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          “But why do you think so?" he retorts frankly, blinking. Either there was something in the course of their interaction that he missed, or Ashe knows what he doesn't. Both options are not probable. He is aware of the fact that there are rumors around the school of him being an actual human-robot hybrid, and that some students believe such to be true (which he finds quite amusing)—but Ashe is one of the older Elswood residents, so Roman doubts he’s one of those.

          Smoke trailing out of his nostrils, Roman regards Ashe with a mix of muted curiosity and agreement. (DEFINITION: PUZZLE (n.) A question or problem that requires thought, skill, or cleverness to be answered or solved; a game, toy, or problem designed to test ingenuity or knowledge.) “Infinity exists only in theory. An isolated system can only sustain itself for so long. Elswood is —- bound to  c r u m b l e  someday. I don’t know when,” he admits. “but I believe it will.”

He nods as if they’re on the exact same page. Same wavelength, Roman. “But for you especially, right? There’s like a—uh—a HEIGHTENED RISK for fucking shit up.”  At the moment, Ashe is avoiding the word cyborg the way straight people avoid saying the word gay. 

“But aren’t puzzles supposed to be kinda fun? Or at least engaging? This puzzle is just…frustrating. Frustrating and infinite. It’s like doin a jigsaw puzzle where every time you find two pieces that fit together, they add another.” He’s fairly certain that made sense.

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          “Oh. Right.” Two rapid blinks of his eyes. Now that he was standing closer, Roman could (sort of) recognize the facial features of the other, identifying him as one of the soccer players he’d seen running around the field. He never forgot a face; he never forgot anything. 

          (SEARCHING MEMORY CENTER... Face match: {Yun, Kyuwon}. Most recent entry: his teammates calling out his name. Time stamp: 16:07, February 9th, 2016.)

          It was odd, having to conceal the fact that he knew someone better than they knew him. Kyuwon may not even know his name (none of their classes overlapped), yet Roman did. Inside the labyrinthine web of information that was his mind, there existed well-organized records of every single time in which he and Kyuwon crossed paths—in hallways, cafeteria, the common area, and the field. Roman could even tell him the total number of their encounters (what did one call an encounter that was not an encounter per se? a chance meeting? concurrence?) without batting an eyelash, but he didn’t. (Because that would be creepy. Obviously.)

          “Sorry. I couldn’t really tell who you were without glasses,” he explained, this time in Korean. His eyes were still narrowed, partly due to the blinding sunlight and the (fruitless) effort to see better. “ —- Yes, I know. I’ve seen you around the field.”

He really, REALLY needed to buy a new rag. Though the fitness center provided plenty on its own, there was a sliver of pride in the ownership of something that was tied to what he enjoyed. There was never a chance to spend money on equipment in Samsan-dong, not when there were only snippets of time dedicated to playing soccer ( oh no, he’s already shifting vocabulary, the HORROR ). Here, though, buying equipment that seemed trivial to others was one of the first things he did when he earned enough points. 

But the problem was how quickly it wore down and became — disgusting.

It was all he had, though, so he wiped the back of his neck to catch the final trace of sweat. The track was the last stretch of his workout for the day, and if he could be break a minute for four straight 400s, he’d be pretty set for the next game.

                   ( here is where it must be mentioned he hadn’t broken 1:10 yet,                             but there was nothing wrong with setting high goals )

Reaching the bleachers, there was a stutter in his step as he noticed another running. He didn’t care about sharing the track, it was more about gauging how much time did he have to cross the track to reach the inner field to drop off his belongings.

But the decision was made for him! Along with something about — track. With tryouts. Like he ran all the time ( which wasn’t TRUE, he ran with a soccer ball, which was REALLY DIFFERENT ). 

“Uh, wasn’t planning to tryout, so it’s good I missed them?” His rag felt so damp against his neck now, and he pulled it off as a frown shaped on his face. “I’m more of a soccer type.”

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          “Where in the States?” asked Roman almost automatically, the question springing from the vast pile of observed social interactions. It was appropriate to continue the conversation by asking where the other was from—besides, he did want to know. (The other boy’s answer was going to be filed under GROUP: ELSWOOD RESIDENTS, subgroup: students, {Chang, Hawke}.)

          "I was born in Changwon, but my family moved to Seoul when I was seven." Per the Korean government's suggestion. "I was also in America when Elswood took me away." He remembered: the terrible revelation of him unknowingly aiding their war in the Middle East, the shouted accusations, and the loss of consciousness. Emotional stress had caused his brain to shut down and restart—and voilà, he was here.

