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KANG JINTAE – THE SWORD AGENT 26.

[ FILE TYPE: CLASSIFIED ]

//: LOADING PROFILE: KANG JINTAE ...

international age: 23 birthplace: jeonju, south korea arcana: the sword team number: ten

//: LOADING MUTATION: BONE MANIPULATION ...

application one: bone regeneration — skeletal injuries he receives may be regenerated or even totally regrown at superhuman rates, though with costly drawbacks. for one, any flesh or muscular wounds are immune to regeneration. two, depending on the severity of the wounds he sustains, the process is nothing short of painful; similar to the process of broken bones healing, broken fingers and toes will not only heal quicker than whole hands or feet, but the recovery process is considerably milder – like a constant, dull throbbing around the area compared to actually feeling bone fragments shift and piece back together. three, regeneration of bone works only upon himself. by applying his ability to rebuild and regrow bone at an accelerated rate, he’s able to utilize it in osteokinetic constructs.

application two: bone density manipulation — the process of increasing or decreasing the density of his bones to make himself lighter or heavier depending on the circumstances. by increasing the density, he’s able to soften injuries to his skeleton as well as fortify any constructs he crafts from bones. however, it increases his weight and makes it harder to run, jump, etc. in decreasing the density, he becomes more susceptible to fracturing or breaking bones, though with it he also weighs less and may manipulate the density to his advantage such as against gravity, when running, jumping, etc.

application three: osteokinetic constructs — his main source of offence that requires the application of bone regeneration to be used to its fullest extent. he’s able to craft tools, objects, weapons, armours, and even appendages out of bone. each construct requires that the source be made of his own bone, and his bone only. constructs used offensively often require breaking through skin to complete formation, and such injuries are not readily affected by bone regeneration. constructs can be as light or as heavy as he desires, depending on the current bone density. naturally, denser constructs are formidable and challenging to break whereas lighter ones are more fragile and less reliable.

overall strengths and weaknesses: — i. any manipulation of bone may only be directed at his own skeleton. he is unable to manipulate nor regenerate the skeletons of others. ii. constructs or manipulations that require bone to protrude or break free from his skin will cause extensive injuries that cannot be healed by himself. wounds must be properly attended to, and he’s at great risk of overusage; that is, constantly reopening flesh and/or muscular wounds and hindering the recovery process. iii. the processes of bone regeneration and creating constructs are taxing on him and require ample enough downtime in between processes, especially with greater use of his abilities. pain is a given and must be regularly endured in order for him to complete the process of regenerating bone or creating constructs. the more effort required, the more pain that is to follow. iv. by manipulating the density of his skeleton, he is able to lessen the severity of falls by altering his weight against gravity. in addition, lighter weights enable him to be more nimble, though great care must still be exercised as the depletion of calcium creates a greater risk of bone breakage. v. constructs must be tangible objects in existence that are not simply made from imagination, and can only be created from his own skeleton.

//: LOADING HISTORY ..

PRE-MUTATION

tw: ( some graphic imagery )

prelude.

evil isn’t what you think it is.

it’s not the organised crime – the murders, the thefts, the robberies at gunpoint. it’s not the serial killer thirsting for a purpose by their gun and blade. it’s not the misguided child revolving his fate around busted lips and bruised knuckles. you don’t even know who the bad men and women truly are.

you’ll look in the mirror and swear what you see isn’t really there. that monster? that monster isn’t you. because if it was, you’d claw yourself out of your skin. and you can’t stand to see what you’ve become.

so the next time you’re reciting verbatim from history textbooks back in grade school that the likes of hitler and stalin are the only embodiments of evil, consider this:

what promises have you broken? ( whose worlds did you destroy? )

what did you let die? ( how many hearts have you left rotten with your ‘i love you’s’? )

who have you blamed for your own faults? ( and, subsequently, troubled with your greed? )

interlude.

one. evil takes the form of a one-seventy cm girl whose voice was a deathless song in the ears of her lover.

