Named Users Ignite the Chaos

Did everyone in the Maelmang Gallery, that anonymous site, really want to hide their identities? The answer is a resounding no. Humans are monsters with an insatiable "need for recognition" deep in their hearts, as noted even in the cosmic encyclopedia. This beast has a peculiar habit: it goes berserk when someone else steals the spotlight. That didn't change in this ruined world. And this was the Maelmang Gallery, no less—a place where you could see views, likes, and comments right there in front of you.

Even the most indifferent person puffs up with pride from a bunch of likes. On the flip side, pitifully low views bring anyone down. People were desperate for attention, going all out. The result? A nonstop barrage of aggro posts and activity.

One more comment, one extra like—that was the drive. People flaunted their talents or pulled aggro without hesitation.

'The world's gone to shit, so this is just human nature.'

In an apocalypse where direct contact was tough, this was how folks proved they were still alive. Browsing their posts was pretty entertaining. Especially since one of my neighbors turned out to be an aggro kingpin... but that's a story for tomorrow.

Then a nuke dropped on this den of aggro pullers.

It appeared the moment I woke up that morning. Even on an anonymous site, having your own name? It lit the already buzzing gallery on fire.

Points were the most sensitive topic for gallery users. You earned them just by ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠posting or commenting in the Maelmang Gallery. But to rack up points, you had to kill zombies or monsters. Every flying comment was basically blood money.

In that context, 100 points was steep.

'Gotta keep grinding gallery activity too. Too hefty to drop casually.'

Everyone wanted a nickname bad, but that price tag had them hesitating. Of course, even in this world, whale spenders existed aplenty.

The first to snag a nickname raked in comments and likes, even hitting the top posts. Emboldened, more started showing off theirs.

Sure, dropping 100P on a nickname felt wasteful. But it meant they had surplus points—likely from handling zombies well.

'Some folks are decent against zombies, huh.'

Having 100P now implied a solid zombie kill count. Decent combat skills too. Things might change with real zombies, monsters, or raiders... but that's beyond anyone's control. At least they'd outlast the pointless scrubs.

Not that I had the luxury to fret over them.

'Bigger issue: what about me?'

Nickname or no? Sorry, but that wasn't worth agonizing over.

Lame admin title aside, they hooked me up with perks. Truth is, 100P was no biggie for me anyway. But saving it? Ideal. Hoard points, upgrade the shop for premium gear and food. Zombie hunting specialist here—few had more points than me.

"Now, what nickname?"

Honestly, no attachment to gallery nicks. Maybe 'cause I could peek real info? Felt more like a "virtual world" to me.

Huhu... I'm the admin, so I call the shots↗, right↗?

Immersion? Kinda lacking. I barely posted, mostly lurked.

'Nothing to do but scroll.'

Nicknames were permanent. Might as well go safe, nothing embarrassing.

'Just use my old game name?'

I typed it in without much thought.

Thought yes in my head, and boom—set. No typing needed; thoughts worked. Gallery perk.

Hm, now I'm a named user too. Since I bothered, maybe post a proof?

That's when it hit me, mid-satisfaction.

"...What the hell?"

Veteran here meant hardcore players who'd sunk years in, skill-stacked to "corpse" level—undying pros. Tough games breed 'em.

But Last Day? Special case. Brutal difficulty, obscure flop. How many veterans? And surviving the apocalypse? Even fewer.

Put another way: these were survival experts armed with game knowledge.

'Not on my level, though.'

I was the sole player who saw the servers shut down. Rank 1 vet of vets. Held solo for months post-abandonment, right up to the end. No one knew the game like me.

Semi-celebrity?

"......No friends, though."

Even long-time lurkers were awkward. Not my fault—or well, social skills ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠aside, Last Day wasn't the issue.

Our game? Hardcore loner bait. "Asocial" was generous; full societal rejects. Gloomy vibe only the broken could love. Probably why users bailed.

Normal folks can't live like that forever. Me? Perfect shut-in exception.

'...Damn, thinking about it sours my mood.'

Veterans meant months or years sunk in. Normal? I'd bet two cans they weren't. As the pinnacle vet, speaking.

'Last Day veterans, no less.'

Not dying to meet 'em, but curious. Plus, I prepped for doom first. Gallery's sole admin! That smug confidence hyped me up.

Felt like a hero's return. I dove into the Veteran-Only Board.

"...Holy shit."

Awe and a curse slipped out. Like glimpsing Noah's flood pre-deluge. Nicknames to first posts—dizzying degeneracy.

Don't strangers play it safe? These freaks? Just spewing desires, no replies. Veterans had points to burn. Normies beg for chats; these wasted on fetishes.

Why ignore the obvious and ghost communication!

'Head-spinning.'

Game was a magnet for psychos. Why pile up only the crazies? No need for anglerfish; this was Mars' hell.

"Nah, they're veterans. Networking can't hurt."

I boasted unmatched info—game and real life. Could dox and visit anytime. Befriend for gains, no losses.

'Peek a few profiles first.'

Creepy to stalk all, but same vets. Picked first poster "WannaFuckZombies"—pervy nick screamed tough mentality. Dude? Easy bromance.

I buried my face in horror.

"Why the fuck are you a chick! You packing that?!"

Common sense: "ZombieFuck" screams dude. Why all pervs here? Beyond normie me.

For my sanity, I shelved vet friending.

Siwoo's heart is glass. Glass shatters at sights like that.