Daily Life
In the broadcasting studio, Kids' chibi hologram was in full swing, passionately delivering her message.
"Everyone vaguely thought, 'Maybe there are survivors on Jeju Island?' Well, it was true! And that's not all! Substantial numbers of survivors have been confirmed on Geoje, Namhae, Yeosu, Gohung, Wando, Haenam, Jindo, Sinan, and various other large and small island regions!"
It had been a while since we found survivors in the southern sea areas, but hey, that's how it always goes—real-time info to the public is never immediate.
(Rustling paper sounds)
Kids inserted the sound of flipping through non-existent documents. Her hologram 'poofed' a paper into existence and rifled through it—truly method acting at its finest. She seemed even more excited than usual.
Selected clips from videos shot beyond the Noise Trees began broadcasting across the entire Shelter. Fishermen maintaining their gear. Boat builders crafting ferries. Elderly folks tending vegetable patches in safe zones. Militia patrolling the wildland borders. Haenyeo resting after fishing. Kids behind them diligently massaging their shoulders. Citizens receiving rations under the military's stern watch.
The footage ran for about a minute. Meanwhile, Kids clasped her hands, trembling with excitement.
'I wonder how the viewers are reacting.'
She was screaming it with her whole body. Voyeuristically showing intriguing videos and gauging reactions isn't exclusively human, it seems.
Closing music signaling the end of the broadcast played.
And with that, the broadcast ended.
Conversation is an indispensable part of human life. It's play, information sharing, and the most effective stress relief. The Shelter is perfectly set up for residents to chat. Plenty of free time for starters. Departments vary, but it's basically a five-day week, six hours a day. With tech and equipment concentrated here, output per labor is high, and we're not working for profit. Accumulating surplus isn't the goal—just eating day to day doesn't require as much toil as you'd think. Safe, natural ambiance fosters leisurely talks, boosting life satisfaction. And lately, a new option elevated satisfaction even further.
"I figured the reaction would be wild, but damn."
The broadcast studio monitor showed numerous posts from residents. Written via touch panels on home screens by off-duty folks.
"If it were the weekend, we'd have hundreds by now, right?"
Kids wagged her index finger teasingly.
"What if you took away phones for over a year and suddenly gave them back? They're starving for anonymous chit-chat."
I just noticed—she has four fingers. Chibi hologram style; five might look weird?
"Talking with your mouth and typing are different flavors. Some stories you can't share face-to-face."
All posts are strictly anonymous, so residents can't ID each other. Of course, we can see who wrote what anytime. They know that, so they were hesitant at first, scared of pissing us off with careless words. But temptation won out, and now hundreds post daily. Guts have grown—curses, trash-talk, lewd chats too.
"Hehe~."
Kids hummed, gazing at the board. Satisfied with real-time posts, she mediated violations and disputes flawlessly. The ultimate moderator. No reward needed. Seeing raw attitudes behind anonymous masks, contrasting real-life facades, seemingly solid but fake relationships—all from the front row—was her prize.
But today, she seemed extra chipper for another reason.
"How's it feel to become Korea's top broadcaster?"
"What're you talking about?"
Kids played innocent.
"Don't play dumb—you know."
Once the Noise Tree extermination op kicks off, comms will fully revive. Her station will expand beyond the Shelter to the whole peninsula.
"Weather reports, infected horde paths, survival tips, aid drops and timings, all sorts of info. Who else handles it better?"
Kids grinned and shook her head.
"Everyone on the peninsula will tune in. Maybe beyond."
Weather for fishers, horde routes for patrols—lifelines.
"Think about it: Resting soldiers, commanders over maps, fishermen fixing gear, haenyeo, folks huddled by stoves in snow, leaders relocating camps, scouts planning farms."
I shrugged.
"All ears on your radio. For intel, laughs, music—you run a music channel too."
"Kyaa! Stop! Please!"
Unable to bear it, her hologram plugged her ears. Face all >_<. That's why she was extra fired up in the broadcast—she's going global.
"From a survivor's view: Back from risky scavenging, lonely drive, flip on radio—Kids' voice echoing the wasteland. Poetic, huh?"
Unable to contain herself, she spun around me like a satellite. So fast I got dizzy tracking her.
"Come back anytime, Manager!"
She'd been bubbly, but leaving, she pouted sadly.
Next, security HQ.
"Ah! Manager!"
On the parade ground, Rose and some security officers tended foals. Cloned from Seed Vault embryos. Accelerated growth means faster to adulthood than normal horses.
"Carry on."
I waved off the at-attention officers and stood before a foal. Big stable on one side housed six sleeping ones; five here—total eleven.
"Clones, but all different colors?"
I'd imagined Star Wars clone troopers—all matching for cool ranks. Bit disappointing.
"Three base embryos. Plus capsules with 212 horse gene variants for diversity. Inserted partially pre-activation. Cloning preserves genetic variety."