she’s of nothing but peasantry – homegrown by the famine and pestilence of country life; knows only blunt fingernails and weed-pulling out in the fields. she’s rat-skinned and fly-limbed. she’s a mosquito siphoning life and worth to leave behind bite-sized pieces of her own evil within others.

it’s with a simple boy enchanted by the wealth of his parents that together, they breed chaos.

two. the result of good and evil is not always righteous. it’s not black nor white nor grey. there’s plenty of grey in the world, little black or white. he begins following the path of his mosquito mother because he fears losing himself like his simple father. she teaches him tree climbing and pond skipping. she reminds him there’s nothing to fear among the forest. the long dead boys hanged by their throats from trees are old wives’ tales mangled throughout the centuries. ( no matter the animals that hiss and growl, they are the prey, too weak and foolish to take a bite out of you )

she’s the weight of the rifle placed in his hands. and as his simple father may try to forbid from their son tasting upon his lips what it’s like to kill, mother insists.

she insists because like a mosquito, she must make their son strong and capable, unlike father.

but it scares young son. it’s too much power and his finger around the trigger is chilling. he’s seen the soulless eyes of slaughtered deer. they stare and stare and stare and hope ( desperately, desperately desire that - ) he destroys himself for what she is doing. but she sees food, warmth, resources. she remembers her rat-skinned days of counting each of her ribs up the ladder of her sternum. and it’s by the first hunt that she believes ( no, knows ) that she’s doing the right thing – doing what simple father doesn’t have the courage to. it’s by the first hunt and haphazard gunfire that the son appreciates how alive the forest really is. birds flee en masse above the canopies, lizards scale the trunks of trees for higher ground, insects burrow beneath the soil, deer race away to not be the next one struck down. and there’s no death, but he can’t bear to look. he can’t bear to have another pair of dead, dark eyes carve into his brain. the task of hunting and gathering food remains mother’s chore, for he loses himself in the shadows along with his father.

three. mosquito mother sheds her carapace. she’s a leech wrapped tight around father’s neck. she’s itchy, with a parade of ants marching all along her arms in four-by four-by time that won’t go away until she’s had it all. it’s not until father that she learns the indulgence of becoming prim and proper like those from seoul. though she may not bear the blood of seoul, she’s content with stealing the skin of someone from there. their son’s but ten, starving himself on the meat of young rabbits while mother’s chewing on diamond rings and earrings. and it’s never enough for one as insatiable as she is.

it’s never enough. never enough. never, ever enough. it’s addiction. it’s drugs old farmer mom and dad strove to keep her from experimenting. for they knew she was born from addiction.

their son’s but fourteen when she has the world in the palm of her hands, father’s death by her serpent kiss, and walks out, never looking back.

she broke the most important vow of all. she not only had the world in the palm of her hands, she destroyed it.

simple, enchanted father watches his whole world come apart. it crashes down around him, and the aftermath is a fog of thick dust and smashed concrete around his feet. two, three, four unanswered calls and voicemails. together, son and father learn what the world truly is. it’s a cold, cold unforgiving tundra with ice wind biting at their cheeks and burning their fingers. the world’s oh-so cold, but they are not lost, they are not alone.

four. son bleeds out the toxicity, the infection of his mother. though brave as a lion, she was sly as a fox with the wings of a crow. she beat death every which way with her wings in her wake. she poisoned the good in father, made him craft a vice from his broken virtues to build a fantasy to protect himself from the world. son couldn’t blame father, but it mattered not that he disappointed mother, for he’d make father proud. he keeps father close to the heart, reminds father that they are not the shadows lost among the trees they once thought they were. mother will go up in flames and burn in hell.

five. following in the footsteps of his father isn’t so bad. he vows to create a secondary destiny from the crossroads and dead ends father met.

epilude.

the forest dies just after dusk. twilight is when the crickets hum and the gnats swarm to warmth. the bubbling brook near his feet cascades over stone. leaves deaden the little bit of wind and play peekaboo with the stars above. a brilliant ray flashes across the sky and reflects in his eyes. whiteness curtains over. the corners of his eyes burn, as if acid was flung in them. when his vision returns, the horizon is empty of the hurtling fire. he continues staring up at a landscape devoid of clouds and fading away stars, wonders how long the hike is to locate the ray that cut through the sky. he smiles, figures it as a symbol of rebirth, of something new, of better days.

