Dodging the Death Flag
Once this fight is over, I'm going to propose to her. …………… The moment I heard Cheon Jung-sa's words, a chilling sense of déjà vu washed over me.
This line. From the comic Lee Gyu-rin brought me, the anime Han Min-seo played, the game Oh Deok-hwan was grinding. A pattern I've seen countless times.
'Once this fight is over, I'm going to marry her.' Not once have I ever seen a character who says something like that survive.
No way. Guess I should pray for his soul in advance.
I pulled my consciousness into the inner world. Preparations were already complete. The little figments—somehow procured in black mourning clothes—stood in a neat line.
These guys are even holding incense sticks, one each.
Acute Death Flag Syndrome: Survival Rate 0%.
The figment in the doctor's coat scribbled the diagnosis on the blackboard. The bespectacled one crossed its arms and nodded.
The fierce-eyed figment scratched the back of its head, offering its own condolences.
The little figments lit the incense. Smoke rose, casting a solemn mood over the inner world.
"Take some snacks too."
"What if we give snacks to someone who isn't dead yet?!"
"We're giving them early so you can eat before you die!"
One figment stacked Tri-Run balls into a pyramid and placed it on the altar. The others assumed prayer poses.
"We didn't know him, but it's sad."
"He was a cool guy."
Already treating him like he's in the past tense. He's still alive, and you're mourning him like he's gone.
"No flowers, so broccoli instead!"
"We have over a ton of broccoli piled up for Oh Deok-hwan!"
Too bad Oh Deok-hwan probably won't need to eat broccoli anymore. Still, better than nothing for the memorial.
I clasped my hands and bowed my head slightly too. Rest in peace, Cheon Jung-sa. In your next life, make sure to propose after the fight's over. And be reborn somewhere with lots of tasty snacks.
……………
I was dead certain his survival odds had shot past 250%—a textbook, ironclad death flag. Yet astonishingly, Cheon Jung-sa didn't die.
Before this shocking upset, the inner world descended into chaos.
The figments threw a fit. The pre-built broccoli altar was dismantled. Mourning clothes returned. Amid the mess, some scooped up the Tri-Run balls from the altar, figuring good is good.
Only the bespectacled and doctor-coated figments stood by the blackboard, tearing at their hair.
The bespectacled one started scribbling new hypotheses on the blackboard.
Anyway, thanks to Cheon Jung-sa's heroics, the Divers crushed Cheolung Group's Walker unit and won the corporate war. Overhearing the mercenaries chatter, it seems Diver snagged joint development rights for next-gen humanoids as spoils of war. They're making a household android called "Loli Baba"—girl looks, grandma personality, maid type. Was it really worth going to war over? Whatever. Right now, the important thing is—
"Ta-da! Cheers to Cheon Jung-sa's epic performance and the bonus that came with it!"
"Cheers!!"
The half-sloshed mercenaries and their victory party. How'd this happen? Simple misunderstanding. They mistook me wandering around in human form for "a little girl from near Gwanaksan," and I just rolled with it into the party.
Used to be I'd get plastered on the news as some terrifying entity. Turns out human memory is pretty short. These days, nobody even freaks out with "Eek! Outer God Body Alpha!" when they see me like this.
"Little miss! Eat some meat! Gotta grow big—can't go hungry at your age!"
"This here's cultured pork belly—tastes insane, right!?"
A merc in an apron piled meat from the grill onto my plate. Nom nom. Cultured pork belly. Not from a real pig, but the sizzle of fat and juices is spot-on. I scarf it down, cheeks puffed out, when a flushed-faced merc sneaks up with a mischievous grin.
"Miss, try this too."
He pours soju into my paper cup, glug glug. Another merc smacks his head—"Hey, you bastard! What're you doing to a kid?!"—but whatever.
Gulp. Whew, bitter. But alcohol doesn't faze me. The figments break down ethanol molecules the second they hit my system.
"Grrraaah! I'm drunk~!"
"Who am Ieee~?"
