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[voidcodex]

Amidst calamity, they coexist as two moieties of a whole.

Doomed protagonists of a grand pas de deux for despots. Carved out of gore and porcelain among 12 disciples, she breaks her own spine to inhabit a stranger’s carcass and perform her entrée as “Gayane”. The constituents of her metamorphosis are engulfed in shades of oblivion. From Gehenna, the harpies cleave his soul into fragments dispersed across the universe and name the one left “Jaeyeon”. In the second act, they perform as a bridge between two dogmas, the foundation of a new world. When they bind their hands together, he pretends not to notice the strings around his throat tied to her wrist, he pretends not to ponder if she is aware of the noose cradling the neck.

Regardless, their act’s coda lies somewhere between Gaya's fingertips.

Days had rot into weeks at the world’s end. Beyond his interactions with Gaya, solitude had occupied most of his time. His waking hours had been a concoction of training, examinations, and thorough analysis of possible contingencies for tomorrow’s mission. Confinement had led his mind to fester and dwell over theories left unsaid. Manufacturing of weapons for atomic manipulation had been a branch exclusive to Olympus for decades. The implications of a terrorist group possessing said technology range from an information breach accelerating a global arms race to a covert operation purporting political destabilization.Conspiring internal transgressions for a greater end are more common than one would suspect within transhumanist organizations and the government itself.

Afterall, corruption is the norm for power.

The steps approaching through the hall cease his ruminations and drag his gaze from the ceiling's lights to the source. For decades, Jaeyeon memorized people's gaits and what actions were bound to follow as a method of survival. The scientists´ and soldiers´ coordinated steps resemble a flock of sheep scurrying the base for slaughter, they stir no regard (the unlucky will be bound to this world for decades, the lucky will be gone in caskets). His father’s steps are weighed and prominent, years of ascending humanity to godhood were succeeded by obeisance (yet abhorrence still pools at his throat). Beyond all, Gaya's pace is rhythmic, the distinctive precision interpreted by the cygnets of Misericorde perfected into her own stride.  Her presence commands admiration, in the stillness of their enclosure, he regards it as amity (in his mind, they are not equal, but he finds peace in pseudo-normalcy). He wants to believe.

“All the time” His voice is low, a rasp mars each syllable, while his eyes carefully follow the latter’s every motion. When she tosses a beer his way, he catches the can midair and leans forward enough for his elbows to rest on his thighs. Despite their current circumstance, peace radiates from the blue light mantling the room, the evening's quietude only interrupted by their voices along with the snap of his beer can. I've dreamed about the mission again, reality's horror often creeps through the unconscious. Attentive, he scans Gaya's features as she retells the scene in vivid detail. By the time Gaya's gaze drifts to his, his eyes had been fixed on her for longer than he would admit. A faint hum follows her words in acknowledgement as he allows her words to seep through his consciousness.  

“They say dreams are biochemical reactions in your hippocampus. Projections of your subconscious.” Logic serves as a futile attempt at maintaining stability: “It'll be okay.” Although soothing, the candor of his voice edges with a faint poignancy.

“Vividly, don't sleep for a reason.” A smile quirks his lips over the inquiry before fading.  “Dreams are micro realms in your head, they're built off memories or thoughts. Dreaming is another form of traveling; doors frequently represent passages. If I closed my eyes tonight, I’d wake up somewhere else.” During the past few weeks, he has found himself questioning their familiarity, the warmth loosely resembling a form of affection contorting his words into honesty before he may stop them. When Gaya resembles the ghost of Kaeleena, he tears his gaze away. His lips parted to speak, only to take another sip of his beer before continuing with a mutter.

“The lines between dreams and our present reality are too fine.” Fingertips tap against his thigh, when they threaten to reach for her hand, he props his elbow on the backrest. Spare clemency for the innocent. “You’re pretty strong-willed, what could be on the other side of the door?”

