Minewalker’s Plank

Busan, 15th year of the Cheon-kae era

(42nd year of the Yi Choseon Restoration (2035))

I knew I was done for the moment I started seeing dead people. It brings really bad luck. Ask any minewalker you meet. Like me. I’m one and I tell you that seeing dead souls walking around more than ruins your day.

This particular one was lurking around the back gate of the monstrous “Busan Shin Mirae'' condo complex, waiting for commoners like me to get out after work so he could sneak in. He looked like all he wanted was a dumpster to dive into. But he couldn’t be served coz’ all the luxurious residences here have automated garbage collection. Seemed like this ajeossi watching me from the shadows was out of luck, was mighty desperate and maybe a bit daft. Which is why he’d become a dead man in the first place.

My heart was beating painfully. I forced myself not to give him a second glance and turned towards the Haeundae Beach promenade, concentrating on my business. “It’s-nothing” and “this-ain’t-your-future-you’ll-get-a-new-identity”s forcefully swirling in my head all the way. I didn’t have far to go but I switched on the advertisement projection on my face mask. It gave anonymity to me and extra wons to my bank account. Win-win.

You’d think that the absence of a slicksuit makes the dead souls impossible to miss, but you hardly ever notice them. When you do, the saying goes that it’s the foretelling of your own death, a sign that you yourself are plunging into the abyss. Now it was happening to me. A hot tear trickled down my cheek, burning on the skin. More of “It’s-nothing” and “this-ain’t-your-future” forced into my sub-consciousness. I can’t die now. Not just yet. I have a plan. A few more backup installments and I’ll afford an identity change. I won’t end up dead like them.

There were few people about. The peak of the red sandstorm season means mandatory mask wear and that’s no fun way to take a stroll, trust me. Busan’s main beach pretty much belonged to me at that moment so I didn’t complain. If you look from Haeundae towards the sea, there’s nothing but the waves. On very clear days, you can spot the hazy outline of the Tsushima Island on the horizon, but that’s about it. Now it was just me, the dark sky and the gentle sound of waves on the sandy shore. The money for projecting ads all over your face comes even if there’s nobody around to see them.

On the westernmost end of Haeundae Beach, there’s a maze of rocks: a small patch of rugged wild seashore amidst the tamed wilderness of a neon-flashing metropolis of accessible leisure. Busan reeks of “holiday party town” 24/7. I produced a candle from my pocket, lit it and added its gentle flicker to a dozen others already shining there like little stars, giving the rocks an eerie, temple-like atmosphere. I’d switched off the ad broadcast, enjoying the moment. I’ve never met anyone else here among the rocks so I don’t know to whom those lights belong to. Stray romantics, women whose children were fathered by fishermen, or my fellow minewalkers trying to swing their luck... who knows. I prayed a little and turned home. There was business waiting for me.

I walked fast, almost ran, trying not to think about the dead. On the beach, I managed to shush the image away, so serene the shore was. When I hit Gunam Street glowing with expensive bars and shops, I felt haunted again. I can’t afford to make mistakes on today’s Walk, there’s still too much at stake. I have to compose myself.

I entered a small coffee-shop. It seemed new, I couldn’t really tell, I’ve never been. But I also couldn’t remember what was there before. It didn’t matter, I was after the latest fashion brew.

“Açaí poppy-milk latte with extra caffeine, if you please.” Strong, expensive coffee is my guilty pleasure.

“Açaí extra coming up. Oh, miss, your Korean is very good indeed,” replied the kid over the counter, his eyes wide with appreciation. That’s why I hate going to places I don’t know.

“Make it a takeaway when you’re at it,” I snapped back. Sipping coffee through the mask tube is disgusting, cleaning it even worse, but I lost the appetite to drink indoors. There’s nothing wrong about being complimented on your language skills. In theory. In practice, it gets tiring when it happens every single day of your life.

