SPGM Ch 2
by soapa“It’s been a while.”
A man holding a bountiful bouquet entered the hospital room. The old man, who had been sitting on the bed gazing at the scenery outside the window, smiled with a strange expression.
“Has it?”
“Nearly twenty years isn’t exactly recent, is it?”
The man who handed over the bouquet stretched out on the bed. His face touched the tips of the old man’s feet, hidden under the blanket. The old man scoffed at the man’s still casual behavior even after twenty years of separation.
“Even if I don’t want to see you, you keep showing up. Seeing you every day, it’s more surprising that it’s been twenty years.”
“Wow, I think I just heard something amazing. Were you my fan by any chance? Enough to look me up every day?”
My haughty uncle was my secret fan? The truly surprised man widened his eyes. But his lips soon pouted as if he had lost his enthusiasm. His uncle’s expression as he looked at him was terribly impassive.
“They say people generally mellow with age. You haven’t changed a bit in twenty years.”
“Neither have you. You’re still childish after twenty years. Kyle spoiled you too much.”
“That’s true. It’s a fact that my father is soft on me. More than that, why were you looking me up every day if you weren’t a fan?”
What reason would the man who abandoned his family have to suddenly check up on how his nephew was doing?
“You still have the habit of only hearing what you want to hear. I’ll say it again, even if I didn’t want to see you, you kept showing up.”
“It’s true that I’m famous, but I can’t imagine why I would keep showing up to someone who doesn’t want to see me. Ah, is it perhaps…?”
The man, sitting up, said with sparkling eyes,
“You got a lover? And that person is my fan. So they talk about me every day. Am I right?”
The old man scoffed coldly.
“A lover? You speak such unpleasant words.”
“Then a partner?”
“What’s the difference between a lover and a partner?”
“Then what is it? If it’s not a lover or a partner. With your personality, you wouldn’t have an assistant.”
The man, lying back down on the bed, fell into deep thought. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in his head.
“Ah, I get it.”
The old man, now wearing glasses, stared at the bouquet. The man instantly knew that the twitching of his eyebrows without lifting his gaze meant ‘Tell me’.
“A dog. You’re raising a dog, right? I’m quite popular with animals. I often hear from fans that their pets howl whenever my commercials come on.”
The bouquet the man gifted was too large for the old man to hold comfortably. The old man, resting it on his thigh, gazed at each of the beautifully arranged flowers, his gaze settling on one in particular.
“If not a dog, then a cat?”
“This.”
The old man suddenly spoke to the man who was muttering nonsense.
“Is this your favorite flower?”
The man sat up. Confirming what the old man’s bony finger was pointing at, the man asked in a puzzled tone,
“It is, but why are you asking this suddenly?”
“There seems to be a lot of these.”
“Hmm? Ah, that’s right.”
Looking at the bouquet, the old man was certainly right. There were especially many tuberoses tinged with a pale pink. Only then did the man remember that he had ordered them as the main flower.
“I thought these were the prettiest of all the flowers. So I asked them to arrange the bouquet mainly with these. I’d forgotten until just now.”
“Have you ever gone around saying you like these?”
The old man, pulling out a dainty tuberose stem, asked.
“Well, I don’t remember well. I might have been asked what my favorite flower is. I might have mentioned it casually then.”
“You terrible thing.”
The strangely amused words puzzled the man.
“Are you talking to me?”
“No, not you.”
Scoffing, the old man handed the tuberose he was holding to the man. When the man just stared blankly without accepting it, the old man tossed the flower at him and said,
“When I’m gone…”
The man looked up, gazing at the flower that had landed on his thigh.
“…go to that place.”
“That place?”
“Yes. You’ve been there before. Although you were very young.”
“That’s true, but why there all of a sudden?”
Thud. The old man leaned his head back against the headboard and slowly closed his eyes. Silent for a moment, as if recalling something, he suddenly smiled. The man, for some reason, couldn’t take his eyes off that smile.
“It will surely…”
“…….”
“…be a gift.”
Blink. Jester opened his eyes.
“…….”
The now-familiar ceiling greeted him. Blinking his heavy eyes slowly, he turned his body to the side. Just as he was about to close his eyes again to hold onto the lingering drowsiness, a sweet fragrance wafted into his nose. As if drawn by an irresistible force, Jester opened his eyes and looked at the flower placed on the nightstand. It was a gift from Weather, who had returned after going out last night.
“I wanted to give it to you.”