The sky bleeds into hues of violet and indigo before her eyes, the remnants of the day retreating before the night's arrival. Every single day, following her training with the other soldiers on the mission, the swan goes on a run through the secluded safe area surrounding the base. Her breath comes uneven, her body thrumming with the dopamine of exertion. It is late when she approaches the entrance, her eye scanning the recognition sensor. A green light flickers in her irises before the door clicks open with a hiss, welcoming her into the sterile embrace of the base. "Welcome back, Agent Kang." Days have melted into a couple weeks here, in a base far from the capital, a secret base owned by Olympus. The mission: to neutralize a group of terrorists who have somehow acquired atomic manipulation technology. Such power is reserved only for the government and its affiliates, Olympus among them. The terrorist group has finally been located, and theories abound on how they procured the forbidden tech. However, they must approach with caution. Inside, the base hums with quiet and tranquility. Gaya makes her way to the living space, where she knew she would find him. Jaeyeon ( @voidcodex ). The only one of the team who seemed to be awake at this hour, perhaps ready to share the silent night with her as they usually do. “Let me guess. Trouble sleeping again?” she inquires, her voice a soft intrusion. She moves to the kitchen area, grabbing a snack and a beer, tossing one to him with an easy familiarity. Her steps lead her to join him as she sits down on the couch. She cracks open her drink, the sound sharp in the stillness. The silence is comfortable, a moment of peace before tomorrow. Their duo is the embodiment of the future that the House of Misericorde has been fervently pursuing. She, a human of flesh and blood, trained in the ancient arts; he, a vessel, a genetically engineered human housing a shard of dark energy. Under Kaeleena's leadership as Mother Supreme, the House has been increasingly leaning towards this merger of human and engineered beings. Jaeyeon is not just a tool but a partner, an equal in the pursuit of a higher cause. Kaeleena's vision has elevated the House's mission, aligning their ancient tenets with the relentless march of technological progress.

"I've dreamed about the mission again," she begins softly, her voice a whisper in the quiet of their shared space. "In this dream, I see a door, one you and I push wide open. Beyond it lies a realm of unknown where the echoes of our purpose resonate and then... disappear. I cannot grasp what awaits for us there, I cannot recall what we see, but as our eyes meet the truth, I feel something heavy in my gut, nauseating even—we know there is no turning back. It feels like the downfall of everything we've ever fought and stood for…" She pauses, her gaze searching his. "And then I wake up." She marks another pause. "It can't be about tomorrow's mission I believe, we've never been more ready than we are now. Mm. And that would be cheesy of me to say I got hidden apprehensions so, I don't." The pinch of a smile at the corner of her lips. She takes a sip. Gaya has never looked at Jaeyeon as if he were any different from her. According to the higher-ups and scientists, the purpose of a human and a genetically engineered one working together is for the human to make life-or-death decisions, fearing the vessel would fail to inject the right amount of empathy when final decisions come. Gaya has always doubted this hypothesis, even though she can see the difference in how she and Jaeyeon view a situation. Gaya suspects people like her sister always want a human on the field for darker reasons. The swan can't help but wonder, though, what goes through his mind in comparison to what goes through her own. "Do you dream?"

[voidcodex]

━ ▮ 𝙰𝚃𝙻𝙰𝚂 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙴𝙳𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽. @certifiably-i

In the beginning, the Cosmos burgeoned off Chaos’s carcass.

The first embers of light metastasized into constellations, corroding his lungs as an augury of life; slivers of flesh necrose into nebulae; vessels ruptured into countless new worlds; different refractions of time cohering into infinity. Unlike its denouement, the violence preceding its existence permeated every inch of oblivion. By the seventh day, the universe had come to be.

Everything following Genesis is a prologue to the Apocalypse.

COORDINATES.

R1  -2586.45, 0.0487, 1.00

The revelation of a decaying Earth dawned on Jaeyeon once Olympus' center shifted from atomic manipulation to the exploration of realms beyond.  After decades of accelerating towards the world's end, they concluded that delving through the confines of time and space in search of a new host had become a matter of time. The organization had expanded its network with REAL, an institution specializing in augmented reality and transhumanism, to construct an interdimensional reconnaissance project searching for nexuses interspersed across the universe. 

Jaeyeon´s voyages beyond reality can be dissected in thirds. 

Vivid opioid induced visions forced his soul to detach itself from his body. Half of him aloft, half of him lying unresponsive on a lab table before the world fades to specs of light vibrating similarly to film negatives in a darkroom. Once he reaches out to one of these, a shock of electricity drags him back to reality.

Realms interconnected in a monstrous necropolis with no seeming end or beginning, referred to as Babel. The further he descends through its passage, the more he feels different realities converging,  the more he feels he is not alone. 

A force beckoning him to the edge of the Abyss, navigating through the vastness of oblivion, a horrifying realization seeps through his own consciousness; somewhere beyond the veil, something is stirring. When they tear him open the next morning, they find his bloodstream corroded by a dense,, dark substance.