A few figments in the inner world dye their cheeks red and stumble around, swept up in the vibe, pretending to be wasted. They even scavenged a steering wheel for drunk driving play. What a spectacle.
"Mmhihihi."
Meat and booze went around and around. Freed from life-or-death combat, the mercs paradoxically partied like it was their last day. Some hugged shoulders and belted out military tunes; others started card games with bets. I chewed pork belly, watching the scene. Nom. The taste of humans celebrating survival. Pretty nice feeling.
……………
The party dragged into round two, three. We bounced between nearby bars until dawn, when every last merc collapsed on the street. Snoring on benches, drooling against poles, one dude face-planted torso-first into a flower bed. I squat under a streetlamp, licking my Relativity-Lollipop, observing.
Lick. Mmm. Sweet and tangy. Immortal candy really is the best.
Why haven't I gone back to the cozy Threat Management Agency basement level B41? 'Cause I wanna watch Cheon Jung-sa's proposal, duh. He beat a death flag and survived—I gotta see how it ends in person.
In TV dramas, proposals get BGM, petals flying, girl tearing up with a "Yes." Does real life work like that?
"Will petals fly?"
"I like cherry blossoms!"
The figments are hyped too. Cheon Jung-sa finally stirred as the sun rose. His hangover routine:
First, the local bathhouse. Puffy-faced from the bender, he plunged into the hot tub and soaked for nearly 30 minutes. I floated on the surface as a transparent slime, enjoying the heat right alongside. Nobody noticed, being so see-through.
Next, hangover soup joint. Amid the steamy little shop, he sat. I plopped naturally across from him, pointing at "blood sausage hangover soup" on the menu. He chuckled in disbelief but paid for mine too.
Blood sausage hangover soup. Packed with greens and chunks, salty and deep. Slurp.
"Hot!"
"Fancier than ramen!"
"More soju?"
"Order braised pork too!"
Looks like some figments have developed old-man tastes. Variety's good, though.
After eating, out of the shop. He fired up his phone banking app, and his eyes lit up. Nine-figure deposit. Not quite 200 million, but over 100 million won.
"Yeehawww!!"
He pumped his fist with a whoop. Corporate war pay, looks like. Fair price for risking his neck? Seems huge by his standards.
Next stop: jewelry store. He picked a pretty gold ring with a diamond. Stared at it in the case, nodded, pocketed it.
Then—Oseong Android Store. Inside, display shelves with androids. Human-like faces, soft smiles, posed differently.
"Look just like humans!"
He scanned the shelves, asked a staffer.
"Got a 10-year premium subscription? For the Mama series."
Huh? Proposal, right? Buying a cleaning robot for newlywed life or what? 10-year sub price—whoa. Lump sum, not monthly, but still hefty. Gonna eat a big chunk of that fresh eight-figure balance.
No clue. Why buy robot sub en route to propose?
Could be. Proposing with pricey gift and ring—seen that on TV.
……………
Tailed Cheon Jung-sa out of the Oseong store. Leaving downtown, scenery shifted. Sleek high-rises vanished; squat buildings clung to the hillside. Slum hill, they call it. Endless uphill stretch to the top.
Pat pat. I followed up the slope. Midway, he stops abruptly, turns.
"Uh, listen."
He scratched his head, looking awkward.
"How long you planning to tail me, missy?"
I just licked my Relativity-Lollipop and looked up. Lick.
"Hmm. Runaway orphan or something? You're too clean for that, though..."
Orphan. Spot on? Kinda. Cosmic lost child scales bigger, but ditched by mom? Similar vibe. I nodded slightly.
His face clouded. He worked his mouth, then patted my head, mumbling.
"...I see. Sorry for prying. But missy, this uncle's a merc who could drop dead anytime... Can't raise you."
Pat pat. Been ages since a stranger petted me. Complex feelings flow from his palm: guilt, pity, sorrow, nostalgia. And kinship.
Kinship, huh. Was Cheon Jung-sa an orphan too? Then we're comrades.
Decided. Uncle's on my attachment human list now.
So first, let me watch your proposal.
Unghihi.