The modest but dainty white flower emitted an excessively sweet fragrance. As Jester, drawn by the scent, picked up the flower, Weather smiled with delight. Jester also responded with a gentle smile to Weather, who had braved the outside world to procure a flower for him.
Jester gazed at it with drowsy eyes, recalling that he had placed it in a glass bottle on the nightstand right after receiving it.
I think I saw that flower in my dream too.
“What was that dream?”
He was certain he had a dream, but he couldn’t remember what it was about. He only guessed that it might be related to that flower. Even that thought soon faded with the oncoming drowsiness. Jester stared at the flower until the moment he closed his eyes.
🎥
Ten days since losing his memory. Although his lost memories had not yet returned, new memories, fresh because he had forgotten everything, were being instilled by Weather, and new days were piling up accordingly. The mansion, which had only felt suspicious, now felt as comfortable as his own home, and although it was a closed environment with restricted freedom, daily life with Weather was nothing but enjoyable.
The sweet scent of flowers that he felt upon waking up. Jester’s days recently always started with the fragrance. It was because Weather, whose outings had become more frequent, kept giving him flowers.
After the first outing, Weather started keeping the rotten rag armor in his car instead of Jester’s room. It was a considerate act, but since he wore it throughout his outings, Weather still brought back a foul odor.
The sight of him, cloaked in a terrible smell, presenting sweet-smelling flowers, kept making Jester laugh. Now, whenever he smelled the fragrance of the nameless white flower, the stench came to mind as well. It was ironic.
“Jester, are you awake?”
He would wake up around the same time every day and lie sprawled on the bed, gazing endlessly at the flower, and Weather would invariably come looking for him. Knock, knock. Two knocks followed, and the door opened. Their gazes immediately locked. Jester had been staring at the door ever since he heard Weather’s footsteps ascending the stairs.
“Why didn’t you come down if you’re awake?”
“Because I like it when Weather comes to get me.”
“Don’t sweet-talk me again.”
Even as he spoke reproachfully, Weather’s expression softened. Only after carefully taking in that sight did Jester get up. It was Jester’s own routine for starting the day.
Afterwards, he would have a late breakfast with Weather and head to the living room. They pushed the sofa close to the wall and played badminton lightly in the center of the living room. Weather had found rackets and shuttlecocks for Jester, who lacked physical activity.
Fortunately, the mansion had high ceilings, so there was no problem with swinging the rackets with full force. As a result, shuttlecocks piled up daily on the old chandelier light fixture hanging from the ceiling, but neither of them minded at all.
After working up a sweat, they would clean the mansion since they were already dirty and wash up. Unlike Jester, who would spend a long time lounging in the bathtub, Weather always finished his shower quickly and prepared lunch. The menu mostly consisted of light sandwiches and fruit.
On days when Weather didn’t go out, they spent time together reading books or playing board games. They also watched old movies using the old TV they had thought was broken.
As he spent more time with Weather, he naturally learned some things about him.
The first was,
“Jester, aren’t you thirsty?”
“Jester, aren’t you hungry?”
“Jester, aren’t you hot?”
He enjoyed taking care of him. Every time he tried to brush it off by saying he was fine, Weather seemed inwardly disappointed, so Jester mostly nodded.
“Mmm. I think I’m a little thirsty. How did you know, Weather?”
“I know everything.”
At his triumphant tone, Jester suppressed a laugh. Right, he stares at me all day, so there’s no way he wouldn’t know.
Weather’s gaze always ended on him. As if that were his rightful place. Weather was always like that. His first was Jester. No, his second and third were all Jester as well.
“Let’s eat together, Weather.”
“No. It’s okay. I don’t really like it, so.”
Unwavering gaze. Detailed observation. Weather, who keenly observed Jester, was indifferent to himself. That was the second aspect of Weather that Jester learned.
“You always say that. Then what does Weather like?”
“Nothing in particular. I don’t enjoy eating.”
Indeed, it was so. Weather was negligent of the act of eating itself. If Jester ate 10, Weather would only eat 1, but the strange thing was that despite that, Weather always looked healthy. He didn’t lose weight, and he was full of energy. Jester hadn’t seen him looking tired in the past ten days.
“I’m fine, so don’t worry.”
“But Weather.”
That’s why it was puzzling.
“Your body isn’t normal.”
Because Weather had an illness.
“I understand it doesn’t agree with you, but you still have to try.”