None were reported, all stored in a spheric artifact serving as a map once his consciousness started deteriorating.

COORDINATES.

R1  -2586.45, 0.0487, 1.00

ATLAS Expedition manifests as the fourth. Despite the qualms from Project AION´s scientists due to a lack of stability in wormhole creation, REAL had assured it would cause a strong gravitational pull forcing him to orbit their own craft regardless of his position.  The initial phase of the expedition had consisted in temporarily tethering himself to an unknown being at REAL´s, a presence vast enough to remain omniscient throughout his enclosure. The second phase consisted in parting the constraints of reality and transcending his corporeal form to navigate through the universe, the weight of his tether only enough to prevent him from being swallowed by the current When he returns to the spacecraft, he sends his coordinates to the station and logs his most relevant findings (those he deems safe, those which might prolong the expedition, an incomplete codex), the rest are left for his own records. 

From the cosmos’s eternity, the jeremiad tearing through Earth is nothing. The gods cannot reach him. Does he have to return?

COORDINATES.

R1 460, 0.0983, 1

A war torn Eden, beasts rotten by solipsism clawing through the same Earth that bore them. Eons, decimated in a matter of centuries. Before infinity, he hears the asterisms suffocating his lungs whisper “Come home”. When he attempts to tear through the Cartesian plane of existence, the third phase arrives as a violent vibration splitting through the spacecraft. In a matter of seconds, the quietude of outer space descends into a turmoil of blaring alarms and red emergency lights. The wormhole had grown into a vortex, crushing the ship with a loud metallic thud. The gravitational pull, had grown into a puncturing force splintering every bone in his body. At the border of consciousness, he latches onto one of the main deck´s valves and braces himself, all else ceases after impact.

In the darkness, a sound more unsettling than the quietude proceeding havoc draws him back to reality: a breath. His eyes pry open to watch a blur outlined by the red glimmer of power surging life back into the system solidify into a silhouette. Disoriented, he pulls himself further from the latter and stares until he properly registers the figure as a "person" until the jarring pressure is encompassed into one being. The space surrounding them is intact, ported into an unknown location.

Who are you? Irrelevant. "What are you?" Implicit. The words drag past his lips with caution as he a couple of metal particles begin to form between his fingers. His gaze drifts to the motherboard, a new set of coordinates is automated.

R2, 460, 98, 1.00, 2

"Crashed, as far as you know, what´d they sent you out for?"

[voidcodex]

All prey yearn for the end. They lie in a state of elation within the beast's maw expecting its canines to puncture their jugular. They press their cheeks on a cool wooden surface out of their own volition and peer at their shepherds wielding a cleave. They crave to be torn, eviscerated, consumed in hopes of being understood. A victim is a martyr, or so the persecutors claim.

Are you excited? It is not the enquiry that perturbs him, but the sincerity of it. The cloying tone of his voice threatening to disarm his consciousness. The boundaries between creators and subjects are construed by an indifference between both parties.. Any conversation Jaeyeon might have shared in the past could be synthesized into a log of clinical exchanges, devoid of the unsettling candor bleeding from Hyles with every enthusiastic statement punctuated by a vacant smile. When the first embers of consternation begin to well between his ribs, he mirrors your stance by locking his hands together in a makeshift barrier between them. After mulling over an appropriate response, he utters a faint “Jaeyeon”. It is on his file, somewhere underneath the project´s name, buried underneath clinical records and procedures. He is there, somewhere. His voice is low and measured while his eyes attempt to discern any imperfection on his white clothes, any silver strand out of place, any evidence of human fallibility. Perfection often precedes horror. When he is unable to find any glimmer in his eyes, his gaze drifts to confirm the cameras are still recording, before assessing the machinery looming over the opposite end of the room.

 “Nice to meet you, Hyles.” Uttered as the last breath before havoc. “Was informed of a revision, didn´t specify more than that.” Cordiality serves as another form of dehumanization. The imposed familiarity permeating their conversation exacerbates the blatant distinction between them, Hyles asks a question knowing Jaeyeon cannot refuse it, knowing within the confines of this room, he cannot refuse him. This act of tender cruelty serves as enough evidence for the latter´s status as Monarch. And for a fleeting moment, uncertainty corrodes his composure.