I’m among the last children born prior to the centralized sperm donation scheme, meaning my folks had to make love in person. Also meaning I was born mixed-race: long nose, freckles, wavy hair and all. My mum came to Korea on a dubious visa from the depths of a site called “Meet Hot Eastern European Beauties Online” or such like, because no-one here wanted to marry a farmer. My oegugin-ish face makes me a much sought-after maid, they say. I don’t know. My low social class makes me ‘compelled by law’ to have a daily job, and domestic service is one. My real job is minewalking. The job I’m thrilled to do. The job that will eventually kill me.

I sipped the coffee, ads on, feeling better. I crossed Haeundae Avenue and headed towards the hills, to my part of town. The high rises gave way to small apartment blocks, six or  seven stories maximum, and here and there, you can still make the outline of a one-story daldongnae slum house. Here in U-Dong, the coffee is weak and the street food tastes homely.

I pressed the chip on my slicksuit’s left wrist to the door scanner. “Welcome home, Paik,” said the robotic voice and the house’s automatic security system unlocked my shoe-box of an apartment. Just big enough to put in a bed, a table, a coffee maker and a small stove. But I have a bathroom that I don’t have to share with anyone and an actual window leading outside. Little perks of life.

I removed all clothing but the slicksuit and clicked-on the mo-cap control sensors onto my ankles and wrists, enjoying the ritual; the slow and steady, calming feeling I imagined warriors must have felt while having their armor put on. Like the horse and armor, minewalking gear was my most valuable possession. I logged into the Arena. I selected today’s death-Walk, participation fees accordingly sky-high. Eight people on the card. I switched on the camera and the mic. Plop, plop, plop, the faces of my rivals appeared on the projection.

“Dad, dad, look, a foreigner! Why is she connected?” A little boy on another participant’s screen was pointing his finger at where my icon was. “Dad, come on, try to talk to her in English!” The kid went on.

“Hello! Oh, hello! How are you? What is your name?” Began the father slowly, and the kid applauded.

“Hey, you, little one, it’s not polite to stick out your finger at people.” I said, cutting the honorifics. “And you,” I turned to the baffled father, “send him away before I report you for letting minors access the content.” 

It had been a shitty day so far.

“Sorry, I didn’t know. I won’t let that happen again,” stuttered the guy. Everyone else laughed. Not that anything we did was technically legal but even gray economics has house rules.

Then we all performed the ceremonial bows, lowered our VR visors and the outside world disappeared. We began.

A natural environment run with plenty of grass. I swore. Grass. I never trust the grass. I lowered myself to the ground and proceeded on all fours in a lizard-like movement. You can run pretty fast like that or crawl if need be. I was right. The mounds of shallow-laid mines were all around. Crawling was it then. I heard others on the left and right, some right behind me. I focused in front. In the other reality, I was stalking the linoleum of my one-room so the mo-cap sensors trigger into the Walk’s VR. My muscles ached.

I made it past some more obvious dangers and contemplated my next move. A stream. Something in my gut told me to wade it and not use the stepping stones, even though they’d be faster.

The mine exploded seconds later, close enough for me to hear. Poor fool. Strode right into it. The red alert laconically said, “Walker n. 3 was disconnected.”

My adrenaline spiked.

Today’s first death.

I scanned the terrain. There, a rock and a shallow pond, and then the finish line. Easy. Too easy for comfort. There will be more. I climbed on the rocks on my right, slow and steady, looking for irregularities in the terrain. A rope bridge, more climbing. I was sweating heavily. From my vantage point, I saw another Walker on the plain dodge a third mine in a row with skill I couldn’t help but admire even though it spelled doom for my chances to win. I jumped down from my overhang and landed with a somersault for good show. I ran through the now clear finishing line to the roar of adrenaline in my veins and to the cheers of the invisible crowds of betters.

