This is a work of fiction. There are no relations to any real persons, groups, events, etc. The author's art will be added upon release. Please follow the author's social media accounts for art and updates.
Trigger warning: guns, blood, and curse words
C1: If it Breaks your Heart.
Mayas flutter their brown feathers, landing on the branches of the trees in the warmth of the tropical air. Despite a few of them being petite, they sing merrily despite the beeping just a little miles away, they sung like one of those people hear during their stay at the remote provinces. They sung with such melodies that any individual would want to hear. Only to be deafened by the sounds of the ominous wiper of steel, the shrill sound of a dagger being unsheathed in the middle of a the broad daylight. It pierced through the air, followed by a continuous trickle of blood relentlessly staining the tiles down, pacing down to the ground of small greenery of the garden. Despite the inherent conflict, the melodic serenade permeates the garden's serenity undisturbed.
A cough. A deep cough. Another cough echoed, and a splash of crimson erupted from a man's mouth that morbidly drips down on the side of his lips He wasn't on the brink of death, but his vision was starting to get hazy as he saw his blood tainting his hands. The blood didn't seem to make the birds flutter their wings to fly away; they were like a person who minds their own business. "What do you want?" The man rasped; his voice strained, but his hand moved the paintbrush on the canvas. He kept painting this sight, which isn't something that anyone could imagine the person who got hurt remained unfazed. The victim should have been begging, gasping for air. It put a bad taste in his own personal views of the man in front of him as he, the attacker put his guard up mustering some confidence on his face staring at the man he just injured. "Mr. President," despite having a hand on his cheek and his ears trying to stop bleeding from the cuts, the assailant had grappled all his loathing and nudged the nozzle of the gun beside the president's head. "Give us back our lands." Contrasting with the formalities of the gun on his head was the attitude of the victim, the president. "Your grandparents promised to return it to us. It's been years since your family said they'd return it to us," he held up a gun, that has been drenched in blood from the sins he had made making his way towards the small little garden just outside of the house of the gentleman, the president. He quickly switches his hold to the gun as the slashes and open wounds on his arms bleed yet he firmly pushes the nozzle to the side of the president's head.
"We told you we're giving it back until our country pays our debts." the president's tone weren't convincing enough nor sympathetic. It was a plain statement that make the assailant wonder who put those words in his mouth. Everyone knows that the country have some reserved money. That's what he was thinking.
"For how long?" Despite having blood on the hands of the one who holds his, "When we're dead?" His brows knitted in annoyance, much as he enjoyed taunting the man. Enjoyed wasn't the right word but for him this provoking tension makes him thrilled to finally let out what he has been keeping inside for the long run as being the citizen of this country.
"You don't understand the situation, do you?"
"Give us back the lands. Your explanation is beyond meaningless after all what my family went through our years." The assailant flicked the trigger toward the president; blood gushed as soon as it made contact with his skin. "I don't care if I kill you right now. Give our lands back." Was it luck that the gun was aimed at the president's hand? He knew it was directed towards the president's head yet he shoot it on his nemesis'hand. For the president, it was just disappointing. It left the canvas in front of him with smoke rising from the bullet now piercing through it, his own blood splattering across the canvas. "You won't even hear any explanation?" He simply pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it into the palm of his hands to stop it from bleeding, despite being upset about the blood on his painting. Opening a tube of maroon paint, he squeezed it carefully onto the old glass palette beside him.
"Tomatoes were once considered something that shouldn't be eaten," he dipped his paintbrush into it just enough for the bristles to be covered with color and brushed it onto the canvas that was splattered with his blood. "Throughout history, it was surrounded by questions. Is it a fruit? Is it a vegetable? Is it poisonous? Can we eat it? It 's clear now what the answer is , but they didn 't have those answers back then." The brush strokes glided carefully, covering the blood splatter and mixing with the paint as if matching the scenery just behind the hole of the canvas. He intends to paint the subject right in front of him though and he intends to paint a person on top of it.
"Do any of these ridiculous things matter to me?" The assailant frowned, troubled yet internally pondering what he was saying. Although he was blinded by rage, it seemed to be his nature to be curious and simply listen. "What nonsense are you telling me? Trying to convince me?" He said the opposite thing he would say if this was a classroom setup. He could have said, 'what does it ment?' yet this is outside and it doesn't matter anyway the important thing was the deaths wasn't be wasted for nothing and awaiting for the product of his doing.
"Have you thought about the significance of that tale?"