          “All gossip is information,” Roman pointed out half-jokingly. This was how he interacted with the world around him: perceiving and analyzing data, recognizing patterns, calculating probabilities. (Battle tactics. Missile trajectories. Maximum number of civilian casualties.) His mind operated mainly in two levels; one ran binary code while the other didn’t. While the latter spoke, laughed, and socialized, it was the former that was in charge of cataloguing every piece of external input—from the number of buttons on his American Literature professor’s shirt to the total intake of calories per day.

          The older boy’s gaze flickered from Hawke’s sightless eyes to the piece of paper with the neatly drawn graph. Romance, novels, poetry. Math was simple; feelings were complex. “So what you’re saying is —- romance and Prince Charmings are not a very engaging topic for them, but they are for YOU.” The creative energy of human consciousness was a marvelous thing, but Roman couldn't connect to it on a deeper level. No great moments of enlightenment came from reading books... or anything else, for that matter. What did utter devotion feel like? “I wonder what it’s like to be able to attach yourself to a certain thing.” 

          "That’s a low blow Roman,” he replied, his hand clutching his chest. Classical romance wasn’t his forte, and it pained him to know that he had to read modern adaptations to get the point across. Side-note, Romeo and Juliet is not romantic and tears ( goddamnit juliet ) were leaving his face after. But that was a story for another time. “It’s not my fault I can’t read paragraphs of exposition, or my finger gets pretty worn reading.”

          “Semantics, Roman. You know what I meant! And yes, advice. Give or take maybe bad advice, but advice from someone nonetheless.” His heart was in the right place, trying to give the other ( dubious ) advice when in fact, Hawke was found with his foot in his mouth constantly, and should not be giving advice on socialization. Perhaps, in retrospect, giving advice to a three-year resident wasn’t exactly the best idea.

            As he was about to smack himself on the head for that dratted comment, Roman thankfully moved the conversation somewhere else, though somewhere he wouldn’t have liked. “I used to live in Seoul before all of…. this, but before Seoul, I lived in the States, believe it or not. Learning Korean from dad was intense, quizzed me on it before moving.” Furrowing his brows, he tried to remember some semblance of living there, but came up a bit short—six years old seemed like a lifetime ago. “Used to be friends with a kid named Frankie or Francis, can’t remember. But they gave me a orange lollipop in the playground.”

            A cheeky smile painted itself across Hawke’s lips, was Roman trying to get gossip from him? Well, gossip about him from him, but that was not the point here. “I had no idea you were a gossip. Teasing, but as for what they say….” Pausing, he thought back to the several comments that he garnered whenever he dragged someone to read a book or watch a movie with him. “Well, they’re just probably fed up with how I talk about romance and boys and ivory towers and Prince Charmings. Et cetera.”

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If Roman had a theme song what would it be?

this

ok but seriously it’d be plug in baby by muse

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Would you break the law to save a loved one?

          (DEFINE: {LOVED-ONE}… Family, friends, or significant other.)

          “This question is too vague for me to give a proper response,” he interjected. “What are the chances of getting caught? What are the possibilities of successfully saving the aforementioned loved one? What kind of punishment would I receive if caught? What kind would they receive?

          “I would do what will be required of me to do if there is no third option available.” A pause. “But there always is.”

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You are a little soul carrying around a corpse.

Epictetus (via fyp-philosophy)

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          Although he isn’t sure why the question is skirted around in the first place, it’s uncommon to be directly asked about his ability like this. Regardless, he isn’t offended—far from it, in fact. Mac’s straightforward inquiry is refreshing, and he appreciates the brevity of it. Socializing consists of implied messages, metaphors, body language, saying one thing while meaning another—it is an intricate system that he has learned to decode. Her question, on the other hand, is clear, literal, and decisive in regards to her intention. She wants to know, so he will answer.

          “Cybernetic mind.” The term tastes alien upon his tongue; it reminds him how unhuman his brain is. (Not that he needs a reminder, of course.) "Essentially, I have a computer-like consciousness," Roman explains, but chooses not to elaborate further, assuming that the effort to explain more will be futile just like the numerous (count: three thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four attempts) conversations in the past. (The more INSTINCTIVE part of him guesses that she doesn’t really care to know more.) Having given an honest response, he now has the right to pose her the same query, he believes. “You?”