“It's routinary. Must be more exciting from your end, free to do as you wish.” Both know the answer, both know dishonesty and honesty are bound to end in severe repercussions, thus he opts for a vague answer. Each second confined together stirs his dread into coalescing with resignation, pessimism, reiterating there is no other option beyond compliance. He delves through scattered recollections of the past few revisions in search of anything which might have been of interest. Molecular combustion, the theory of subconscious as a new plane of existence, the vastness of the unknown. The inner workings of it encompassed within his flesh and bones. 

“Create or destroy, what´s your wish today?”

To say he had been waiting for this day in batted breath would be severely lowering the degree of the feverish desire. It wasn't often the world brought forth another savior, another sacrifice, hope cruelly clawed out by the hands of humanity itself, carved into another of the same aspect. AION, second one of its iteration – an apparently stable subject, so far, obedient and successful on his endeavors, so far. He won't count the side effects, not right now. Oh, how he's longed to meet someone quite like this! Self-preservation always moved humans, both to fleeting salvation as to their downfall... And Hyles was ecstatic to see the lengths at which they'd go for it.

A man contains those hopes and dreams, overcoming procedure after grueling procedure, all for the sake of others – even people he might never get to meet. Lovely, wasn't it? What Hyles himself lacked, this vessel had as basis. Out of obligation, maybe, tailor-made to follow protocol, yet... still so very intriguing. As expected, Hyles wants to touch, he wants to see, to experience himself... So, the meeting that was to come so long after this day is moved to precisely this moment in time.

Patience thwarted by excitement.

The Monarch prepares the perfect, most sterile room available. It's a big one, so clean it's almost blinding, but dim enough to feel detached – inhumane. Perfect. It's both harmony and the opposite, bundled together among cameras, walls, utensils, machinery, and the metal chair were the object of interest was to be thoroughly observed. Robed in whites that helped make his shape and that usually constant smile, containing his excitement behind an expression of fake normalcy, Monarch enters the room calmly, the sound of his steps lowered by his bare skin as they tap on the floor before he sits and stares at his little subject. Brilliant, much more beautiful than he had expected, his fingers tingle in the desire to test him out. He intertwines pale fingers so as to keep himself from jumping right at the other.

"Oh, there's no need to worry about me. I'll be alright, I promise." His voice is gently unsettling, as usual, though his attempt was to deliver a small sense of normalcy, gentleness. Yes, maybe this outcome could be fruitful, the fact that the other did not know exactly who he was meeting as of this moment... Leaving his presence vague, his smile widens, internally struggling to succumb to his desires prematurely. He keeps it in, excitement thwarted by patience, this time around. A deep breath comes. "I'm told there's a lot to learn about you, but I'd like to start with the basics. I'm Hyles, mind telling me your name? Oh, and are you excited to be here? You can be honest, I won't tell."

[voidcodex]

oceanshades, frederick judd waugh (1861-1940)

The Monk by the Sea, Caspar David Friedrich, (1808-1810)

[voidcodex]

━ @hymnoire

They were born with carnage instilled in their bones, raised to carve their own carcass into cathedrals for pseudo-pastors to bury every man-made horror between the ridges, taught to serve as executioners with a noose tied around their throats. Jaeyeon, engulfed by Cronus, his mere existence dyed in the guts of a moribund Earth. The swans imprisoned in a gilded cage, waltzing with wings torn off their scapulars under Mother's gaze. Neither reminiscent of a yesterday without wounds, neither aware they are bound to the same altar. They listen to their executioner’s croon, close their eyes as the blade presses to their flesh and believe one day the scriptures would be written about them.

Ever since Olympus´s Biochemical Engineering Branch established an alliance with House of Misericorde, the place had grown into a second home after Seoul´s headquarters. When he may no longer breathe, his father sends his most prized creation to the outskirts of London, the city's grief embracing him in days of washed-out watercolor and sleepless evenings. In this sanctum, Kaeleena is his sole divinity. 