I switched off everything, still like in slow-motion. I made the Restoration Day Grand Tournament qualifiers. I put the code for “personal hygiene, 45 minutes” into my slicksuit and it allowed me to remove it.

I slipped into the bathroom, pouring water all over my skin and hair; it’s a pain to untangle my wavy hair so often––thanks, air pollution––but it’s hard to imagine shaving it tight, not even when I reach ajumma age. Though I will have to when I move to Hanseong, norms are different in the capital. Or if I make enough for the big change and become a man. I smiled. Today’s money inflated my backup account yet closer to it. I slid my palm in between my legs. I’d hoped to get enough funds today already but that didn’t work out. That’s life. Walking is a sure way to get rich or die young. Sometimes, it’s get rich and die young.

Sure, you can always spend your prize money without setting up the backup account. That’s the “live fast––die a dead soul” approach. I prefer having my ass covered. Yeah, I’ve heard people bragging with the good old “I can stop anytime I want” nonsense. No, you can’t. The cocktail of binaural stimulation, gambling and adrenaline turns a Walker into a junkie in a blink. I pulsed my finger several times, gasping in pleasure, my body on fire. Backup account helps with your after life… I laughed ironically at that and moved my fingers faster, washing away the overthinking with bliss. I was so pumped up from the Walk I cummed quickly and hard.

_______________________

The second dead guy I met was digging through the trash of a nearby convenience store. Judging from his thin rugged looks, he was no newbie. I wondered where he stayed overnight and where he’d drifted from. And most importantly, how long since he’d stepped on his mine. I caught myself musing how long would I hold if it happened to me before I... I stopped right there. These were no good thoughts for a minewalker.

As I kept looking at the poor figure, his face shifted into the features of the man who’d perished the other day. The one with the little son. The child bugged me. Normally, kids these days live with their mothers, often far away from the fathers who only provide money and social status. Maybe the kid was visiting? But why would anyone minewalk on the rare occasion of seeing one’s son? Did something happen to the mother? Was the guy on his own with the kid? He sure wasn’t a well-seasoned minewalker, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the easy path across that stream. Could it be he chose a death run by accident? Or was he so desperate he didn’t settle for the low key runs and died trying? Life can be cruel that way. What will happen to the kid?

Some say that dying on a Walk isn’t a true death. That’s some serious BS. If you step on a mine, your slicksuit sends an instant report and you’re filed as dead in the state registry. Everything linked to your identity gets blocked: home access, bank account, social media, everything. Your slicksuit disintegrates in a few days. You fall out of the system. You become a breathing, walking, nameless corpse eating off dustbins. It’s addictive. This looming oblivion. Now, it kept sending its dead messengers my way as if it wanted to tell me: “You’ll be next.”

I ran for some coffee.

I know what made me remember the baffled father. He asked me my name. People expect me to have an English first name but I don’t. I used to be called “Madison” during English classes at school when we had to choose a foreign nickname. But I never went to college so nobody calls me Madison now. A lady I once served used to call me “Audrey” because French just sounds classy. My name’s Eun-soo. Mum saw it on a drama the year I was born. Cannot blame her, binge-watching soap-operas was her rare source of fun. I’m OK with my name, though.

That night, just before falling asleep, I mused if you can become a dead soul when you’re but a child.

_______________________

The air smelled festive though with a dusty aftertaste on that day. The atmosphere all around me thickened with joy the more the crowds streaming under the colorful lanterns inscribed Bucheonim oshin nal – Buddha’s Birthday confluenced into a river of masked slicksuits.

“Be rid of anxiety and regain confidence––use MindHealthApp.” And the smiling face of the handsome Crown Prince.

“Improve your lot in life with the online courses from the professors at SKY universities, get your first month trial with the code FUTURE30!”

“Become the perfect beauty! NaNoTech Aesthetics Clinic offers special programs for commoners.”