          The last ray of sunlight, along with the confusion from her use of the word we, causes Roman’s eyes to squint. Without a word, he returns to the track in light jogs.

There’s a small part of her that feels bad for not knowing his name when he knows hers, but it’s not all that unusual for her. She’s not the best with names because she usually doesn’t need to stick around long enough to know them. Maybe she should make more of an effort now that she’s going to be at Elswood for a while. Or at least a lot longer than she would spend anywhere else. 

Her brow ticked up at the wiki info he was spitting out and she wondered if he had the Elswood Academy pamphlet memorized. Some people were into that, knowing random “fun” facts. Or maybe he was just being a smartass.

“Well as long as you’re not an asshole with super speed abilities, I think I can handle a different kind of asshole. So what ability do you have?” It was one of those questions you’re not supposed to ask, like asking, “What are you in for?” when you’re thrown into jail and think you’re in a nineties movie. Or Orange is the New Black. But as an Ignis who didn’t care too much about etiquette surrounding abilities, Mac didn’t give it much thought. Anyway she was here to run, not to chit chat. “Anyway, are we going to run, or what?” Not that she meant “we” as in run together, but “we” as in run separately… at the same time… on the same track.

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All Day and All of the Night - The Kinks (Single, 1964)

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          “It’s just water. It’ll dry,” he replied, one shoulder moving in a nonchalant shrug. (Water evaporation rate is influenced by a) temperature of the water, b) humidity of the air, c) area of the air-water surface, and d) temperature of the air.) Calm and collected was his disposition; it was going to take a lot more than a pair of wet sneakers to piss him off.

          "But I'd like a towel if you happen to have one —- Virgil. Sir?” (It was added with a slight tilt of his head, sounding like a question. What was the APPROPRIATE term of address to employ here?) He doubted a towel would be of much use, though. His sneakers were already quite soaked. 

          He observed the following: hands clasped, pauses between words, overall hesitance in attitude. Virgil's body language could be interpreted as either nervous or apologetic—or both (further data was required in order to reach a more definite conclusion), when he had no apparent reason to be so. Roman wasn't physically intimidating. Tall, perhaps, but he was currently sitting down, and the janitor seemed to be only a few centimeters shorter than him (height: 182cm). Maybe it was the fear of punishment from higher staff members—however, he wasn’t planning on reporting this tiny act of transgression to anyone. There was no need to.

          “I do perceive external data. It’s just my verbal response that gets delayed,” he clarified solemnly, despite being told that no explanation was necessary. A faint, apologetic smile appeared at his lips. “Sorry if I startled you.”

the automaton

Leaning back, Virgil’s hand came to cover his mouth. Fingers moved over his lips with uncertainty as he watched the student reanimate from unresponsiveness—like some kind of sluggish, temperamental machine gliding gently down from stand-by mode to address the reality that beckoned it. He could imagine that the student was somewhere else mentally, escaping Elswood for however long he could envision himself elsewhere without some dickhead janitor interrupting to tell him he got his shoes wet because, he too, wasn’t paying attention.

There was a blink that served as a catalyst for more advanced functions, and Virgil was patient to wait until the sleepwalker had really woken up. In the minutes that passed, his gaze frequently fell back to the student’s shoes. Should he just get a towel and dab up the moisture? Would it be weird?

Virgil didn’t even notice that the student was looking down at the shoes with him until he spoke. Ah. He nearly flinched.

“You, uh, sure?” he asked. “I can get you a towel if you’d like one.”

“Er—sorry then. I wasn’t really sure if you could… hear me say that…” Virgil’s hands came together in front of him as he tried to keep himself from fidgeting. “It’s alright, you don’t have to explain. I was just a little worried when you didn’t say anything.”

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hyunwoo roman + tropes

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Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.

Walt Whitman (via wordsnquotes)

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          “My internal shit?” Blinking, he looks down at his own chest before returning his gaze to the other boy. What is Ashe referring to by ‘internal shit’? His internal organs? (Search keywords: {smoking-effects-on-organs}. Lung cancer, emphysema, and bronchitis are three of the most common diseases directly associated with smoking... A study in 2011 discovered that nearly half of all liver cancer cases were the result of smoking.) “It does. For every human body,” he says slowly, somewhat bemused. Roman is—pleasantly?—surprised to hear words of concern from Ashe, who isn't exactly known as an advocate for good health.