“Jester, like I said, my illness isn’t serious enough to cause health problems. It’s not like it gets better just because I eat well anyway.”
“But you eat too little.”
“Don’t worry, I have no problems even if I don’t eat. There are just some things I need to be careful about, but I’m perfectly healthy. You can tell just by looking, Jester.”
Just by looking at his tall stature, far exceeding the average, and his firmly balanced physique, Weather certainly didn’t fit the impression of being weak. But despite that, Jester was worried. Ever since he found out that the man who seemed so strong had an illness.
It was a completely accidental occurrence.
“Weather?”
Seeing Weather in the kitchen, where he had gone to quench his thirst in the deep of night.
“…Jester.”
Weather’s eyes shone in the dark, unlit kitchen. Click. Jester, switching on the light, watched him hastily hide something.
“What are you doing? With the lights off.”
“Ah, that’s…”
“What’s that you’re hiding behind your back?”
As Jester strode closer, Weather stepped back an equal distance. His one hand, clutching something, was still behind his back. Weather, unusually, had a flustered expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Why are you hiding it if it’s nothing?”
It looks suspicious. When he added those words, Weather squeezed his eyes shut. Letting out a sigh, he revealed what he had hidden behind his back. It was a silver can without a label.
“What? It was beer?”
He was so flustered and hiding it as if he was holding a weapon. To think it was only beer. Jester, deflated, let out a hollow laugh.
“You could just drink it, why are you so flustered?”
“No, this is…”
“But does it originally not have a label? That’s unusual.”
Since he had come down to the kitchen because he was thirsty, Jester’s eyes sparkled as he reached out for the can.
“I want to try it too.”
“No, Jester.”
Quickly hiding the can in his arms, Weather said with an awkward smile,
“It tastes bad.”
“It’s okay. I’ll just have a taste.”
“No, this really isn’t something you can drink.”
“It’s okay, Weather. I’ll decide after trying it.”
When he responded with a bright smile, a subtle crack appeared in Weather’s expression. Even as he skillfully evaded Jester’s attempts to grab the can, Weather quickly downed the liquid inside.
“Whoa—”
Just how much did he not want to give it to him that he downed it in one go? Faced with the strangely toned exclamation, Weather avoided Jester’s eyes and made an excuse.
“…Sorry. It’s medicine.”
“What?”
Jester’s eyes widened.
“Medicine? Are you sick somewhere?”
Outwardly, he didn’t look sick, but appearances could be deceiving. A type like Weather wouldn’t show it even if he was sick. As Jester approached with a frown, Weather shrugged lightly.
“…Just, a little.”
“Where does it hurt? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“No, Jester. I mean, …it’s not that I’m particularly hurting right now, it’s just that there’s something I need to be careful about.”
Jester’s expression crumpled further.
“Are you saying you have an illness?”
“Mmm.”
His evasive behavior suggested a desire to hide it. He often did that. Since losing his memory, the lover Jester faced was a man with many secrets.
“It’s not a terminal illness, is it?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then is it related to the scar on your neck?”
The existence of the scar etched like a painting on his cool skin. Although the exact shape was hidden by the fabric, Jester could infer the rough shape through the half-glove covering Weather’s left hand. He imagined it probably flowed lengthwise like a blood vessel.
Even when he asked how it happened, Weather didn’t answer. Therefore, Jester could only wait. For him to tell him one day.
But he couldn’t just wait passively. It kept bothering him because Weather often pressed down hard on the back of his hand. Whenever he did, he seemed somehow uneasy.
“Ah, this…”
Weather, touching his chin and neck, nodded belatedly.
“Well, it’s similar.”
“It’s really not serious?”
“Really, Jester. It’s just something I need to manage consistently, so you don’t need to worry. However…”
Weather, smiling sweetly, continued in a gentle voice.
“It’s a somewhat rare illness, so it’s a specially made medicine. It could be poisonous to ordinary people, so I was hiding it. I can’t let you taste poison.”
Not serious while taking medicine so potent it could be poisonous? He wanted to ask if that made any sense, but Jester swallowed his words. When Weather was reticent, he was adamant no matter what he said.
“Okay, Weather. I understand.”
Jester nodded obediently.
“But don’t hide it from now on. Drink it comfortably.”
“Okay. I will.”
After that day, Weather didn’t hide the fact that he was taking medicine. Since it was in the form of a common can, it looked more like he was drinking a beverage or beer than medicine. Since Weather’s Adam’s apple, which rarely moved while eating, moved smoothly only during that moment, Jester inwardly waited for the moment Weather took his medicine.