"We're not in school. You're not my teacher; why the hell would I even want to analyze your freaking tale?!"
"It was discovered that it can be eaten and is beneficial for people. It was even put on a trial." He stops as he dips a new brush to yellow. "You do know an investigation will be conducted to see if this thing will be brought up to the court. You'll have your lands back, but then our country will be shrouded in debt once more, and the one you'll run to is the politician backer. The one who'll help you in court will gain the hero title. Then you will be dispensable. And the history you hated will be repeated, maybe not with you but to the others." He was right, he knew he'll be used, yet the assailant must not falter. After all the things he sacrificed to get his way up here, the urge to make a movement to make the eye of justice turned to his own family even just for once. He must not falter.
"Everyone knows that people who support people become either dispensable or pawns. I'd rather not be either of those. You'll be the dispensable one for us, Mr. President. Right now. If I kill you right here, then no politician will back me up." If he, the assailant, could just shut his worries and doubts to his own decisions down by shooting another bullet but he was already down to the last three bullets.
"You're not thinking. The vice president, then the Senate president, and then the House of Representatives speaker. What else? Are you even sure if they're clean enough for me to be replaced by them?" Another truth, the president didn't lied about. The assailant didn't knew about this wether the school didn't thought this lesson or was the public wasn't informed about it, what ever the reason he dismissed what he said.
"Your heritage will help the many lives of the people, and it'll also benefit you," his hand stops moving, "well, indirectly. But I will make sure of this to the president in the future that you'll take all the credit for your family's sacrifice. The Philippines owes you after all, for the country cannot stand on its own without the help from the crops on your lands." One of the countries that are placed in the Pacific Ring of Fire that are abundant in volcanoes and can have soil with nutrients coming from the soil is the Philippines. With that in mind, the president and his constituents knew that the situation was far more grievous than any of the newspapers or the media could discuss. A healthy land could solve the problems in goods for the thousands of hungry people and having a hold and a little control on the lands could make a good strategic plan for the up coming harvests for the next couple of years. At least, he thought for the last three of his remaining terms he could contribute more to the people he had sworn under their trust and votes. A little steal couldn't hurt if this is the kind of steal, he thought about this through and through there was no other way especially with the independent rage that some people have against him.
"Mr. President, while I still call you my president," the assailant held his breath deeply before pressing his ears harder, "return it to us."
"If I die, you can freely get your lands back," the president said, rubbing his neck before getting his spare handkerchief to cleanly wrap his hands around the hole in his palms as he looked over the splashed blood on the canvas. "You don't understand the situation here." He groans as he blends the color on the canvas as it noticeably dries on his brush. "Violence isn't going to-" With another loud bang, it hit perfectly the same spot that was hit on his hands as the president groaned in pain he held on his hand. The president's vision was now the same as the assailant's: in a haze and his head feeling the spin.
"Johnny Lucky S. Triker, that's my name, President Helio Andreis." The assailant sat on the grass of the garden of the gentlemen. He was a little calmer than earlier and he took a little breath of relief as he settled down. What calmed him was shooting it again, it blocked the doubt in his brains temporarily. "They said my bullets always hit the one who isn't righteous and on the wrong side. Whenever I wanted to shoot somebody on the right, it never grazed them. You already know what the other thing is, don't you, Helio? My bullets never lie to me." Lucky hit him. Does that mean he is on the wrong side of the history? The president remained still to his decision though. He didn't thought of that. The one who question if the president was on the wrong side of the history was lucky. At this point, their thoughts could be colliding at some things they wanted to do. They both wanted to do something better for the future of both of the countries they lived in yet they have different ways of settling on how to do it.
"Maybe you're just bad at aiming." Lucky's breathing suddenly became compromised as an arm tightened around his neck. It wasn't the president that attacked him. The president just remained still on his chair. Lucky could only guess, it was one of the presidential guards. With Lucky's grip, he held on to the arm and swiftly loosened it, desperate to breathe, pulling the arm upward, creating a moment of space. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he moved desperately, aiming to untangle himself from the unwanted force yet he wasn't quick to catch up to the movements. His breathing labored, and his vision slowly darkened as it tightened with much force no matter how Lucky tried to get away. Lucky's body can't handle the loss of blood as he finds himself back to the tackle, and with a final struggle and a fruitless attempt to escape, his body goes limp, and his body slumps onto the grass of the presidential garden.
