract him somehow, anything that would make him stop crying.
Looking around, there was nothing he could hold other than sand and pieces, he was going to have to make do. Picking up as many colorful pieces as he could, he took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind to try and think of something he could do with the damn pieces.
Taking a deep breath, he threw a piece over the boy, he was so small that he easily extended his arms, with one hand in front at chin level, one behind at the back of his head, he held the piece he threw and sent other 2 forward.
It was when he tossed 3 pieces backwards that the boy began to pay attention to his little juggling, the crying going to slowly sobbing and then sniffling as his eyes followed the pieces passing over his head.
He wasn't happy, but he was distracted enough that he managed to whisper to number 11 about the missing piece, walking silently in search of the missing piece.
4 pieces forward, he swallowed hard, the very dangerous prospect that if he missed the pieces could fall on the boy and that would certainly kill him, but that if he stopped and the boy started crying again, it would also be the death of him.
He took a deep breath, Il-ho was completely silent now, following his every move, but at the same time, piercing the mask to analyze his every reaction.
He took a deep breath and threw the first piece back.
The second came soon after, he didn't blink and tossed the third.
On the fourth his breathing hitched.
On the fifth he held back a sigh of relief.
Swallowing hard, stomach churning knowing that he was no professional juggler, that he wasn't going to be able to do this for much longer, or much more pieces.
Blinking down, he felt bile rise as his eyes, even protected by the mask, met Il-ho's small black holes.
There was only emptiness in the black irises, swallowing his soul and spitting it back into his body, no expression on his young face, completely still, motionless like an animal about to pounce on its prey.
Vaguely he felt an extra weight on the hand behind his back, he could feel the presence of number 11 at his side, at least how close he could get while still keeping his distance from the boy.
He internally prayed that the weight was what he expected it to be, and began tossing the pieces forward.
The first went unnoticed, it was in the second that the dark eyes left his face.
On the third he heard number 11's breathing hitch, on the fourth it was his own.
In the fifth, his back hand shook slightly, he still picked up the piece, changing his front hand to hold the last piece in a different way.
With his hand still shaking, he threw the sixth piece forward, it was a bad angle and for a second he thought that was it.
That he was going to die right then, in his early forties, with countless deaths on his mind, with the weight of a weapon memorized, with a mask and an unmarked coffin.
Because of a game piece.
The same piece that fell between his fingers, the number showing instead of blending in with the others in his hand.
The black number 2 .
He released the breath he had been holding, some of the tension in his body releasing before turning his gaze to the boy.
Eyes sharpening at the piece, quick hands flying to pick it up and then observing it in silence.
He remained silent, lowering his arms and trying to remain still beside the boy.
A brief flash of something he didn't recognize appeared in Il-ho's eyes, but then it was gone and he was setting the piece down.
132, he blinked, but no move was made to correct the order.
He watched until Il-ho started moving again, picking up pieces of other colors and repeating the number.
132.
It was familiar, he didn't know from where, but it was. Burning into his mind, as if punishing him for forgetting.
Il-ho was starting to relax now, repeating the numbers in silent satisfaction, he let himself sigh in relief, albeit as quietly as he could manage.
A glance at 11 showed that the guard was in the same position, holding his gun tightly as he silently backed away to take a deep breath.
He was about to follow when a small hand grabbed him by his sleeve.
Again, he turned his head more quickly than was healthy, eyes that were once empty now glowing and blinking slowly.
The hand continued to hold him, the other moving to point to a pile of pieces further away.
The silence stretched on for a few more seconds, surprisingly patient for the boy, until he reached out and pulled the pile closer.
With his attention back to the pile, the boy picked up two black pieces.
8 and 7.
Slightly apart so they wouldn't count as a single number, the black 132 and 87 shone at him, Il-ho gesturing as if showing a work of art.
He nodded slowly, there wasn't a single piece of information in his head of what 87 could mean, just the feeling of Déjà-vu that he couldn't understand when he looked at 132.
Happy with the nod, he went back to playing with pieces, taking the colorful variations and arranging them in the same way.
Feeling that he wouldn't get any response from the boy, he made a move to get up, the error was immediately pointed out.
Il-ho's neck cracked as he turned his head towards him, the innocent sparkle in his eyes gone, now replaced by confusion and annoyance.
He froze before the dark eyes again, white hair falling to the side as he lolled his head to the right.
He slowly changed his form, going from standing up to sitting with his legs crossed.
The boy blinked and returned his attention to the pieces, satisfied again.
Turning his head, he looked at number 11, his only response was a shrug, very helpful, thank you.
-
A few minutes later, the officer returned, disheveled and slightly out of breath, probably running back to the room when 11 called him.
He watched from his spot on the floor as 11 whispered to his boss what had happened, eventually the boy tugged at his sleeve again, pointing at more pieces he couldn't reach, oblivious to the small argument taking place a few feet away from him.