The ads buzzed and flickered all around and I wondered what my face told the world. I passed the pagoda offering route and driving safety; here I could discern some real faces as people paused the broadcast to take a selfie and then it was ads back on. The current of bodies slowed down as we approached the winding steps leading down to the main temple through the thicket of trees and when the foliage parted, the Haedong Yonggung Temple laid in front of me. Warm and peaceful, a lingering incense scent mixed with a salty spree. The Dragon Lord by the sea and Kwang-un, the Goddess of Mercy, by the hilltop, separated––or united––by a tiger-back bridge carved in white marble. Beneath it was a miniature narrow zawn where the waves rattled white pebbles incessantly. Somehow, a large playing ball found its way down there too and I pictured the sea dragon playfully poking it with its nose to the rhythm of the current, as non-dignified as the stern representation of the Dragon Lord as a Confucian scholar would find the image, I was sure.

A nagging pointy feeling in the back of my brain ruined the moment. I was being observed. I looked around. Below, by my knee, a figure was crouched on the bridge. He looked me directly in the eye and outstretched his hand in the timeless begging gesture. A dead soul. All––my heart included––stopped for a split second. I swear I recognized that face.

“Stop following me around!” I shouted and several people quickly turned away. I wrestled my way through the crowd as fast as I could, up and away. I cried myself through the trip back home and then yet again into sleep.

_______________________

I lay on my bed and amidst the cracks and maps made by trickling water on my ceiling, I contemplated my options. I fetched my tablet and searched through the Arena scheduling. A low-key Walk in about an hour and then another one tomorrow after work. Good. I pulled myself up.

I Walked.

And Walked some more.

And more. Low risk. Low gain, but gain nonetheless.

That’s how I started years ago. Simple quests one after another. Walk. Sleep. Work. Repeat. My mistress’ herbal tea tray grew heavier by the day. Walk. There was no more thrill. Walk. I sipped my açaí latte two-handed. Walk. Sleep. Work. My backup account grew. Still not enough. My circles started to peek through the layers of concealer.

When I slept in the bathroom, dreaming of Walking, I realized this had to stop.

From then, I took my walks back to the beach again. I stood among the rocks and flickering candles, and let my feet be washed by the waves, unseen by the lifeguard who’d mercilessly pull me out of the water ‘for my own safety’.

One night, I met someone there. A lean figure, ads on, clutched a candle in one hand and a cheap lighter in the other. Put a fire to it and placed it on a rock in a tense, focused, robot-like movement, utterly oblivious to the surroundings. I wanted to say hello but my voice froze in my throat. The figure left right away. No words of prayer, no bow, nothing. I watched the other’s candle as it burned into the dark.

_______________________

The second round of the Restoration Day Grand Tournament’s main event came just hours after the first and I was fourth on the current rankings. Still high enough to win the whole thing. A skyscraper run. My specialty.

I searched my instinct. The back elevator, up to the eighth floor, past the shopping mall district. Then out onto the main staircase, two more floors. This was going well. A lobby. I picked up a chair and flung it to roll across the carpet. The satisfactory sound of an exploding mine. I repeated the process with several more.

The world shifted colors into infrared. Damn. That complicates things.

The next floor was a sauna & spa area. Top tier establishment it had been in reality. Across to the utility staircase? Or more elevator? I registered a deafening explosion from where that was. Across the sauna then. I approached the outlining wall just close enough not to touch it. I measured my steps one at a time. About halfway through, I got a bad feeling. One at a time. The bad feeling intensified. I searched the room. Nothing, just a growing distress in the back of my head. As if I’d overlooked something very important.

Not waiting for the round to finish, I ordered immediate transfer of all my money to the backup account. All of it. Minewalking balance. Rent money. Tips from ad projection. That little extra I tucked away each month for good coffee. All of it. In that split second, I realized the infrared triggered a time-limit mine.

Dang!

My world exploded.

“Walker n. 4 was disconnected.”

