A Completely New Type of Human

It was late. Most of the inmates had already filed meekly back to their cells to put another grinding day to bed, but the lights at Lee Sena's Cute Tool Shop were still burning.

The person so efficiently wasting precious electricity was the shop's owner herself. Lee Sena was peering at a component so small it barely deserved the name, magnified through Chorong-i — the ocular implant she had built with her own hands and had Ted Chan seat in her socket.

An ordinary technician would have needed a loupe and a dedicated work lamp just to fumble at a part this fine. For her, Chorong-i — which did not yield an inch to the latest corporate-grade ocular implants — made it a non-issue.

The handmade eye had earned her a reputation for looking, in the words of more than one unhappy observer, "unnervingly bright-eyed." That was exactly the reaction she had been going for. A person's eyes were supposed to sparkle. That was what made them pretty.

"Never thought I'd get an order this precise and this original. Not in a place like this."

There was no one to hear her, but she muttered it with a look of genuine interest and kept working, her hands impossibly fine. On a normal day she would have closed up at a reasonable hour and sunk into her private hobbies. Today's custom job was different.

The first-time customer who had walked in around evening. An Orange — a death row inmate — wearing the memorable number 77777 had strolled through the door and announced, with a perfectly straight face, that he was a VIP of this district. And when he had casually produced a free consultation coupon, even Lee Sena, who was indifferent to most of the world's affairs, had nearly laughed out loud.

Of course criminals were all the same. Shameless, unburdened by guilt, lying as easily as they breathed. But she had good eyes. Telling whether someone was lying, why they were lying, and what they hoped to gain from it was nothing to her.

This one was different, though.

He had lied without believing it was a lie. More precisely: a death row rookie who had been inside for all of two days genuinely believed he was this district's VIP. As if he had known the place inside and out from the start. As if he had been on easy, familiar terms with every merchant on the block for years.

He didn't look like he had a psychiatric condition. She had heard of people who took their own delusions or lies as gospel, but those types usually spouted nonsense or behaved in ways that did not add up, which made them easy to tell from the sane. This man, though — every word, every gesture was a clean reflection of his own will. He was more direct, and more honest, than anyone she had ever met.

And unlike the cheapskates who tried to haggle every last credit off the price, he had coolly prepaid through the merchant-only ATM installed in the shop. A man who would drop ten million won on a single custom order. On his second day inside. And he was on death row.

She would have loved to stretch that astonishing encounter late into the night, but unfortunately her professional pride was far too strong — and the man himself drew a hard line between business and pleasure.

A completely new type of human. The kind you never saw in the glittering, novelty-drunk world outside, and never saw in this filthy, disgusting, worthless sewer full of human vermin either. Lee Sena found herself more than a little excited to realize she was taking an interest in a person — not one of her own Cuties — for the first time, and she tore through his custom order with brisk efficiency.

This was not a commission that could have come out in a single sitting unless the client already possessed specialist knowledge on par with her own. I need more information on him. Which means I need to make sure he keeps coming back to this shop. Which means I need to show him fast, precise work first.

Lee Sena huffed an unpleasant little snort and poured every ounce of her craftsmanship into the custom gear he had ordered, assembling each component with painstaking care. The unidentified death row inmate she had met for the first time today was already the Cute Tool Shop's VVIP.

The greatest advantage — and the greatest drawback — of this uselessly healthy body was that the eyes opened on their own the moment morning arrived.

Ah, I wish someone would fry me eggs and crispy bacon for breakfast, slather jam on toast, and set a glass of freshly squeezed milk down in front of me.

It had already been five days since my first trip into the Darkzone. Which meant I had now spent a full week in this godforsaken Seoul Southern Prison.

"B-boss. Time to get up. Everyone's already heading to the washroom."

"I don't want to do anything. Can't I just not get up?"

"You still have to eat breakfast, though…"

"That nutrient gruel? I tried a bite. Instantly wanted to drop a full-combo family insult that reached all the way to the Warden's in-laws' third cousins. You think maybe the Warden is running a kickback scheme with a contractor owned by his in-laws' third cousins?"

"You still have to eat it if you want to live."

"Humans die eventually."

Especially me. I was on death row, so my "eventually" was scheduled to arrive ahead of everyone else's. Still, spending the whole day like a bum on this wreck of a bunk, burning hours that meant nothing, was too much of a waste — and that was before you counted the cellmate nagging at my bedside like my own mother.

"Hey. That stab wound. You doing all right?"

"Ah — yes. You patched me up in time, boss… haha."

"Honestly, if that bastard over there hadn't stabbed you in the first place, we wouldn't have had a problem. Right?"

The guy who had been folding the old blanket beside us flinched and started putting even sharper hospital corners on it. The short version of the scuffle I'd had with these idiots the moment I walked in: we were getting along reasonably well. I had guaranteed them an absolute dictatorship stained with violence and terror, and they, desperate to escape my reign as soon as possible, had agreed to a dramatic change of career. Their original life goals had been Back-Alley Thug A, B, and C. Now they were aiming for street corpse cleaner, implant scalper, and legal porn producer. You could call that a giant leap forward.