I wish he would eat this well normally too. Thinking that, these days he found himself adding a word or two.
“You said the medicine is strong. Then you should fill your stomach even more thoroughly.”
“Sometimes, it’s better to empty than to fill. That’s how I am, Jester.”
But Weather never compromised on his meals. Jester couldn’t push him any further.
“I keep telling you not to worry about me. I’m full just watching you eat.”
“You sound like a parent, Weather.”
“Really?”
He said it teasingly, but for some reason, Weather seemed pleased. He sometimes seemed to find joy in unexpected things, and that quirky side was the third aspect of Weather that Jester learned.
“By the way, Weather, didn’t you say you were going out today?”
“Right. I should be going soon. Is there anything you need?”
“No, I don’t need anything today.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Smiling sweetly, Weather got up. He went to his room, put on the black helmet that covered his face, and came out holding the heavy padlock as always. He locked all the windows of the mansion and headed for the front door.
“I’ll be back, Jester.”
“Come back, Weather.”
Jester waved lightly. Although his expression was hidden by the helmet, Weather, who would surely be smiling, opened the door. Clank. With the sound of the padlock locking the door, Weather left the mansion. Left alone, Jester habitually took a nap.
🎥
Clank, clank, bang—!
Jester woke up to the sound of the door opening roughly. Heavy, thudding footsteps quickly approached. Jester, lifting himself sluggishly from the sofa, frowned at the pungent stench.
“Weather?”
He raised his head at the approaching presence. Weather, still wearing his helmet and rags, stood still, staring at Jester.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“…….”
“Weather.”
Weather, who had been silently watching him, suddenly looked around. The way Weather scanned their surroundings—the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, even the second floor—was different from usual. He seemed to be chased by something, yet also chasing something.
“Weather, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Weather, who returned to the living room after searching the house, slammed the open front door shut. The way he checked the lock and fastened the chain and padlock was definitely not normal. Jester, bewildered, grabbed Weather’s shoulder and turned him around. As he removed the helmet that hid his expression, Weather, his face sternly set, looked at him.
“Weather, what’s wrong?”
“…….”
“Did something happen outside?”
Despite the series of violent actions, Weather’s breathing was deathly still. Their gazes met intensely. When Jester met his gaze without flinching, Weather, frowning, slowly shook his head.
“No.”
“Don’t lie. What happened…”
“Did someone…”
Weather, abruptly cutting him off, stared intently at Jester. Jester, caught in his gaze once again, held his breath. Weather continued.
“…come to the mansion?”
A sudden chill ran down his spine at the monotone voice. Holding his breath for a moment, Jester shook his head and said,
“No. Nobody came.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The green eyes, staring as if gauging the truth, were chillingly cold. Suppressing his bewilderment for a moment, Jester calmly faced Weather. Then, the sharp tension gradually subsided. What remained was a profound self-loathing.
Sorry. Covering his eyes and roughly running a hand through his hair, Weather muttered. Jester gently stroked Weather’s stiff shoulder.
“I’m okay. Let’s go sit in the living room for now.”
“No. I’ll go to my room. Let me be alone for a while.”
Jester, carefully observing his still rigid expression, nodded.
“Okay. But tell me when you’ve gathered your thoughts.”
“…Thank you, Jester.”
Taking stiff steps, Weather brushed past Jester. It was as Jester blankly stared at the precarious-looking man’s retreating figure and turned back towards the living room that—
Bang—! Bang, bang—!
Someone pounded roughly on the mansion’s front door.
“Louis! Louis, are you in there?!”
“…Louis?”
Why? Rather than wariness towards the unknown intruder, his attention was caught by the name that came out of his mouth.
“…….”
Jester headed towards the front door as if drawn by something. As he reached for the tightly locked door, a hand suddenly appeared from behind and firmly grasped his wrist.
“No.”
It was Weather.
“Weather, someone’s at the…”
“I’ll take care of it. You stay in your room.”
Weather, speaking coldly, pulled on his wrist. The strong grip easily led Jester. Jester, unable to shake off the slightly tightening pain, headed to the second floor. Only after they entered the room did Weather release Jester’s wrist and turn to face him. Contrary to his expectation of a hardened expression, Weather smiled sweetly and said,
“Don’t leave the room until I come back.”