"Mr. President, this isn't the time to slack off." Despite being wounded in his hand, President Helio stood up unfazed yet he folded his knees as he places his hand right in front of the face of Lucky. Feeling the slight breathing he stood up fixing his cream colored long sleeves and pitch black jeans. "These rascals are attacking Mr. President, the home of the gentleman (Malacañang). Should we place it on the news as a threat?" Hello shook his head knowing it wasn't a good idea, at least for him. "That action is unideal. This is, after all, a family and private presidential matter. No one should know about this. Do not report it to the police either." The president's security guard held his earpiece listening, "Mr. President, I think you should go now. My people have informed me of the unintervined entry of Tiker's forces." the security looked at Tiker frowning, "To have such a thick face and such a rebellious phase just coming up to do whatever he thinks is good for themselves." he clicks his tongue in dismay. "President Helio, I'm awaiting your orders." With long, fast-paced steps, the president rushed towards his office without any word coming from him. The president always knew his weakness. It was his other half, the president's lady. His eyes scanned her whole body seeing the dried-up blood from her mouth with her back resting on the bookshelf. His hands reached for her shoulders and bit his lip as his insides ache in pain. "Carry her." He couldn't carry her with his own state, his vision is also slowly fading.
There is no time to weep for your loved ones when your life is gravely important to more than one person. Carrying the wife of the president, one of his security guards trailed behind into a dimly lit stairway that descended into a part that wasn't in the general public's eye mall hallway at the bottom of the gentleman's home. It was under the waters near it, an underwater tunnel towards a safe.
"Thank you."
"It's always been our duty, Mr. President."
"Get her to safety." Under the tunnel's dimness, the small old fluorescent lights remain flickering. Guide in going out as they slow down the trail, catching their breaths.
"The tunnel maintenance was unobserved for the past few years; only a few of us know this for security purposes." He marched step by step, the minutes passing slowly in the engulfing darkness. "I've taken care of the first lady's wounds." The sound of dripping gets faster as the security officer walks. "I've taken care of her." The security officer turns back to the president, but a gun meets his nose, the gunpowder still fresh and smoking the nuzzle. He slightly froze with shock, yet he immediately smirked as he heard the dripping blood to the ground echo much faster. The illustrious leader of the nation, adorned with the mantle of authority, grasping with great deliberation a formidable firearm, an instrument of both power and peril. With a shot, the security officer's pin flag falls as if aiming to slip or produce a warning.
"Mr. President, shoot the gun, please. Fire it at my head." His lips twitched, pulling a line into a curved smile. Without hesitation, the gun fired, and with a thunderous sound, the officer's head hit the ground.
"Mr. President, I didn't know you were such a coward!" Embracing the weighty mantle of responsibility that rested heavily upon his broad shoulders, he deftly positioned his firearm behind him while the warmth of his brow collided intimately with the robust muzzle of his esteemed colleague—an individual who possessed the grave duty of safeguarding the illustrious First Lady.
"Mr. President, I know you wouldn't hesitate to kill me, but you should be concerned about your wife." Although he had seen a glimpse of the dark ruby red falling from her, his finger brushed the trigger as if contemplating whether to shoot him. However, without hesitation, the guard raised a short blade to the president's neck, slyly gliding it across.
"Officer Babel, what do you even plan on doing? Don't you think this is unnecessary? Just for theatrics?" With a flick of the officer's wrist, the blade was sent flying toward the head of the first security officer, hitting his forehead with the handle and making him lose consciousness. The truth was that he had only been shot in the lobe of the ear and knee. With a little twist of the president's body, he then shot the man behind Officer Babel in the knee; however, a threat hit the president in his lungs with a silent shot coming from more people who were running and chasing them. They weren't visible to the eye because of the darkness, yet it hit the president once more in the lung.
"Warning shot? That's silly of you."
"Is she okay now?" Officer Babel placed the lady on the president's arm as he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it to the red fluids around the lady's neck.
"Mr. President, you should run. You are the most important person in this country right now. You need to run." The president looked at his wife as he considered how to survive this perilous situation without failing on both sides of the coin: being the face and mind of his country while also being a good husband. What is he even living for in his entire life? When he is alone, does he have anything to live for? To live for oneself or to live for the many?
"President," the lady's hands reached Helio's arms, and as if the warmth of her hands made him lose his trance of thought, he snapped back to reality. "I'll be with you, whatever your decision is." With one hand, she placed it reassuringly on him, smiling, but then looked away as she coughed, spilling a little blood away from him.
