More than anyone, Han Sooyoung knew how a story came to be.
A story is a contract between a reader and an author.
While the author is responsible for coming up with plausible breaks of reality, the reader is responsible for willingness to suspense disbelief and follow along.
As long as the contract was observed, an attempt of storytelling would proceed smoothly.
It was, in short, the basis of what the Star Stream called 'probability'.
Kim Dokja's secluded ward had not seen a siege of this scale since his early days of comatose. After so many years, Han Sooyoung thought she should have forgotten how those round stupid eyes looked like. News quickly travelled amidst quavering voice and trembling hands, and Aileen's footsteps came closer every second. Yet, it was soon clear that this triumphant return wasn't so triumphant at all.
The King of the Kingless World stared in his realm of nothingness, trapped inbetween dream and memory, his glassy eyes meandering. As everyone tussled and fought for their (rightful, as Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung would put it) places around his bedside, he continued looking past them, into shadows folding in the corner and faraway battlefields. He murmured words a bit too soft to catch, voice so hoarse with disuse but laden with yearning.
Everyone exchanged awkward glances.
She recognized it first. It was their story. Tens of thousands tiny fragments of The Oldest Dream read their story as intended, and now they meld back as one, bringing the story with them.
This bastard, Han Sooyoung glared, was still reading.
All stories in the world must have an ending. Some planned, some unplanned, some satisfying, some not quite so, the difference was only where to stop.
Yoo Joonghyuk wasn't one to take his nonsense, of course.
"Don't worry. I'll just knock some sense to his thick skull every day. Eventually it's bound to get through."
Casually, Yoo Joonghyuk moved closer and punched Kim Dokja in the face, ignoring Aileen and Lee Seolhwa's grimace.
As if stirred from reverie, the shock rippled through the whole Company, rousing them to life once more.
"Hyung!"
"Ahjussi!"
"He'll just get even more stupid, no?"
"Well, but... but maybe it'll work?"
"How many times do you think he will need to be hit?"
"Uh, Dokja-ssi has quite a thick skull, so probably a while."
"A few months? A year?"
"He never listened to us, didn't he?"
"Two, then? Five? Won't his brain give way first?"
"His brain has already turned to mush, what's the difference?"
As Kim Dokja's Company engaged in a heated debate on the merit of Yoo Joonghyuk's method of therapy, Han Sooyoung excused herself to cool down.
It was only later, much later for someone as perceptive as Han Sooyoung to realize, that she noted that in one throwaway line Yoo Joonghyuk had utterly, completely given up searching for his end. She clenched her fists and seethed.
Look, Kim Dokja. Look at how far people had come for you.
We're not some goddamned characters in your goddamned books to read and pick apart at your leisure.
In any universe, those who could write their own stories were the closest to gods. But the moment words came out, they no longer belonged to her but the readers.
At times, she longed to be one of them.
They kept it from the rest of the industrial district, because a selfish part of them wanted Kim Dokja for themselves. Besides, the world had largely moved on and there was little merit in introducing yet another old hero when the new government was trying so hard to gain foothold and maintain legitimacy.
In an attempt to steer conversation when everyone was at loss on how to proceed, they circled back to the topic they floated before Kim Dokja, that massively self-righteous attention-seeking jerk ate the room. And so, within the week, Kim Dokja's company was comfortably settled in a charming house together, with handsome Korean cedar fences and perfectly manicured lawn clearly maintained by constellation stigma once upon a time. Money had long ceased to be a problem. A discreet neighborhood, on the other hand, was a real deal. Yoo Sangah had no qualms to lay down their requirements in the clearest sense possible: a retirement community. The place they picked was only barely conspicuous, sheltered from view by the natural structures surrounding it, like an illustration out of a children's book.
Uriel bestowed them a handful of homecoming gifts, making no effort to hide that she too missed being around so many people, and would have probably tried to cultivate a zen garden at their backyard had the other occupants insisted the project would garner their plot too much attention. The Abyssal Black Flame Dragon couldn't bother bringing them anything, but he readily claimed a space in the attic. The Great Sage dropped by once, saw what became of his Maknae, and disappeared without saying anything. Yet, Lee Jihye swore she swept out golden hairs from the floor from time to time.
Kim Dokja's Company was no stranger to disappointment. They went to hell and back again so often that every setback felt like just yet another roadblock to overcome.