Rose stroked a whinnying brown foal's neck. It calmed briefly, then went berserk—bucking, nearly clipping my shin. Quick reflexes saved me.
"This one's lively..."
My thought cut short by Rose's rare fierce glare. Smack! Her pale palm spanked the foal's rump—uncharacteristically merciless for her poised gentleness.
Neigh-!
Startled, it whinnied pitifully, froze at her face.
"Hss!"
She menaced with a hiss; it stiffened.
"Sorry. I'll train it properly."
"Nah, it's a kid—what ya gonna do."
Habitually went to pat her head, stopped. Officers around—can't undermine her authority. Not like old private days.
Sharp Rose fixated on my halted hand. Clearly bummed.
"Mounted police, huh."
With cultured meat, non-lab animal embryos were low utility. Rose suggested horses for security.
"Arming officers with guns is iffy. Batons alone limit crowd control."
"Horses fill the gap."
People get complacent. Leads to clashes. Non-lethal control has limits; mounted police is smart. Armed rider on heavy horse? Intimidating, especially for smaller women. Swinging baton from horseback? Near-lethal. Just approaching scatters most.
"Pilot with eleven, then scale up."
Gulp gulp! Foals suckled livestock formula bottles greedily. Women cradling them, bottles in hand—faces full of maternal glow. Dormant instincts revived, synergizing.
"Wanna open a zoo for real?"
Seeing it stirred my old nixed zoo dream—cost issues.
"Ahaha."
Rose wryly smiled. Recovered brown foal pawed, ready to romp.
Watching Rose see me off with foals, a scene flashed: "Rose in black stockings and suit on horseback..."
Would be epic.
Chloro was at the central factory complex.
"How do I look? Pretty?"
Arms wide, affectionate smile. Plain light beige dress, no patterns. But beauties shine even in sacks. The simplicity amplified her innocent charm.
I blatantly eyed her up and down, whistled. She grabbed skirt hems, cutely bobbed knees.
"Fabric?"
Fingered her top—soft, comfy feel.
"Linen."
Harvested flax, hemp, cotton from hydroponics already prototyped into clothes.
"You get it without explanation, right?"
She pointed: three factories.
"Lemme guess. Right one's spinning mill."
Bobbin spool sign. Women carted huge yarn skeins to next factory.
"That's weaving."
Fabric bolt sign, rolled cloths carted over.
"And that's garment factory."
Largest; fabrics, dyes, sewing supplies bustling.
"Bravo!"
She clapped like I'd solved a genius puzzle, beaming. Embarrassing, but cute.
"Hello."
Clothing team women behind her greeted. Dressed like a fashion show: dresses, two-pieces, pantsuits, reformed hanbok-likes, medieval peasant garb, tracksuits—eclectic. Same fabric quality.
"Trying everything. We know spinning-to-fabric-to-clothes basics, but it's textbook stuff. Not experts. Practical, durable, stylish needs trial and error."
"Looks great already."
Instead of answering, she flipped her skirt hem. Dazzling white thigh, but inside fuzzy, untrimmed.
"Outer pretty, but lining messy."
She ballerina-posed, arms up, on tiptoes—perfect form, but curves made her no dancer.
"Certain poses expose weak spots."
Armpit loose; threads gaped, white skin visible. Spread index-middle finger—slipped in soft. Snap—one broke; wider and it'd tear.
"Ah!"
Finger touched warm armpit. Teased flesh twice, pinched lightly—her eyes heated.
"Those too?"
Pulled finger, nodded at group.
"Yeah. Look fine, but flaws. Gotta refine."
She eyed my topic shift, pouted. Team fist-pumped, motivated.
"Morale's high."
"Prison uniforms and workwear only—now trying styles, they're thrilled."
She tiptoed, whispered in ear: "Any requests? Outerwear, undies, Santa, dress, school uniform—anything."
Brain spun for answer—Pop! Factory noise.
"Ah!"
Women rushed over.
"No biggie. Camera shows one machine busted."
Alone now, she pecked my cheek.
"Gotta go. They get anxious without me."
Troubled but pleased. Before entering, she turned, waved big. I waved back; sunset falling.
View overlooked lower Shelter. Early quitters heading home, park strollers, lakeside resters. Security parade: topless women running laps—girls-only, carefree. Common sight outdoors; encounters surprise but no screams, many carry on bare-chested.
'To residents, Manager's like... a whale you bump while nude-swimming on a desert island?'
Chloro's cryptic analogy.
Foals chased bare-torsoed officers. Laughter faintly carried despite distance. Apartment woman gathering balcony laundry.
"Kyaa! So refreshing~!"
"Ahahahaha!"
Factory gal joyfully pushing friend's cart. Exhausted pal on bench gets water/towel. Grease-faced gals finger-pointing from factory.
"Huh? Still here?"
Lost in scenery, time flew—Chloro back, internals sorted.
"Waiting for me?!"
Just smiled at her happy face.