POST-MUTATION

wait.

he follows that flash, darts through the woods, tramples over fallen branches and crushed flowers. he runs, runs, runs, and the trees grow taller. they eat away at the sky, at the flecks of snowflake stars shining tonight. they swallow whole his shadow. he keeps running, and the smoke fills his lungs when he passes a clearing. the smoke grabs him by the throat and chokes air out of him. thick, too thick, something is howling in the distance. the land is burned and cratered in by –

he wakes, gasping for breath, heart breaking into a staccato rhythm.

his father chides him, playfully suggests that the pains and weakness he feels in his arms and legs is a delayed growth spurt. and that’s what he gets for not drinking enough milk as a young kid. but it’s something more, so much more.

instance one. he describes it like a tremor ripping through his calf when he hits his leg against the coffee table. he fears not the blooming bruise rather that the bone might fracture and spit shards through his skin. it hurts a little too much, more than he remembers. was he really that frail?

instance two. birdboned. a routine check-up with his doctor and subsequent bloodwork reveal a low concentration of calcium in his system. a little too low for someone of his age. that, and his weight. he’s reminded of the dangers of being too underweight for too long; because should he continue on this path, osteoporosis among other symptoms may develop. bemused, the doctor requests a repeat of the tests in a week.

a week later, his calcium levels skyrocketed. when the doctor mentions it, he agrees with himself in that he’s felt his skin was too tight? or something like that. like he was a snake growing too big, needing to shed. but his weight’s gone up, whether regrettably or thankfully. he jokes with the doctor that the scale is faulty and maybe one of his medications interfered with the lab results.

instance three. thorns are pressing into his spine. hands are reaching through his flesh and grabbing at his spine, twisting and twisting. breaking off little pieces of bone. he medicates himself with painkillers; anything to stop the crushing sensation. he doesn’t sleep that night.

instance four: they follow. they manifest themselves in his dreams as the growing trees and swallowing darkness. they catch him and there’s nowhere to run. a scream tears at his throat, begging to be let free. they follow. they’ve been following a long time. they say they need him. now. his cooperation is necessary. they have the answers to his burning questions. he just needs to trust in them.

father looks at him in a mixture of awe and fear at the babble his son’s spewing. it’s quite an active imagination he has, to describe as though cold steel was pressing down upon him. or, better yet, why he freaked when he slammed the car door against his hand and thought it totally broken ( only to discover his hand went mostly unscathed ).

the doubt grows in his simple father. he’s simple in thinking, shying away from the complexities of, well, logic and reasoning. his father is gentle in his suggestion to attend physical therapy, along with maybe a therapist to make calm the storm their late mother erupted in him. no, mother is a thing of the past. a burnt-out ember created by the wild imagination of a young boy. maybe the followers do have the answers he seeks, but –

too many unknowns. too, too many. even as he reluctantly puts his trust in the followers of the arc. even as he exchanges one setting for a similar on the opposite end of the country.

he retains this: it’s the start of something new.

addendum:

the months go by, the time is fleeting. he can only teach and be taught to tolerate the pain as much as he would allow for himself. but it makes him stronger, they say. the warning labels on painkillers are in agreement that two, at a time, is the max. it’s not enough. but it’s all substantial enough for him to cope with this mutation, as they call it. his tolerance for pain has increased since the whole episode began; that was something, right?

so if it doesn’t kill him, it makes him stronger.

#arc.app #arc.sword #fc.byun baekhyun

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