There was nausea and pain. My limbs felt like they were filled with lead. For long seconds, I couldn’t move. That’s what it’s like, then. Dying. I was right. It hurt. Granted, only part of me had disappeared. My body was still there, breathing, but the electrical impulse channeled through my slicksuit was real enough.

I made myself sit and inhale deeply. I have to think. If I go out now, I won’t get back. Ever again. The inhabitant of this apartment has just died and the door system wouldn’t let anyone in, except for the officials. I ceased to exist. That is, Paik Eun-soo had ceased to exist. There was just a dead nameless woman sitting in her apartment and wearing her face. I’d witnessed this happen to others but being dead myself was a whole new matter. I caught myself laughing hysterically, thinking about the irony of life and death.

I made myself stop, get my shit straight, and start packing my stuff before the undertakers showed up. I had one shot and about half an hour to get it right. Luckily, I’ve drilled that.

_______________________

The Haedong Yonggung-sa was serene in its emptiness under the rain that day. I defenselessly crossed the tiger-back bridge and climbed up to the towering effigy of Kwang-un and knelt, my naked forehead pressed to the ground, palms raised towards the Bodhisattva. There, they found me. The monk let me perform my 108 bows and only then took me to the office. He scanned my chip.

“You came to cash in,” he stated the obvious. The followers of Buddha take care of all sorts of afterlife, even the semi-legal one. It pays.

I nodded. He didn’t say my name. I had none.

“Let me see your balance and what extra benefits you’ve ticked out,” the monk went through my application. Seconds stretched.

“Do I have enough?” I asked because it burned too much.

“You have something.”

I didn’t dare even take a breath.

“You’re also eligible for a considerable discount given your outstanding popularity rating. So some benefits will be possible,” he said.

I exhaled, as in truly exhaled, for the first time in weeks.

“I see you put top priority on high social standing. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t recommend that. You’re not college educated and it would show too much in your new employment.”

“Will I need to work?” I asked. I knew the answer, but one can always hope.

“Yes. There’s not enough money for a lifelong rent. Making you noble isn’t possible, even for us, we cannot work true miracles.” He actually laughed at his joke.

Right. Once a commoner, always a commoner. Even if you’re rich.

“I’d recommend staying lower-middle class, for you,” he continued.

Sad truth was, it was still better than what anyone from my family could hope for.

“How much would that cost?” I asked.

“About two-thirds of your deposit.”

“What about the last third? I know I can’t take the money back and trust me, I don’t feel extra charitable right now.” Any surplus money from your deposit you don’t use in crafting your new identity forfeits to the temple. Needless to say, they don’t put out a fixed price list for the “upgrades”. It’s pay and pray.

“Let me see what else you pre-selected. Residence permit in the capital, two-room apartment in a decent neighborhood, gender change... I’m sorry again, you can’t have them all.”

“What’s the most I can get?”

“Let me see.” He ran the calculation quickly: “Either you have a good apartment and a residence permit in Great Hanseong, or we make you a man. In the first case, you use up practically all of your deposit. In the second, about ten percent of your deposit stays with us. After we deduce payment for filing you as sterile, that is.”

My world spun around. I did it.

I paused for a short while not to look eager: “I guess I feel charitable, after all.” The choice was a no-brainer. Becoming a man would have been my real top priority but life on the edge had taught me to prioritize my priorities.

“I must also warn you that if you opt for the gender change, you would need to wear your mask non-stop while outside. Here, have this card. It’s from a discreet plastic surgery clinic in Jeju,” he handed me an old-fashioned name card.

I sniggered. Jeju, the capital of the tiny island Kingdom of New Tamna in the Yellow Sea, was the place where nobody asked no questions about nothing. Especially if you came from the Peninsula. 

“In case you save enough money from your new employment...” the monk’s words trailed off.

“They can fix my face and everything else, I get it. That’s what I want.” I know I said I really hated the masks. But living as a man overrules that.