"Il-ho." The boy showed no reaction to the officer 's voice, the man must have been used to it because he continued in the same way, “I need to go to the coast to receive some cargo, outside.”
The boy stopped playing, looking sadly at his pieces before standing up and pointing at him.
The square mask turned to him, sizing him up, but Il-ho's patience seemed to have run out as he snorted at the officer and rolled his eyes, the man turned to him silently, watching from his spot on the floor, he swallowed, dry, intense and dangerous gazes meeting and his enormous luck had left him right in the middle of them.
"Fine. He can come along.” The officer grumbled, walking away towards the door, heavy steps for someone who had just lost to a child.
Il-ho smiled as he stood up, the green sweater he was wearing - although it was short enough to reach his waist - covering his little hands with the sleeve, but it was still obvious what he was doing.
He blinked, he could hear the officer brake halfway, and number 11, for what must have been the twentieth time in the last hour, held his breath.
Il-ho had his arms raised towards him, hands open, waiting.
He continued to stand there, unsure of what to do, his gaze flickering quickly between the officer and the boy.
“Up…” The boy babbled, his voice soft and low, this was the first time he had heard his voice, and like most things in Hwang Il-ho, it was as terrifying as it was cute.
He blinked, he blinked and screamed internally, on the outside he just took a deep breath, but inside he cursed this dangerously cute child.
Awkwardly - because he had never held a child in his life - He put his hands under the boy's armpits and lifted him up.
Now at chest height, at his fully extended arms, Il-ho was the one who blinked, a confused smile as he continued to stare at the adult.
Screaming even more internally, he pulled him closer, switching to hold him with one arm while resting him on the side of his abdomen. That seemed to be right, because the boy straightened up, wrapping his arms around his neck and yawning as he lay on his shoulder.
The officer watched silently, he looked back, the man snorted and continued down the hall.
With one more look at the boy, he followed behind, Il-ho remained silent in his arms.
-
Boots clicking on rocks, walking in synchronization as they carried loads from boats to the island.
Circles mostly, with boxes and boxes of supplies, ammunition and weaponry, marching across the huge strip of gravel and sand. Squares giving orders and organizing the loading, a few triangles, standing around the perimeter, with weapons cocked as a precaution.
The officer was talking to another square, detail after detail about the shipment that would be compressed into a report later, although, he noticed, the officer was looking at the boats, as if expecting something.
Il-ho had jumped out of his arms - Literally, to his momentary dismay when it happened - as soon as they reached the strip, walking along the cliff with little interest in the multiple guards moving about, he now looked at the inner lake that was separated from the ocean by the strip. , the strong wind ruffled his white hair, even as he froze in place - which was often, too often for his poor heart.
The officer hadn't given him any orders or even acknowledged his existence since they arrived, so he resigned himself to watching Il-ho on his little exploration.
That is until he hears a familiar voice coming from a boat.
"officer ."
"Recruiter."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the older man - The only thing he was really sure of, whether the man was 50 or 90 he couldn't say - with his impeccable suit, his neat hair, his well-finished briefcase and a soft smile on his lips, the sole recruiter of players for the games.
456 players, in one week, for the last 32 editions of the games, exemplary and impressive.
He watched and listened as the men exchanged greetings and moved away from the boat, in hushed voices.
"All going according to plan, I take it?"
"Perfectly, are the players on their way?"
"456 of them, as usual."
The conversation sounded completely light, too light for men in their position; he glanced briefly at Il-ho, the boy recognizing the recruiter for just a moment before returning to his observation and exploration.
With silent steps, he moved closer to where the two men had stopped, coincidentally close to Il-ho, the boy noticed his approach and raised his eyebrow at him.
He promptly responded with a "shh" sign and a finger in front of the mask, the boy chuckled silently and became distracted again.
"This is my thirty-second year working on games, you know?"
"Yes sir."
"I started them together with Il-nam, 456, every year, how many people does that really make..."
"14,592 sir."
"Ah yes, 14 thousand people." He whistled, watching the ocean in the distance, "That should be enough to retire, right?"
He turned his head, surreptitiously, the officer not so much.
"Retire?"
How is this even supposed to work? The payment for all these games would let him live comfortably for the rest of his life, would he be silenced? He knew so much about the games, about players and workers, about the creator and the current frontman, was he just going to go out and live with all these secrets?
He doubted it and to be sure, he turned to Il-ho and pointed at the recruiter, the boy watched with amused eyes as he made a gun with his fingers, pointed it at his own forehead and whistled like a gunshot.
The silent laughter was only stopped when the boy repeated the gesture back, Il-ho seemed anything but concerned with the fate of the man just a few meters away from him.
"I worked for a long time, I created a standard to follow, I practically made a legacy, there is no reason to continue at this point."