Or not. But they lied and convinced themselves anyway.
See, we can be happy without you.
But that's exactly what you want, no?
They fulfilled their part of the promise, everyone but him. They dragged him back to reality, and all of them still relatively in one piece (for their sense of selves being torn to shred, that was another problem entirely). There was just this one problem. A minor thorn on the side.
It might be her idea. It might have been someone else's. But it wasn't a very good idea in hindsight so maybe it was really hers. It was a plan hatched out in desperation. Yoo Joonghyuk hit Kim Dokja every day for a week and the result they had so far was the need for more cold packs.
"Dokja-ssi is a reader. Then perhaps the only way we could reach him is by stories."
And so, they would write down their daily lives and take turns delivering the manuscript.
Surprisingly, it worked. A bit. Somehow.
At first, Kim Dokja would look down at the notes scattered on his lap.
A few days in, they concluded he was reading.
A few weeks in, expression crept gradually to his face, and they concluded he was reacting.
A few months in, Kim Dokja started to speak.
"It's alright, Yoosung, you're strong."
"Well, that was your own fault, Han Soooyung."
"Lee Hyunsung, you should be more confident by now."
"Haewon-ssi, you seem to have met something very interesting."
"Gilyoung, show some compassion."
"Yoo Joonghyuk, you bastard. Stop hitting me."
"Sangah-ssi, that's an interesting book."
Everyone rejoiced.
Some semblance of routine and normalcy crept into their days. Yoo Joonghyuk still hit him every day. He claimed that it helped the progress. Han Sooyoung let him because who wouldn't want to hit that guy? Aileen and Lee Seolhwa had stopped trying, because Yoo Joonghyuk was a stubborn mule. Instead, Lee Seolhwa, after a brief teatime with Lee Sookyoung had seemed to find amusement in getting him run increasingly complicated errands to gather medicinal herbs across town.
The rejoicing dissipated a few months later. As more time sunk in, so did realization come to pass. What they swept down the rug grew more apparent. Kim Dokja became increasingly animated, but he would only react to stories. It was as if the living breathing version of them was invisible for him. Each of them went through differing timelines of denial. Shin Yoosung was especially heartbroken. Biyoo had theories, but they were fed up with theories. Kyrgios and Namgung Minyoung visited. Jang Hayoung and Gong Pildu visited. No one could go further than they had already achieved. It was as if Kim Dokja himself refused to be away from his reading.
When the whole world paid for probability, would the probability surpass its Dreamers?
The writer trusted the reader to keep reading, and the reader trusted the writer to keep writing. But a tale could be read long after it was over.
And so, with every end was also a new beginning.
Fear and uneasiness came hand in hand.
Han Sooyoung doubted herself many times.
Maybe they were wrong. Maybe Kim Dokja should have been left alone. Maybe this time they had really fought against the natural tide of the world.
She entertained everything and then some, as Haewon and Sangah went through various thoughts on their own.
Finally, however, she could see them reaching the same conclusion she had drawn all along.
Who cares?
They were always wrong. They always fought against fate.
If Kim Dokja disliked it, reasoned Han Sooyoung, he should protest in his own voice, to their faces. More importantly, she would make him grovel in front of Lee Sookyoung and Persephone.
And so, they kept going, holding every small wins as crutch to limp along continual losses.
No one who had survived the scenarios had any faith to Christmas miracle, but the reformed world took solace in every little thing they could celebrate. In several decades, holidays and festive seasons were once again cherished, as new generations born after the nightmare knew only relative peace.
In Kim Dokja's Company, it was an excuse for them to gather and make merry, an elephant in the room between them notwithstanding.
"Today is my birthday. Do you know that? I'm still waiting for you for pizza and cola."
Shin Yoosung pulled Kim Dokja into a hug. Now a teenager on the cusp to adulthood, she was no longer able to cling on his foot like before. Of course, as expected, there was no reaction. Then, as what had become a habit, Yoosung began to recite him the story she prepared. The paper wrinkled in her grip.
"The day before, Shin Yoosung saw an eagle for the first time."
The man before her laughed, shaking his head gleefully. He let out a hand to pat a phantom Yoosung, oblivious to the girl in front of him.
She couldn't help it. Shin Yoosung began crying.
As the fragile surface tension connecting them started cracking, Han Sooyoung leapt across the room.