Jaeyeon prefers the marble corridors to the stifling halls of his research facility. A third of his time is spent reveling in the beauty of House of Misericorde, marveling at the amount of books amassed on its shelves and the acres of pastures stretching beyond them. Amidst every corner of the estate, he often finds himself seeking slivers of Gaya, any fragment which might aid either of them in filling the gaps of her consciousness. Any thread which might somehow close the proximity between them. Soon he realizes, in House of Misericorde the seams binding Gaya and Kaeleena are yet to be undone. In the oil canvases, in old photographs, the twins remain together. Another third is spent gazing at the swans from the stone carved balcony of Kaeleena´s office, reminiscing of a past which does not belong to him. Some evenings, he hallucinates a cygnet´s wail somewhere under the floorboards along with Kaeleena´s voice until her lullaby draws him to slumber. The last is left unsaid. Every hour past midnight is spent in conversations elaborating reports of previous missions, renditions of wormholes shared between both institutions and displays of genetic manipulation at a molecular level. And Kaeleena resembles the ghost of his father. All recollections of his past visits to Misericorde grow faint with the next. The dread accompanying these has dwindled into a grim comfort.In Seoul, he almost finds himself yearning to be cast away once more. 

A stranger´s slaughterhouse feels far less gruesome than home. 

His fingertips ghost along an intrinsic cartograph outlining the first prototype for a future subjects´ mind, despite its structure being construed by Kaeleena´s own genius, any contribution made from his part leaves a lingering sense of self-contempt, the first prodrome of rotting into his own version a Cronus. 

“Mine´s anything like this one?” Before his thoughts may swarm over the revolting irony of it, he latches on to the fact he is no different from the corpse designed between them. “Dr. Shin mentioned something about impressive progress in the last few months, possibility of performing invasive procedures in a near future”. The inked traces lead his gaze to a delicate set of fingers, the violence corroding these only evident through the precision of each motion, up the pristine white fabric of her sleeve, until his gaze settle on her features. A myriad of questions hang between his lips about the uncanny resemblance to her sister, about the cannibalization of a swan torturing her own kind as an act of devotion, about the hope she may hold even the slightest affection for them in her own manner. Her eyes betray the misconstrued image of purity. “Gods rarely get involved with their creations” Often cast them from heaven and watch them claw through Gomorrah as the faithful tear them to dregs. In an act of mercy, Kaeleena is the first to break her own cygnets enough before spreading their wings, to gather their remnants and promise to morph them into something better. “Is it different for a Mother?”

[voidcodex]

━@hauntsect

Ridden by pestilence, the gods decreed immolation as a passage to deliverance.Thus men tore children from their mothers’ safety and carved salvation across their spines. He ponders if all saviors clawed their small hands along their mothers’ skirts as the vultures congregated on their doorstep, if all gathered their last strands of hope and plead with the same rigor (I will be good, I will be quiet), if the premise of a better tomorrow was enough salve for the talons flaying the flesh off their carrion. If at some point amidst pandemonium fear withered to grief, rot into resignation. If all martyrs reached peace concluding, tragedy is cyclical. Sacrifice is the root and zenith of our condition as humans.

All dead to the world.

Jaeyeon stopped fighting a long time ago. By the eighth iteration of Moloch, he merely parts his lips for communion and offers himself as oblation. When they call him past midnight to reschedule a revision five weeks before its agreed date upon the request of someone named Monarch, he does not question any reasoning behind it. He merely empties his fridge and strips his bed bare. The events unfold within disjointed frames of a fading film. Cut. Constellations of streetlights peer through the windshield as the only source of light, he may not remember the highway but he memorizes the push and pull of his frame upon every sharp turn, he reminisces how the swaying motion would often croon him to slumber, until he fades to nothing. Cut. They pace across an empty corridor veiled in a pale light, the disconnection of his mind enough to salve his sanity and yet he still retches over the ghastly familiarity, over the muted clamor growing jarring beyond the gates. Cut. They robe him in white and perch him on a metal chair, a clinical clockwork murder of anatomy. 

When he drifts back to consciousness he finds himself in the middle of a room sterilized by a white coating aside from a camera on every corner and a tinted window connecting him to a control room. After two decades, anguish has grown routinary enough to breed a factual indifference towards the procedure. After a minute of white noise, he never hears the static voice stating the revision’s information through the intercom: the project ́s name, the date, the subject’s basic information, the revision number, and the scientist in charge.He lifts his head to gaze at the tinted window stretching across the wall. Instead of the six grey men usually standing in the room next to his, he only finds two operators. The first presage dawns upon him in the form of a lithe figure waltzing into the room. When asked about the incident years from then, Jaeyeon would confess he does not remember more than a gleam engulfing every inch of the chamber. The unsettling quietude reigning over both of them as the man takes a seat on the chair across from him. He would confess he doesn't remember his face beyond a few loose silver strands framing his features, a set of light colored eyes and a smile which doesn't quite reach them offering a false sense of safety. He would confess an uncanny sense of quietude preceding a suffocating consternation. 