"And you expect us to just get a new recruiter out of nowhere?"
"There's more than a year between this game and the next, all of those little minds of the control room can figure something out."
Maybe, maybe they could do it, maybe it wasn't a square but a triangle, maybe it could be him.
He listened with an eagle's attention as the men talked more, a few technical details here and there about the job, some complaints from the officer , whatever it was, it all seemed too important to miss at this point.
He had been working the games since he was young, slowly rising from position to position, burning bodies, shooting them, watching in silence, perfection in every order given to him; he never planned to leave them, shooting his father was just the final confirmation of a loyalty created from blood and masks, loyalty to what he was made to be, why not go even higher?
He didn't covet positions like the officer or the frontman himself, they came with as much power as with bureaucracy, control and monitoring, it wasn't the type of job he wanted even if it was still in games.
Working as a triangle wasn't bad, it was simple, sometimes he got a prime seat for the games - if standing still in silence could be considered a "seat" - he could continue there without any problems, becoming a square wasn't a bad perspective either, the greater authority was attractive, but even so, nothing caught his attention as much as being a recruiter.
He had already heard the recruiter himself talking about his work, the study and memorization about players, the impeccability required, the ddakji, the patience and false transparency for potential players, the charm and enchanting speech enough to turn the card from an awkward opportunity to a saving offer, it was the perfect job.
Knowing and preparing the players before the games started, playing a game he was relatively good at, a box seat for each round, a simple workload that allowed him to enjoy the games in all their grandeur, even the pay, which he didn't really care about, was enough to make someone look twice.
He always thought he would have to move up to a square, and consolidate his position for years before waiting for the current recruiter to leave - or steal his job. - but if he decided to retire now, with little notice, this could be the perfect chance to skip the square and get to where he wanted right away.
“A recruiter shouldn't be difficult when you already have the next frontman.” The man replied again, turning his body to look around, “Wasn’t he here just now?”
Oh.
Oh no.
He turned sharply along with the officer, looking for the boy who had been laughing with him mere moments ago, now nowhere to be seen.
Not a white hair, not a small frame, not a giggle, nothing, the boy was nowhere in the Strip.
The officer is the one who moves the fastest, while he is still looking for the boy in the surroundings, he shouts into the boats, asking the frightened workers if the boy got into the boats, they look desperate, no sign of Il-ho yet.
The recruiter laughs, watching from the same spot as before, whether it's because desperation amuses him or because he knows there are no consequences for him is a mystery.
“He's still the same way then…” He shakes his head, watching the soldiers move, “He doesn't leave the island much, he must have gone exploring.”
He gestures lightly towards the entrance to the forest, right at the end of the strip, a few meters away from them. With more trained eyes, he sees small footprints leading from gravel to damp earth between the trees.
“Find him.” The officer is beside him, voice low and dangerous. Practically pushing him towards the forest.
-
Between footprints and kicked rock, it wasn't difficult to follow Il-ho's trail, he found himself climbing and climbing higher on the island, what he expected to be minutes turning into an hour, and then in two, three, it's four hours into the search that he loses the tracks.
The land is untouched, the environment devoid of any sign that anyone passed by, the last footprint being too sudden. He watches further, he has a hunch where the boy might have gone, but the denial is strong enough for him to circle the area for another 5 minutes before sighing.
Climbing up some branches of the tree closest to the last footprint, he sees broken branches, and something white, which he assumes to be a strand of hair. Yes, Il-ho definitely climbed the trees and continued through the branches instead of the ground.
He snorts as he realizes how much longer this search will be, the branch he assumes Il-ho climbed onto is too weak for his weight, and the path he took won't be any different, he'll have to track it from the ground, without being able to observe the signs up close.
How wonderful.
2 hours later, with the sun setting over the horizon, he finds him. He allows himself to watch him for a bit.
The strands of hair he found are explained when he sees his own hair loose, instead of the braid the boy previously had. White threads running down his back to his waist, unfortunately, touching the earth, as he's sitting on the edge of a cliff - He's already freaking out about this, yes - The dark green sweater making him stand out from the barren land, watching the ocean, he's not horribly paralyzed like he normally is, just fixed in silence.
The waves crashing on the rocks below is the only sound for a moment, he doesn't dare say anything, not even breathe, Il-ho doesn't notice or just doesn't acknowledge his presence. It's strange, this doesn't seem like the same kid who was crying over numbers a few hours ago, but then again, he didn't understand the importance of the number 132 even before.
"Il-ho?" He tries, there is no response from the boy, another tentative step closer, voice careful "The officer asked me to come find you."
No movement, he takes another step
And then Il-ho pulls out, from the side of his waist, the feared gun, unlocked and loaded, it's always with him.
He freezes in his tracks, watching with trepidation as the boy twirls the gun in his hands.