"What's wrong with her? Didn't you patch up her wounds?"
"I did, but unfortunately, I do not know how to cure poisons. I don't know what to do about this." The illustrious Babel caressed the nape of his neck in a gesture that bespoke surrender, reluctantly acknowledging his defeat.
"You can leave me here." The president's wife moved herself toward the side of the tunnel.
"No, you need to be with me. We only have a few—"
"My president," she weeps. "Understand that your country needs you more than your wife! Your country is currently under attack, not just us!" The president's eyes soften in disappointment as she picks up her hand. "Remember what I said to you before? Till death do us part, I will ensure your future is great… that's why…" The grip on their hands tightens. "I need you to forget about me for now. Set your priorities straight, Mr. President. I voted for you as a citizen, not as your wife. Straighten your back! IF YOU DON'T, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR COUNTRY!" She lets go of his hand, forcing him to go.
"I will… I will take responsibility for you." Helio bit his lip. "I will be back for you." Helio thought he was being a coward. It was a short thought yet it burned his insides not having his lady go with him.
"Don't turn back, my president."
Sweat trickled down his forehead as he tumbled off his office chair, losing his balance after waking up. Despite the groggy sleepy remnants, bit by bit, his attention to his surroundings gradually became clear. The rich smell of old wood, architecturally and masterfully built into the windows, the hues of cream color that complimented it on the cement and the scent of some eucalyptus oil and lavender oil over the four cornered walls. Along with it were the manga panels that hung on the wall, carefully secured with the medical tape to avoid being ripped by plastic tape. As the long LED light above shines thad slowly lost its purpose, as it was slightly dimmer than he first bought it to replace th old fluorescent light. And the four window panels covered the light and filtered the morning sun while the green net that helped keep the pesky insects and mosquitoes out that kept his house free from intrusion of any harm.
Ah this is… my room. I dreamt about my own work huh.
Knock
"Sensei, your review of the work is here! Open the door!"
"Ah, it's open." the man exhaled sharply still having the dizziness taking over his brain slowly. Irritated at the silent noise he complains as he massages the side of his forehead. "What's with those damn knocks?! That's too silent!" That was his way of telling it was something he can barely here. He rubs the cold back of his neck with his shaking hands. It was shaking yet it wasn't cold nor can be called clumsy, those hands are the hands of a creator, full of hardened calloused fingers. It wasn't pleasant to touch but smoother than of the people who works harder outside in the field. At least that's what he thinks.
"Say what you want." The door creeks open as the footsteps of them walking on the wooden floor. "Or don't bother me if you can't say anything than a whisper."
"Your review of the work-"
"-Tell me what its contents."
"But that's inappropriate!"
"-you're the assistant here. I ask you to read those contents for me, so I don't have to waste time reading it." He didn't raise his voice which is the opposite of his patience silently losing it.
"T-then," the assistant clears her throat.
"Upon further inspection, the contents of your manga proposal were too controversial to be published." He was still, his voice remained in a conversational volume contrasting with the burrowing frustration withing him that in any moment he could lose.
The mangaka bit his lower lip in dismay, he immediately knew that was the answer he'd get. He had an argument with the book and the editor whom he is working with. It's always that way. He was always like that. He who has always the intellectual workings getting slammed shut immediately right when his ideas looks like it'll bear fruit of readers. This is why he should be the one who propose the idea himself to persuade them better. Admittingly the only reason his last manga was published without any shut down like this was due to his slick communication and persuasive skills. The last manga contains some major graphic violence and there was even an argument that it should be banned. This mangaka has always been looking outwards and onwards one magazine can say about him and he depicts reality in his works.
"Haneul, sensei- I'm sorry for this fail." The assistant immediately bows in sorry and regret of reading the written words on the paper.
"It's not your problem. You just read what is written." Haneul inhaled sharply, standing up he swiftly picked up his manuscript on the table that he has been working all night. Haneul knew settling down wouldn't fix anything aside from that his money is running down low due to his extensive research that he's been doing for the plot he has been writing the manuscript. That same manuscript he dreamt a little earlier. It was vivid and he can contest it'll look like it is the truth. Haneul immediately knew this will be a hit in the foreign settings. He after all doesn't write just for his country but he writes for his truth and enjoyment.
Haneul sucks.
His writing sucks so bad. I want to kill him off.