“Protocol´s against staff and subjects being in the same room, you´ll get in trouble, go back.”

[voidcodex]

When seeking solace, his mind often wanders to Kai´s apartment, a thriving oasis amidst Seoul´s wasteland. A living space harnessing an accumulation of greenery, memories and a peace built over decades of grievance encompassed between four walls.

During their last meeting, they had spent a fair amount of time delving through Kai´s endless collection of literature, ranging from bound photocopied versions accumulated during his years as a student to limited leather-bound editions acquired as a professor, all stacked equally on piles across his living room. A couple of hours had stretched into half of the afternoon and half of the evening, an array of conversations and games to entertain Kai´s son, had resulted in Jaeyeon eventually staying for dinner.

The weeks transpiring between that evening and today were enclosed in a matter of hours.

A string of sparse recollections he finds himself grasping for with much trouble. He remembers leaving sometime after dinner, he could overhear Kai narrating a bedtime story for Sejun from the kitchen, a tale plagued with tragedy and questions of morality left for both to fathom. He remembers stalling on the doorway as he breathed in the last embers of the evening. He remembers noticing there are two conversations held simultaneously between them. One verbal, one of everything else left unsaid. When Kai leans against the doorframe and reprimands him with “don´t bring a gift again” he hears a small thank you hidden within it. When Jaeyeon responds he won´t while gathering his last belongings, Kai understands he will.

He remembers leaving the apartment and glancing over his shoulder one last time, his blurred reflection fading once the elevator doors glide open. moment proceeding that gold gilded evening is pitch black. Through oblivion, Jaeyeon found himself pacing aimlessly towards, the welling anxiety burning at the pit of his stomach along with the ache of his legs lost as something beckons him further and further until he stands before a veil. Cross over. Against his own volition, a hand reaches out to ghost along the thin fabric. Cross over. His fingertips ghost past the boundary. Cross over. And he feels someone, something, reach back.

When he snaps back to reality, he finds himself standing before his reflection, his fingertips pressed against the mirror´s cool surface as a muffled chatter floods his consciousness. He stares at his own mirage for a moment, he is drenched, disheveled, the same clothes from their last meeting hanging from his frame. He desperately attempts to find any incoherence in his semblance, any visible evidence questioning his own existence. In an attempt to maintain his composure, Jaeyeon rinses his face and exits the restroom.  It all feels as a vivid hallucination. The yellow walls with wooden pellets at the bottom, the children running past him, the string of servers waltzing in and out of the kitchen with every bell ring announcing a new order.

Disoriented, his gaze skirts across the crowd before it falls on a tuft of silver locks, and before he realizes it he finds himself wandering towards the booth, hopeful, afraid. Kai doesn´t gaze up in time to pick up on the disbelief tinting his semblance, he doesn´t notice the fact he holds his breath for a second too long. For a fleeting moment, he finds his gaze lingering for too long on the latter´s features instead of the rose, unconsciously connecting the image to the memories he had etched at the back of his mind. If his lips still part in the same manner when reciting poetry with a cigarette between them, if his scars still follow the same pattern over his inked knuckles, if stoicism still plagues his demeanor only for his eyes to betray him at the last second. If Kai exists, if he does as well. When they do, he digs his nails against his own palm and when it hurts, his shoulders ease.

“Thanks” He knows. A gruff murmur almost lost amidst the restaurant´s white noise. In the distance, he can hear a sizzling platter, a table of six laughing and chanting different renditions of happy birthday to an older lady. To the world neither of them are more than two strangers sharing dinner. A quivering hand grasps a paper napkin from the dispenser, he wipes the water of his palms before coiling and uncoiling his digits to register any ache on them. Hesitant, he cups the rose in his palm studying every practiced crease forming its petals before gently setting it aside (he doesn´t want to ruin it, he doesn´t want to get his filth on it).

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever” A set of calloused fingers reach for one of the sheets of parchment paper left on the table and another rummages through his pocket to retrieve a cheap Bic pen. “Its loveliness increases-“ He scribbles something on it, folds it in eighths and skillfully contorts its ends into wings, a bodice, a tail. The seconds of silence between them serve as a salve for the last embers of apprehension gnawing at his thoughts. “It will never pass into nothing”. I missed you too. As a peace offering, he slides a small paper crane to your side of the table. “Only taking what I´m given, your secrets are yours to keep.”  