And then he mumbles something, he strains to hear, but can only make out something like 'name' at the end. Swallowing hard to ask.
"What did you say sir?"
"Your name. What is it." He turns the weapon towards him, rotating it in his fingers. It has gray details, he notices, lines that reflect the last rays of sunlight there still are, "This one is Nymeria, it comes from Game of thrones, I like the series."
He blinks, swallowing hard as he pushes down the little voice in his head that says a four-year-old shouldn't be watching Game of Thrones, and stops to think.
The boy waits patiently as he really tries - because he's been soldier number 04 for so long, because he never wanted to go back to that name - to remember his own name, who he was, what it meant before the games.
When it comes back to his mind, he feels like spitting it out, the boy seems to realize.
"Then you have to have a new name." It seems simple when he says it like that, easy, just a name. "What could it be…"
He stands up muttering, lost in his own world, he stops in front of him, still thinking and holds out his hand. He turns to leave, but is stopped by a tug on his hand.
He looks, Il-ho is not unhappy again, but he has a raised eyebrow, at his silence the boy points to his own face before pointing to his.
He was confused, not taking off his mask is the most basic of rules, a straight shot, an eternal stain even if he survives somehow.
But there is no hesitation on the boy's face, he swallows hard, wondering if 'little boss's orders' were reason enough to survive breaking the rules.
Without the mask, the wind hits his face hard, it's not as bad a feeling as he expected.
It takes an embarrassing amount of time for him to realize what Il-ho is doing, he almost hits his forehead before grabbing the boy's hand back.
They walk back side by side, Il-ho muttering something he either can't hear, or in a language he doesn't understand. At several points during the crossing they have to separate to pass through paths that are especially difficult to cross, but as soon as it is safe again, Il-ho returns to his side and gives his hand, he finds himself strangely comforted by the action, holding the boy's hand gently, even if he gets a little smack on his fingers every time he tries to reach for the mask on his waist.
The gentle warmth that settles in his chest quickly disappears when they arrive at the strip, where the officer, the recruiter and - because surely the situation wasn't bad enough already - the frontman himself were waiting for them.
He watches from afar as the officer takes out his own gun, ready to punish him for breaking the rules, but he doesn't even have time to react to that, because apparently, Il-ho is a much better shot than any soldier gossip could tell, because he knocks the gun out of the officer's hand without stopping walking, glaring at him silently before getting lost in thought again, twirling Nymeria in his fingers.
As they approach the men, the officer is fuming as he stares at them, the recruiter looks amused and the frontman is silent, eerily still, as a certain boy enjoys being from time to time.
He says nothing, all his attention is focused on keeping his face, now unprotected, expressionless.
"Number 4." The officer forces through gritted teeth, deciding that he must be the target since Il-ho easily ignores him, "Why are you without your mask?"
Feeling that his words are not enough to explain the situation, he moves to grab the mask from his waist in demonstration.
Which turns out to be right, as he exhausts Il-ho's patience and the boy rips the mask off his waist before he can touch it, and with a kick, throws it towards the ocean.
Watching the mask disappear into the waters, he takes a deep breath as silently as he can while hearing the recruiter laugh, the officer seems even more irritated by the situation, and the frontman remains standing still.
Now there is certainly no way to make the situation worse.
"Izula!" The men turn, but Il-ho focuses his bright eyes on him, "That's going to be your new name!"
He winks and smiles, it's not a bad name, although the accent in which Il-ho says it indicates that it's clearly foreign, if he doesn't die in that strip, he'll ask what it means later.
"Izula." He hears the mechanical voice of the frontman's mask, the man stares at his son for a few seconds before turning his attention to him.
He can only maintain his smile and respond.
"Yes sir."
Silence takes over the environment, everyone watches the boss to see his reaction, except Il-ho, Il-ho is much more interested in the stars, he thinks, that or he just likes to turn his head up, it wouldn't be a surprise at this point.
Then his boss snorts, he huffs and turns, gesturing to the boy as he walks away.
"Go take a shower, we have to go to the mainland today."
Watching his boss's back disappear, he very faintly registers Il-ho's childish complaints at his side.
"Bath then." He muttered irritably, before turning to him, his hands not raised as before, in a strange position where they seemed to be resting on the hem of his sweater, but stretched upwards, in the face of his confusion the boy explains.
"It may not seem like it, but he's still looking, if I lift my hands the sweater will rise up, and he'll fight me for showing too much skin." He spits out the explanation, looking genuinely annoyed at his father's reaction.
Remembering now, he actually saw the boy's stomach and waist when he raised his arms earlier, although this went unnoticed in his confusion, he doesn't blame his boss for this concern.
But as he takes the boy back into his arms, adjusting him the same way as before and walking behind his boss, he thinks that a semi-crop top is nothing to really worry about, not when it comes to the most protected and complicated boy in South Korea.