"W-Wait Haneul, sensei- Where are you going?" Haneul's assistant was shocked at what he is doing,just running off to somewhere. The assistant even questioned if he was going to the publisher himself. It was insane idea but he is Haneul. As the mangaka reached by the door he picked up his plain dark shoes, the polished one. He was after all doing another proposal by himself. He wasn't the one who proposed his work and he was overworking himself with the last few months and even got sick. He thought to himself it was a mistake to just rely on the his editor when he can just brought the damn manuscript and pursuaded the boss himself. He is after all Haneul.
"Going to propose my other manuscript."
"You have another— What?" His assistant couldn't believe it, meanwhile the other assistants who were in the other office room in his house just waved goodbye.They know Haneul always has this backup story proposal and they know he doesn't like to rest even though he's sick.Eventhough Haneul despite being pure Korean in blood, he seemed to be inclined to what people can call overworking. His new assistant just scratched his own head at what he just witnessed and get back to the office. As the door opened an immediate stab surprised Haneul and stabbed him multiple times before fleeing away. His blood stained his deep red jacket. Despite his shock something came to mind. He must remember the feeling of it. How at first it wasn't that much pain but the longer it was it felt more difficult to move. He is losing blood. His instinct to survive kicked in, "Hey." He shouted, "help me, I got stabbed." He shouted as one of his older assistants was about to go to the comfort room and she immediately asked for the other's help. As they called up the ambulance.
I really should remember the feeling of getting stabbed. Haneul told himself repeatedly.
When he woke up, he found himself at the hospital. Of course he always knew his surroundings. He has been here multiple times due to different circumstances, others for research for the manga, his own immune system collapsing and him looking out for his live action manga series taping.
"Haneul Jeo. What situation have you placed yourself into?" The "grumpy dad" voice was coming from his editor sitting on the chair beside him. He is familiar with that voice, his old *ss editor, Midori.
"Sorry."
"Ah. Seems like whatever I tell you doesn't get inside your head." Midori smiles weakly at him. He has always been pale and weak along with his dustlike grey hairs unruffled on his head and his distinct blue eyes that don't fit his name that means green, a name that was given by his parents. "You do know I'm only in my position now because of your work. Don't make it hard for me. I've done my work in persuading them to get your work."
"I know."
"Your works are always controversial, that's why some people are mad at you." Midori grabbed the manuscript folder Haneul was holding. "It hits close to home to them in the worst way. There are real people who experience these terrible acts of violence and injustice, Haneul. Change some of these." Midori tapped the folder. "I've already read some of this. This was a little under the nose." Midori knew that Haneul was talented in the first place and that his comeback to the manga industry as an editor made an impact and got them excellent sales. "I knew you always wanted to make it realistic, true and relatable but please do be careful. We can't afford any lawsuits nor enemies." Midori was understanding, he always knew Haneul Jeo wanted to speak the truth. He was chasing after all to a ghost of his past that was already resolved yet it hunts him. Midori knew Haneul Jeo was after the people who intended harm against him and his family. Haneul Jeo has always been this way ever since it shaped him as a child. A terrible backstory unelaborated to others for such a gifted writer. A tragic picture.
"Though since you always do something that sells and I think I can't stop you, I'll propose it to the head. Just rest for a while. You can't write what you want if you're sick." He said that but he always knew Haneul wouldn't stop moving. It was a passion of his. Haneul even didn't finish college just to pursue this. Haneul is hard headed. He's always moving towards what he thinks he deserves. Midori can't sympathise with his actions but all he can do is support his belief to this mangaka that he thinks will progress the views of the people around him. "Thread carefully at what you want to express." He sighed as he pointed towards the paper bag on the bedside table. "I brought you food. Eat up. I'm going to go now." As Midori went out walking towards the counter of the hospital to pay for the bills, Haneul got the food out of the bag and ate it up. He was hungry. He hasn't been eating well since he was sick for the whole month when his immune system dropped. Midori has been monitoring him though so he gets medication nonetheless despite having a family on his own, his children have now sons and daughters for themselves. He really is an old man now. He missed taking care of his children that's why he also has been looking out towards his other talents like Haneul, Toshio and Claude.
"I'm terribly sorry." He muttered as he was hit by the shoulder by some man. The man muttered no response yet he just bowed as he moved on. The man walked towards the hallway as he slowly opened the door where Haneul is. Haneul was unfazed as he then was shot by the man unceremoniously. Haneul always had this thought to himself that he would be killed young so he always expected something would go wrong.
The beeping of the monitor slowly drops.
Haneul is dead.