“For the trouble” For leaving without more than an off-handed, for dissipating into nothing without a word, For offering a permanence he may not promise. He peers at the box of reds in a silent request before glancing back up at you.

“What´ day´s today?”

fold the paper in half, crease well.

make a valley fold about 1cm from the edge.

crease well, fold.

fold in half along the vertical axis.

fold the bottom right corner to crease line. crease well. unfold.

it is here where kai stops, scarred, veined hands stilling on the thin parchment underneath his palms. the unlit filter of a cigarette hangs, limp and forgotten, from his plush mouth. a dark, serpentine gaze lifts from the task before him to settle upon the unopen door. around him, the din of the establishment's patrons drone on, numerous voices blending until they are nothing but a drawn-out swell, ebbing and flowing like the tide; an eternal sea of sound. the occasional tink of silverware, the oft-boomed laughter from somewhere farther back. the scent—cooked meat and spiced vegetables—so thick on the air, luxurious and sensual and beckoning...but all kai can focus on is the sensation of his skin.

hyper-sensitive, alerted.

something is shifting in the air. he recognizes this aura. this foreign, jarring, unfamiliar buzzing that settles across his flesh like goosebumps. as used to the sensation as he has grown, it still fits within his chest like an uneasy little thing, a trapped bird in a too-small cage.

breathe. continue. and so he does.

practiced fingers continue on the origami creation upon the small table in front of him, little hesitation between the skilled actions of working a sheet of paper into more than what it was mere moments ago. crease, fold. rotate 90 degrees. crease well, unfold. bend, crease the center into mountain fold. his gaze does not stray from his work as the door opens, and his guest finally enters.

kai's ears pick up the steady, smooth motions of someone making their way his direction. he continues his meticulous, steady work: fold A-B, to A-C, to A-D, to A-E.

it is a missed presence, truthfully, that scent of tar and ash, mint and cedarwood, permeating his senses even if unnoticeable to others. even over the siren-song of an amalgamation of well-cooked dishes, he finds the familiarity of the aroma grounding. but kai has always been a creature that buries his comforts under a blanket of repression, and the invariable routine of folding paper is a better channel for his baseline restlessness than anything. if nothing else, it keeps him from rippling apart, surging forward and embarrassing himself with tactile expressions.

you shifted here, he wants to accuse. you could have walked, what if you had been noticed? you're never noticed. kai doesn't say this, either. i missed you, is debated upon, and then discarded. you seem so tired, are you okay? almost makes it out, a repeated query from earlier, but like so many other things, he stifles these sentiments and keeps them buried underneath his tongue. the buzzing sensation ripples across his skin, wrong-unearthly-foreign skittering in his hindbrain in warning.

he quiets this warning.

his slow, methodical crafting only halts when his guest sits across from him at the quaint, little cafe table. it's impossible not to notice the way kai's entire body pauses as he soaks in the new presence, as he suppresses that ripple of what is almost-something-but-isn't, and then kai's gaze raises to settle upon his friend's face, and bask in the comfort radiating from reunited proximity.

the familiar swoop of jaeyeon's smooth apple-like cheeks, curved and soft and round. a strong jawline, chiseled from stone, hugged on either side by ears just a touch too big for his features. deeply bruised eyes, a purple mottling that sinks into pale, pallid features, cradling those almond-sweet eyes. they're red-rimmed, kai sees, so long from rest that jaeyeon's lids now carry the crimson proof of it; a visceral exhaustion from chronic lack of sleep that seems closer to insomnia at this point. kai feels his heart tug in commiseration and gentle, bone-deep concern. once more, his last sentiment: you seem so tired, are you okay? dances upon the tip of his tongue, begging to be let out (show him you care, kai, show him), but his lips do not part, and he does not speak the words.

dark hair is a curled, mussed mess, forever untamed by a comb. broad, strong shoulders, and an impressive, well-kept musculature are hidden underneath that ratty, loose, hooded sweatshirt, fabric so old that the logo upon its front no longer has a message to parse. if there is one thing kai can trust jaeyeon to do, it is to arrive to most meetings perfectly on time, though looking as if he has only just rolled out of bed; a sharp juxtaposition from kai's own, near impeccable state of attire and grooming.