"THAT'S IT! I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!" Ignoring everyone else's shocked and confused yelps, Han Sooyoung pulled Kim Dokja by his collar and dragged him out. She didn't stop even when Lee Gilyoung asked her to, not when Shin Yoosung chased after her with tear-streaked face, not when Yoo Sangah, Jung Haewon, and Lee Hyunsung followed her in furrowed brow and apparent daze. Kim Dokja's legs, dangling awkwardly, shuffled on the floor as they walked. Yoo Joonghyuk, on the other hand, watched her with barely a concealed mirth. He finished the cup of tea in his hand and helped himself a refill before heading out.
Han Sooyoung deposited Kim Dokja unceremoniously by the riverbank where they promised to eat pizza and fried chicken at once upon a time. "YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!" The rest of their companions began to see what Han Sooyoung was doing, with various level of clarity and horror. Han Sooyoung disregarded them all, focusing intently on the man before her, still as blank as a dummy.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? WE AREN'T JUST LINES FOR YOU TO READ!"
She kicked him in the shin.
"WHAT? YOU THINK I'M GONNA WRITE FOR YOU FOREVER?"
She shook his shoulders.
"You like my story so much? Is that it? Well, free read is over. It's paid service from now on, so earn your keep!"
"IF YOU WANT TO READ, YOU GOTTA WRITE IT WITH THE REST OF US! So you spend some thousand year living in a story and forget how to live outside of one? Well guess what, I didn't spend ten thousand, but I sure did spend at least 60 years for your ass, and that guy over there went through probably a billion. AND WE TURNED OUT ALRIGHT, SO GET A DAMN GRIP ON YOURSELF!"
Han Sooyoung was ready to throw Kim Dokja to the river when slowly, very slowly, he blinked. Finally, The Oldest Dream stirred. Only he was no longer an outer god, and he was no longer dreaming.
The writer was a reader first and last. A writer eventually turned into the writer when the hunger grew too immense to quench. But a writer did not write like a reader, and a reader did not write like a writer.
The system crawled to life as the pact renewed itself, binding the reader and the writer once again.
The bastard had lost his characteristic confidence, looking more confused than anything.
"It was... a long dream." He moved his body stiffly, testing his joints and not quite believing. How long was it since he was in an incarnation body? "And why is everyone here?"
Long. Too long. Did he realize just how long? No. Of course not.
This was a person who didn't know how to rest without a scenario.
He had made himself an outsider for a thousand lifetimes and more, as if he had no place to be. But he had, here, beginning with fulfilling his many promises one at a time.
Teaching him to live outside the stories would be a scenario they had to contend with, probably for a lifetime. Strangely, it was one scenario Han Sooyoung didn't mind.
"Idiot. For one, you can start by getting us pizza and fried chicken."
If this guy would begin to slack off and shirk his duties again, or getting himself into another shenanigans to escape, boy she would have Yoo Joonghyuk beat him to bloody pulp and resurrect him for another round of carnage.
Jung Haewon raised an eyebrow at this spectacle, but she caught where Han Sooyoung's mind was going, silently approving. She would definitely lend a hand should it come to that. In her periphery, Yoo Sangah gently picked Kim Dokja off the ground and helped him stand.
A butterfly went past them, untethered. Kim Dokja felt a surge of nostalgic echoes crackling through his entire body, teaching him how to feel blood rushing within his veins and heartbeats thumping in his chest.
For a second, it was as if the universe shifted to accommodate this, alert with alacrity. He sat with all senses heightened.
Kim Dokja wobbled under the weight of all the stories, eyes searching for familiar elements in the scene before him. In his mind, pages flashed by in a flurry of words unsaid. He took a hold on the cover and slammed it shut. The one story he had known all his heart, the one story he had read again and again.
From afar, Lee Sookyoung and Persephone watched him in tentative smile.
Kim Dokja closed his eyes, holding in the lines threatening to spill out.
"Ahjussi, it's you, right? This time you're 100% Kim Dokja, right?"
Yoo Joonghyuk did not wait for answer. An uppercut arced midair, stopped halfway by a stilted, staggered step out of practice. Even if the punch didn't connect, spark flew in the air.
"You- what the heck-!"
A grin. Two. Three. A dozen. About time.
It was the same story. The story hadn't changed, but they had. Suddenly, the ending felt a little bit different.
-
They stopped at the last line, and breathed in relief.