Seoul, Korea, an alleyway
3 April 1912
5:47 AM, KST
It is a dark, cool morning after a night of rain.
Lee Cheol is going to die.
“Get the big one first.”
Correction: Lee Cheol is going to watch Il-sung get his throat slashed by a couple of thugs, then he’s going to get his own ass handed to him on a silver platter.
This is not one of Cheol’s better days.
“This is not one of my better days,” he remarks, back up against the wall and his hands in the air. What a way to go. This side-street smells of cat piss and motor oil and soggy garbage from the bar next door. His backup, a lanky tall guy with the ferociousness of a Shiba puppy currently trembling at his side, isn’t doing anything to help the situation.
The situation is this: there’s two of them against five, the latter all bulky and covered with tattoos. Foreigners, is the first word that comes to Cheol’s mind, something that is confirmed when their leader steps forward, a grin plastered across his face and brass glinting on his knuckles.
“Well, well, well,” he sneers, the words sounding strange on his tongue, the language jilted and broken in some places. “Looks like these little pretty boys ain’t got nowhere to go.”
Il-sung whimpers, slides a little further down the wall. Cheol closes his eyes and prays to a God he’s not even sure is listening half the time. Is this it? Is he really going to die in a rain-soaked alleyway at five in the morning, here and now, in the prime of his life, still a virgin, at that?
Then, a voice. A shadow behind the thug, perhaps a Peacekeeper or an honorable passerby to fight on their side and save their lives. A godsend, a hero.
“That’s a double negative, and you’re an idiot.”
Cheol swears under his breath.
No.
It’s just Ji-Tae.
They’re doomed.
The lead thug glances back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the figure standing at the mouth of the alleyway. A good head shorter than the gang before him, smirking, it’s like watching a sheep being thrown to the wolves. Especially when said sheep is cocky as hell, dumb as hell, and holding a tiny pocketknife in his left hand.
“Cheol,” Il-Sung whispers, which is relatively new for him. “Isn’t Tae right handed?”
“We’re doomed,” Cheol replies, which is all he really needs to know.
“What are you two mumbling about?” The leader snaps, not twisting his head to look back at them, keeping his gaze on the new threat. Still, they know well enough not to try anything. This gang is rough, this gang is tough, this gang is experienced in the noble art of street fighting in dark alleyways in the early morning.
Sure, Il-Sung looks like he could kill a man, and Cheol does know a bit of hapkido, and Ji-Tae does technically have a knife. Then again, Il-Sung experiences extreme difficulty in even killing spiders, and Cheol hasn’t used hapkido in years and Ji-Tae -
Oh great, just great, Ji-Tae just dropped the knife.
It falls to the soaked ground with a clatter and a muffled curse as Ji-Tae dives for it, scrambling to pick it back up. One of the thugs beats him to it, holding the tiny blade between two fingers and using his other hand to grab Ji-Tae by the collar of his worn, ragged jacket.
“What d’ya say about boss?” He growls, lifting the smaller man up so that his feet barely brush against the ground. “I don’t quite hear. Wanna repeat it?”
Ji-Tae’s eyes are wide, and he glances over the thug’s shoulder at Cheol and Il-Sung, both staring with horror. Il-Sung is shaking his head frantically, his face incredibly pale in the dim early morning light. Keep your mouth shut, don’t poke the bear.
“I called your boss an idiot.”
Next thing they know, Ji-Tae is flying through the air in their direction, and Cheol and Il-Sung grimace as he hits the wall next to them. When he staggers to his feet, wincing slightly, it’s as though the reality of the situation has finally hit home.
“Oh,” he mumbles. “Damn.”
“You’re a dumbass,” Cheol murmurs back. “And when we die, I’m telling God it was all your fault.”
“But you’re the one who hit on the big guy’s boyfriend an hour ago,” Il-Sung reminds him.
“Shut up, Il-Sung.”
“Enough!” The gang leader shouts, fed up with this idle chatter when there are things to do and people to shank. He holds out his hand and the thug who had manhandled Ji-Tae steps forward to give him the dropped pocketknife. How poetic, they’re going to be murdered with their own weapon. Lovely.
He points the blade at the three of them, a lurid grin lighting up his face. “All right, who’s first?”
“You are.”
Another voice, softer and lower in pitch. The leader grinds his teeth and swears under his breath, whirling around to face the newcomer. “For the love of God, is half the city gonna barge in now, who the hell are yo –”
He pauses. Chokes on air, frozen in place, eyes suddenly wide in surprise
Kim Kyung-joon matches his gaze, unflinching, arms crossed over his chest and striking a small figure against the rising sun. He gives off such an overwhelming presence, despite his size, seemingly so much bigger. There’s a leather satchel slung across his chest, a tattered scarf wrapped around his neck, and a hard look in his eyes.
Silence.
“Boss asked you a question, punk!” A man nearest to the mouth of the alleyway barks, advancing on Kyung-joon with his fists clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Instead of answering, Kyung-joon merely pushes up the sleeve of his jacket to reveal an intricate copper instrument wrapped around his wrist. He presses a button on top the device just as the man reaches for him, and a pulse of energy rushes out, catching the man in the arm and sizzling. The thug yelps and drops to the ground, cradling his arm and rolling back and forth in pain.
“Agh! Son of a – I’m gonna –”
“You really need to wash out your mouth,” Kyung-joon states drily, rolling down his sleeve again as the man continues to cry out, his threats dissolving into mumbled curses in his native language. “And stop whining, you’re not going to die.”
There’s a noticeable shift in the air now, along with the smell of burning flesh. The leader of the gang has taken a stumbled step back, eyes darting from Kyung-joon to his companions. It’s now four against four, although Ji-Tae, Il-Sung, and Cheol are still technically trapped against the wall.
Kyung-joon’s eyes are like steel when he asks, “Who’s next?”
The leader swallows tightly. Drops the knife, raises his hands, and inches towards the wall.
“We was just joking, ya know,” he laughs nervously, sidling around Kyung-joon to make his escape and inclining with his head for the rest of his gang to follow him. “We weren’t actually gonna do nothing, just a little bit of fun, scare the kid a little.”
“Double negative,” Ji-Tae mutters again, then chokes as Cheol elbows him in the ribs.
Kyung-joon doesn’t pay them any attention, just keep his eyes on the gang as they slowly slink away. They do the same, glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes until they’re clear, then running full-speed out of sight.
Cheol slumps against the wall, the exhaustion of the last couple of hours finally catching up to him. What had been just their last night out in town for him and his friends at their usual haunt had ended up with him hitting on a nice-looking zepplin captain, who turned out to be more into Japanese knuckleheads rather than Seoul’s very own soul of the party, which led to him getting actually physically hit and thrown in an alleyway at the crack of dawn.
Not that you could blame him, though, I mean, c’mon, that captain looked way more like a chick from behind.
Anyway. Kyung-joon idly unwraps the wrist device and tosses it in Ji-Tae’s direction, who catches it with a frown.
“Why did you bring my aetheric ray transmitter to a knife fight?”
“Why did you bring a knife to a fight when you had an aetheric ray transmitter?” Kyung-joon retorts, stopping down to pick the said item off the ground, twirling it between his fingers.
(The one man is still huddled on the ground, groaning and trembling slightly, but no one really pays him attention.)
Before Ji-Tae can reply, Il-Sung is running out of the alleyway and into the street to yell triumphantly at the gang’s retreating backs, “Yeah, that’s right! Don’t you even think about messing with us!”
“Sung-ah.”
“Yeah?” He turns back to look at Kyung-joon, beaming.
“Shut up.”
Next week: A musician in Beijing is given an offer they can't refuse.