the beast of gaia's palm itches to carefully fix an errant curl and tuck it tenderly behind his friend's ear, but this too, he suppresses, along with all his other sentiments.

jaeyeon's tongue darts out to touch thick, cherry-pink lips, and kai assesses that too, his gaze dropping to his friend's mouth. dehydration, the man-beast notes absently, based on the dryness of those lips even after jaeyeon's tongue has soothed them. he likely came from the void, if the sharp buzzing irritating kai's senses are correct.

if the fact he is so very tired, and so very dehydrated, is correct.

kai will have to ask the waitress when she busies back over to them for something replenishing for his friend. jaeyeon's favorite drink is scotch, kai knows, but considering the restaurant they are currently at is family-friendly, alcohol will not be on the menu. he will buy a coke, which he knows is the younger man's favorite soda, and try to encourage him to eat something substantial before he inevitably leaves once more.

"in the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk," his words are slow, measured, and thoughtful, his gravelly voice more a murmur, and his hands continue as well—slower now, without his eyes to serve as guide for them—moving on muscle memory alone to finish the final folds of the origami. with his elongated silence upon your entrance spent primarily noting your current state, he has made much progress on his origami creation. it is nearly finished.

"their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun."

i missed you, the quote says, in words he can't openly say. it has been too long, my friend, the quote says, a little more shy. reunited at last, despite it all? the quote offers, unsure.

it's amusing to kai, he realizes, in a distant, nearly sad way, that jaeyeon always seems to be damp or wet when the two of them unite. at least he isn't shivering. kai wants to blame it on the fact that it is south korea's monsoon season, heavy rains falling day after day for two months from the sky, but he knows better. the dampness on jaeyeon's skin and clothes is not from the rain. once more, desperately: you seem so tired, are you okay?

silence your inner yearning.

lay the paper on its side. fold up the bottom. repeat for the layer on the right.

"it's been awhile, yeon. you look like shit," he tacks on, expression as tranquil as a calm sea. a much less emotionally vulnerable statement, as it were. without looking down, kai slides a now-finished origami rose toward the other.

"a gift, for meeting with me so suddenly." there is another brief pause, and then his slow measure continues as he fishes a lighter out of his back pocket; smoking in restaurants, while frowned upon in the rest of the world, is still common in seoul, and so he finally lights up the cigarette that had remained untainted prior to your arrival. fear not, for they are in a rather uninhabited section of the restaurant, and there's hardly anyone to indulge the pest of smoke besides him.

"there is a secret written inside of it, so you have a choice: destroy the art to learn it, or keep it without knowing."

and kai knows—trusts, wholly, without a shred of doubt—that his friend will never unfold the artwork, even if it means learning what words he has written upon its folded edges.

yet another secret, offered willingly to another, that will go unearthed.

he finds comfort in this.

[voidcodex]

winter's wounds are gone now; a new season expands, freshly-blossoming emerald coppice stretching their limbs high (something fizzles in my throat). i have washed down years of interment (variegated, shattered stained glass), swallowing words and thoughts as one does air.

there is a frayed string, though—corded, aged—still attached (connecting, connect with me). yet another shimmering friend, awakening from a desolate winter.

have i asked you, lamiaceae, how is your heart?

How is your heart?

The first symptoms of affliction begin on a Saturday evening.

i. You are baptized on a Sunday morning, your head held under water as a leap of faith despite the cold gnawing at your joints. When your lungs burn for air you suffocate in quietude, when you collapse before the nearest cathedral you claim it to be reverence, when they splinter your vertebrae and carve out a sanctum you deem it an honor.

ii. The ache tears your throat until you are rendered voiceless, it perishes behind your sternum and propagates through every vessel as an omen of the end. You pray only to realize no one is listening. It dawns upon you; you have been rotting from the inside out since the beginning. Decades of carrying out burials under the pretense of a higher purpose have finally caught up to you.

iii. You awake the next morning, born anew. The grievances of last night fading under the first rays of sunlight. Every yesterday, every memoir, every carcass fondly inearthed now burgeoning between your ribs into a promise of tomorrow. There is nothing to fear.

We have survived another winter; may this spring be kind. May we heal together in her embrace.

[voidcodex]

━ ᴠᴏɪᴅᴄᴏᴅᴇx

An exploration of a man´s pilgrimage through the void.

index. bio. guidelines.