“I grant you your donation will serve your karma well.” Said the monk, smiling,  and started typing on the computer.

“Can I keep my old first name?” I blurted suddenly.

He paused: “Actually––you can. If we change the hanja to something more manly.”

“Pick something lucky, then. You’re the learned man here.” I admit, I lied. I’m not just OK with my first name. I really love it.

The monk kept typing for a while and finally handed me my new identity summary for approval: Kang Eun-soo, male, 23 years old, low-ranking clerk, residence permit in Gimhae, it read.

“Gimhae, hm?” I uttered.

“Expanding custom’s offices near the airport. Many newly hired staff, you shouldn’t look suspicious there. The associated lodging is a one-room but the address is adequate,” he said while he continued to type. “A well-developed area.”

Not like U-Dong then. That’s the downside of the identity switch: you have to change towns, no matter what. I could come back to Busan to visit if I ever wanted to, Gimhae isn’t that far. But now I couldn’t imagine missing Busan that much. Instead, I pictured having spare money to travel some. I liked that idea. Another downside is that you can’t minewalk ever again. Death needs to look real. . There’s a MindHealthApp program for the withdrawal syndrome though, I looked that up.

I handed the summary back with a smile: “That’s good. Thank you.”

He finalized the entry and turned away while I donned a new slicksuit. It beeped and went live. At that very moment, I became someone else. I felt euphoric. I chose this path long ago.

I left the temple with a silent farewell to the Bodhisattva, but her face was obscured by falling rain.

_______________________

The magnetic liner gave me vertigo. We were Gimhae bound. Well, I was Gimhae bound. There was no driver to justify the plural. Rooftops after rooftops passed under us. I hoped that I’d be excited but what still reigned inside of me was emptiness. My soul was a tabula rasa. I strangely liked that too.

A young couple entered my wagon. They sat, held hands and I immediately panicked: I stared for long seconds at the girly figure with ads on holding stiffly the hand of a dead soul––no slicksuit––and then I jumped up towards the door, knocking my knuckles hard on it, begging it to open. The automation kept driving on. Cold sweat was running down my spine. What was it my mind was trying to tell me? Shall I pull the emergency break? For what? Could you fake sickness, Kang Eun-soo? Hm?

Kang Eun-soo. I was Kang Eun-soo. I had nothing to fear. The dead souls ceased to be omens. Right? Right.

The couple bowed in excuse and descended on the next stop.

_______________________

The monk didn’t lie, my new residence area was well-developed: a park, a cycling route, designs and materials imitating the futuristic dream-places of Midan and Songdo from the mid-2010s, though who knows how the cheaper facades here would look in ten years. The main pedestrian road sported branded coffee-shops, traditional herbal tea-rooms and even a craft beer pub. I smelled a light undertone of warm chili paste that told me that there was a good-old tteokbokki place hiding just around the corner.

No-one was eating out, though. A lone jogger was making his routine around the park––“Morning Fable wondrous moisturiser, 1+1 special offer, get yours from GlowSkinClinique”, read his mask. He moved slowly, mechanically, like he wasn’t really there in the moment. That sight made my skin crawl. What was with me today?

My new apartment block was a tower of one-rooms with a rooftop garden and a concierge. Wow. Really. His mask was blacked-out: no face, but no ads either. I swallowed deeply.

“Hello. I am Kang Eun-soo, new tenant of 804,” I said, and tried to make my voice pitch deeper.

The concierge nodded. I presented my left wrist. The concierge reached out for the scanner and I got goose-bumps. He moved with the same stiff senselessness as the jogger. As the girl in the liner. As the person I met among the rocks in Busan. I looked at the anonymized mask of the concierge and felt an animal, irrational panic get the hold of me.

The figure tightly held my hand.

In a slow, robotic voice it said: “Welcome to Gimhae.” It switched off the black-out mode and I saw into the mask. I stared in horror at a true dead soul. At my future.

The mask held nothing.

END