"So you boys are heading out on General Duty again today?"

"That's right. Guys like us don't have much time left on our sentences anyway. We'll coast on General Duty and then we're out."

"I'm jealous. I get to work like an ox for the rest of my life and then get dragged out like a pig to have my neck cut."

"Haha…"

I gave the awkwardly laughing kid a light pat on the shoulder, stretched until my back popped, and greeted a new morning in Cellblock H-050.

"Forget it. Let's go eat. Guys who don't even bribe the guards get stuck with the shit General Duty assignments, so you'd better put something solid in your stomach if you want to have any strength left."

"You're buying?"

"Same menu. All of you."

"I'll go with the bulgogi rice bowl. That's what you like, boss."

"Then I'll have the bulgogi rice too."

"Honestly, how is anyone supposed to resist the bulgogi rice? I can't."

Thick-faced criminals, every last one of them. Of course they picked the expensive thing. I didn't have any particular reason to get closer than necessary to men who had committed crimes and landed in prison, but these were the pettiest of petty crooks, and their sentences were almost up, so I let it slide. They'd be out soon enough. Piling on another beating wouldn't buy me anything, and if they remembered my extra-spicy fists once they were on the outside, they might at least pretend to live clean. More to the point, once they shipped out I would have this cell as a proper private room. I could think of breakfast as a modest bonus for that.

I was ambling toward the cafeteria with the cellmates I would not have for much longer, trading stupid jokes, when I caught a strange current ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the air and turned my head.

Inmates lining up in crisp, obedient rows for another helping of flavorless nutrient gruel. Inmates grumbling because they had come out of the communal washroom a step too late. Inmates like me, with a little money, clustered off to the side. It was the same familiar picture it had been yesterday, and a week ago, and would be tomorrow.

So what's off?

I had already concluded there was nothing wrong with my head. My body, unfortunately, kept sending up warning flares that something was wrong anyway.

And then.

The familiar electronic tone bored straight into my brain, and I ducked on something closer to instinct than thought. Something whipped through the air where my skull had been a tenth of a second earlier — maybe two tenths, if I was being generous.

The cellmates who had been toddling along beside me went wide-eyed a beat too late. I was already driving toward the direction that "something" had come from.

"Ah, fuck!"

"Get him!"

At the same instant, more inmates burst out of the gruel line with blades and clubs and came to meet me. Faces I had not seen once in this block all week — fresh fish, or men from another cell block. No question.

Set that aside for now.

I snatched the tray off an inmate sitting in just the right place and hurled it as hard as I could. The man who failed to dodge ate a faceful of thick nutrient gruel and the tray together and went blank; his partner did not care that his friend had stopped moving and came in with a full-bodied swing of the club.

Whoooosh—

I dropped into a knee-slide without breaking the forward charge, the same driving posture as a striker tearing off on a goal celebration, and threw my upper body back as far as it would go. The club passed through the air above my eyes. The man had already dumped everything he had into the swing, which meant he had no answer when I wrapped both arms around his waist.

"Hup!"

I put my whole weight into it, coiled around his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠torso like a snake, and dumped him. A few elbows into the solar plexus and the nape of the neck put him under with his breathing wrecked. I snatched up the club he had dropped and took a full swing at the knee of the man still wearing his breakfast.

CRACK.

People who had not even been hit were groaning from every direction. The knee must have gone the wrong way for real. When the man finally registered that his joint was twisted around like some alien species dual-wielding lightsabers, he let out a shrill scream and collapsed.

I glanced down at the club in my hand. The grip was heavy and new — not the kind of construction scrap that rolled around every corridor in this place. The design was close to the suppression batons the guards used; only the actual material was a little different. The only people who could get something like this inside a prison were the ones with money.

"Weren't people who wander into another cell block without permission supposed to have no complaint if they met with an 'unfortunate accident'?"

I closed the distance slowly, giving the club an easy swing. The man leaking something that might have been nutrient gruel and might have been snot suddenly found his voice and yelled back at me.

"You — you bastard! Do you even know what you just did?!"

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

"Bullshit! You started this!"

"Since when?"

I've only been here a week.

"Five days ago! Cell Block H-088! The bald guard in the merchant district!"

Ah. Yeah. That one was me.

"Hold on. That guy got hit because he did something worth getting hit for. If ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠we're assigning blame here, shouldn't you be going after the baldie instead of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me? Why grab some random person and make him work up a sweat first thing in the morning?"

"Y-you touched our Family. We hold that district. Of course you pay a price! Do you still not get the situation?!"

"You talk like you're the one who has a handle on the situation. Can you not see who's holding the etiquette injector right now?"

"When our boss finds out about this…!"

THWACK.

I did not wait for the rest. I turned his mouth around. The lower half was already facing the wrong way, so matching the top to the bottom struck me as simple good manners.

I tossed the club down beside the men leaking blood across the floor and took another look around. Even after I had put them down, that eerie, needle-prick atmosphere hung in the air for a moment longer — then vanished between one blink and the next.

So they're going to carefully test my skills first. That it?

Criminals, every last one of them. Of course their methods were as slimy as they came. I was starting to think it was time to go pick up the gear I had ordered.