          "This is us, the brains, becoming self-aware." He smiles faintly around the cigarette in his mouth. Cartesian doubt is difficult to logically disprove, but he is HUMAN. Error or not, this world is his reality. "I wouldn't call them evil. Elswood is more like —- a  p u z z l e,  and a very complex one at that.”

Roman, Ashe is high on LIFE. ( And constantly buzzed from Elswood’s shit. ) This is his default setting. He watches him and his cigarette. Eyebrows furrow. “Doesn’t that like…” he trails off and gestures vaguely around his own chest area before continuing “—mess up your internal shit?” Yes, if you haven’t heard, Elliot Ashe genuinely does think that Roman is a cyborg. You can’t really judge him, can you? This is Elswood, after all. He wouldn’t be surprised if half the people in this school turned out to be part robot. Maybe the people who ran those damn interviews weren’t human. 

“Elswood is…harvesting our brains or some shit. Keeping us in the matrix while they figure out how to isolate our powers and use them for evil. Dude, you figured it out. You unlocked the secret to this place.”

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          “Yes, but not that Brontë. We read Wuthering Heights in class.”

         (THREAD: LITERATURE. Wuthering Heights is the only novel written by Emily Brontë. Although the book is now widely received as a classic of English literature, contemporary critics for the novel considered it controversial due to its stark depiction of mental and physical cruelty and the challenges to Victorian ideals including morality, gender inequality, and religious hypocrisy.)

         “I'm not sure how I feel about it. It was—different." For Roman, articulating his own ideas and opinions took extra effort. It was hard to come up with something that wasn't from the web of knowledge already inside his mind. Reading Wuthering Heights was the same; every class in which he had to present his thoughts was the same. He could recite lines of reviews by literary critics and analysis done by professors, yet found himself drawing a blank upon turning the last page of the book. "I didn't fall asleep, at least," he quipped.

         "I have interacted with other people before," he clarified, recalling the faces of countless (four hundred and seventy-eight) researchers, scientists, engineers, and doctors he'd encountered in two countries. "Just not with those in my age group. Interesting. Are you attempting to give me socializing advice?" he asked, but not in a condescending tone. Roman simply thought it amusing that Hawke sincerely wanted to help him, an Elswood resident of three years. "I’m assuming you're from Seoul—or somewhere in Gyeonggi-do. I don't hear an accent when you speak Korean."

         The boy in glasses let out an inaudible hum. He didn't mind listening to Hawke talk about guys; in fact, he didn't mind listening to anyone talk about anything. Every spoken word was a piece of information, a window to the speaker's psyche, and he gladly took in it all like a well-developed search engine. "Why? What do these sources say?"

          “You’re a very efficient teacher, I’m sure.” Flashing him a bright smile, he gave Roman a nudge, just to see if he would do the same. Not that he could see the smile, but it comforted him somewhat to know that the other did smile. Brooding was a popular trend here, try as he might to be rid of it. It seemed tedious to be so deadpan and gloomy all the time, where people found the energy to, he didn’t know. “As you said, pederasty’s a hard thing to put into practice.”

          So, an interest in READING? ( gonna show him my drafts )

          He had half a mind to show him around the library and pinpoint ( all the nicholas sparks books ) all his favorites, but he probably had to ease Roman into it, let him catch the sickness slowly. He’d probably come around and be a secret romantic, like some cliche he’d read in some YA novel he’d picked up or something. “Expand your horizons, then! Try borrowing some nice reads here, the library’s got a choice collection, as I’m sure you know. Let yourself feel it.” Pausing a moment, he thought back to the classical books he’d read—-they were a few, but they’d been good. “Read any Bronte? Jane Eyre’s nice, though I kind of…. fell asleep. I hear it’s good, though.”

          Pursing his lips, he tried to imagine being homeschooled, but choked back a snort, his dad would’ve been a horrible teacher, bless his heart. “Must be a shock for you, then! But it’s good you interact with other people, as weird as we are,” he commented,  shrugging his shoulders in response, “Besides, they’re nice and all, though some can be a bit prickly. The Chois are my particular favorites—-though I’m a bit biased since they’re my best friends from Korea.”

          “No Roman, I’m referring to the brand of yogurt.” He rolled his eyes, flashing a smile that seemed to say “just teasing”. Sarcasm wasn’t his strong suit, but he always could learn the skill like anything. It was refreshing and just the blend of teasing and fun that he’d loved. “And that’s cool, no one has to know right away. Just making small talk anyways. Besides, it gives me free rein to talk about BOYS like some lovesick teenager. Which I am not, no matter what sources might say.”