Yachu Kachu Great Escape
"Puhuhuuu!"
"Are you coming around?"
Coming around? I wanted to snap back, Could you stay sane if a hurricane and a building-tall tsunami hit you out of nowhere in the middle of the ocean? Luckily, my ridiculously tough body was fine. Hallelujah.
"The other... uh, victims?"
"We washed the mud off them clean and gave 'em a bit of waterboarding. They snapped out of it. Turns out they've been stuck here since last week."
"Good work. I'm so sick of mud now."
Drenched in water instead of mud, I scanned the spot that had been blasted clean by the water cannon. As expected, this was a small rest area in the jungle stage—a park where you could take a breather. The problem? Right in the middle, a metal tile etched with an Inca Empire symbol sat there like a throne. Good thing we'd smashed it to hell, stripping it of its power. If we'd left it, it would've turned more people into mud monsters and dumped an army of them smack in the heart of Seoul.
People don't think deep about symbols, but iconic ones representing nations or groups carry the prayers and wills of countless folks. It's not just superstition that staring at some curses you. If enough souls are poured into it, even a fake can pack real punch. Call it the occult world's placebo effect—easy enough to grasp? Replicas sometimes rival the real deal.
And the real kicker? We were fucked.
"How much damage did we rack up solving this shit?"
"Ballpark? Hundreds of millions at least."
"Why?"
"Smashing public stuff like the slow train and park benches wasn't enough—we turned it into a lake, hijacked an aqua park water truck's tank without asking, and blocked off areas so guests can't use 'em. Add in compensation claims..."
Ten million upfront, another ten on completion? No matter how I crunched it, we were in the red.
"Can't be helped. At least the emergency sirens blared inside the park, so folks must've clocked something's off by now. We just gotta get out with this one guy."
The mud king—what's-his-face—that I'd battled in a brutal, sticky bloodbath, the park's first labyrinth victim. He looked familiar, and sure enough: a flopped-over early-30s YouTuber.
The guy who'd posted a Machupicchu Amusement Park review-slash-promo vid, then ghosted, worrying his fans sick.
I slugged the still-out YouTuber's gut, making him puke water. The reflex woke him; he blinked around dazed, then freaked.
"Wh-where the hell is this?! Who are you guys?! Why am I...?!"
"You've been in cryosleep for 50 years. Glitch thawed you early, and we're special agents tasked with extracting you."
"Th-that true?!"
I slipped on souvenir-shop shades with S-man.
"See this iconic long coat only special agents wear? How much blood, sweat, and tears do you think me and my assistant poured out dragging you from that hellish swamp?"
"Yeah... place is a total wreck."
Woof woof woof!Screeeeech!
Far off, hounds bayed wildly; security blew whistles, closing in. CCTV caught our rampage—Machupicchu's bigwigs sent their best.
"Hear that? They unleashed hunting dogs to snag you."
"Wh-what do we do?! I'm nobody special! Just a YouTuber!!"
"Calm down—that's why we're here. We gotta bail ASAP. Hop in the escort vehicle first."
I pointed at the water truck; nameless YouTuber nodded frantically and climbed in. S-man and I followed, flooring it just as security arrived.
"They're fleeing!"
"Stop 'em!"
"How the fuck do you stop a truck?!"
"Fuck! Just... stop 'em! Chairman's orders!!!"
Fierce hounds and burly guards were no match for the truck's unstoppable momentum—they stomped and scattered.
"How long we got?"
"Almost six hours up."
"Humans can topple a five-year empire in six hours if they set their minds to it."
Like Jericho's walls crumbling at shouts and trumpets—no will is unbreakable. Heartwarming, right?
BOOM!
"Eeeeeek!"
"Chill—it's all hologram. Fifty years since cryosleep, and you think outdated crap like that's still around?"
"But that street vendor just flew off whole!"
"5D effect. Feels real, huh?"
"Then the screams, those shady black-clad agents chasing us...?"
"You see The Matrix?"
"...Yeah."
"It's like that."
Am I Neo? the dopey YouTuber muttered. Ignoring him, I stuck my head out the window. Crowds had cleared the main road from our mad truck; overheated guards and dogs tailed us in guide cars.
Target: the long hallway with no new guests. Past the ticket booth manned by a minimum-wage nervous wreck whose whole job was scanning tickets.
But a vehicle barrier arm shot up, blocking us. Even our beastly truck couldn't bulldoze that.
"Listen: head out that entrance you first came through, and you'll return to 50 years ago."
"Time travel?! Then it's not Matrix, it's Terminator...!"
Slap! I smacked K-Neo back to reality. Red pill, blue pill—either way, it'd be YouTube fodder, so quit nitpicking.
"We'll hold 'em off. You escape first, go back 50 years, resume normal life. Wreck some cars on cam or whatever."
"I got 360k subs, though..."
Slap!
"I'll wreck cars hard and live well."
"Good. Run!"
I shoved him out like trash; he bolted for the exit like his life depended on it. As he crossed, the labyrinth curse on Machupicchu evaporated.
But our real headache? Getting nabbed as vandals/thieves with millions in damages.
"I can just pay..."
"We don't bend!"
I hit the water tank eject—huge tank rolled back, crushing pursuing guards. They braked hard or skidded, tumbling; no immediate chase. Gawkers focused on the chaos—we'd slip by unnoticed.
"Now! Run!"
Charging the tunnel-exit, a walkie-talkie-toting ticket drone blocked us.
"Stop or...!"
"Fuck off!"
A ticket-stamping minnow daring us? S-man and I linked hands for a double-cross clothesline, yeeting him. We vaulted the fence, snagged a taxi from the guest-dropoff swarm.
S-man, panicked, flung all his cash: "Seoul! Hongdae! Fast!"
Sharp cabbie gunned it, weaving jams. Through the rear glass, we saw crawling guards. Relief sighed out.
I had to brag, so I powered up my phone, texting the Mad Woman.
She called right away—as expected—but I killed the power. Being merciful and generous, I decided to take just the ten million for this gig.