“Weather, what in the world…”
“Don’t ask now. I’ll tell you later.”
Bang—! Crash—!
The pounding on the front door intensified. A dull thud sounded as if a rock had been thrown. Weather, instantly wiping away his smile, closed the door.
“Don’t. Come out.”
Jester stood in his room, the only open space in the mansion full of closed rooms, a room that had become filled with his presence. He stared blankly at the door. This room, uniquely equipped with a lock on the inside, couldn’t be forcibly concealed. Weather’s silent gaze conveyed a plea, and those words were like a test for Jester.
“…….”
Obey or refuse.
Jester, at the crossroads of choice, quietly closed his eyes.
🎥
Bang! Bang, bang!
“Hey, you bastard! Aren’t you going to open this door right now? I know you’re in there!”
“…….”
Weather, staring blankly at the front door, sighed. His face hardening coldly, he looked around.
Glass cup? No.
Lamp? No.
Chair? No.
Book? Yes, this should be fine.
Holding a book from the stack on the living room table, he slowly moved.
“Louis!”
“Gently.”
“Louis! Open the door, you son of a bitch!”
“Relax and gently.”
Gently. Gently. As if brainwashing himself, Weather murmured. Then, his eyes gleaming with determination, he quickly unlocked the door with one hand. Crack. As the chain broke and the padlock shattered, the door opened. The man, who had been kicking the front door repeatedly from outside, stumbled and fell.
“Not opening the… Huh? Ugh!”
Thump—! The man, his face hitting the floor head-on, groaned, clutching his nose. Something hot trickled down from his stinging nostrils. Staring blankly at the blood staining his fingers, the man raised his head.
“Louis, you little…!”
The words he was about to yell, asking what kind of trouble this was because of him, were swallowed before they could escape. It was because a large figure, backlit by the light, swung his hand down towards him with all his might.
“…Huh?”
What, this doesn’t seem like Louis. At the same time as that thought crossed his mind, a strong impact hit his head. Then the man, losing consciousness, collapsed limply.
“…….”
Weather, dropping the book, crouched down and checked the man’s pulse. A regular vibration touched his cold fingertips. Alive. Letting out a short sigh, he grabbed the unconscious man’s arm and stood up. Where should he hide him to be safe? As he turned, pondering the disposal—
“…Jester.”
His eyes met Jester’s, who had been standing in the hallway watching him since who knows when. His gaze slowly moved down, past Weather. Lingering for a long time on the man whose upper body was raised due to his arm being held, his gaze then returned to Weather. Weather, stiffening, let out a strangled sound.
“Jester, this is…”
Jester strode closer. Weather, unable to speak, watched him approach. Jester’s face was impassive, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Weather became anxious. A moment like judgment passed, and when Jester was only two steps away, he suddenly stopped and let out a soft sound.
“Ah.”
Then he turned and started walking away with long strides. He headed to the living room, rummaged through a drawer as if looking for something, and when he returned, he was holding something in his hand. Weather’s gaze followed Jester’s hand.
“…….”
What he was holding was industrial-strength plastic wrap.
“…Jester.”
“He’s someone harmful to you, right?”
His gaze, fixed on the unconscious man, was sharp. Clicking his tongue at the blood-stained face, Jester ripped off the plastic wrap. Then the man’s hands and feet were tightly bound. He grabbed the man by the collar, roughly wiped away the blood, and only after covering the man’s mouth with plastic wrap did he stand up. Meeting Weather’s strange gaze, Jester grinned.
“How is it? I bet he can’t move like this, right?”
When Weather nodded blankly, Jester’s smile deepened.
“Let’s move him inside before he wakes up.”
The two men, each taking hold of the man’s upper and lower body, headed for the living room. They brought a dining chair, sat the man down, and wrapped him with plastic wrap so he wouldn’t fall over. After using up three rolls of plastic wrap, the man’s body became one with the chair. He was firmly fixed, unable to escape without someone’s help.
Done. As Weather stared with a strange look at his satisfied, smiling face, Jester suddenly asked,
“So, who’s Louis?”
Weather, throwing off the rags he had been wearing, stared at the man. After looking at the man with a complicated expression for a while, he opened his mouth.
“The person this man is looking for.”
“Someone Weather knows too?”
“Yes.”
Jester asked again, puzzled,
“Where is this Louis person?”
“Here.”
“What?”
Jester couldn’t believe his ears. Here? There was only Weather and himself here. Looking around blankly, he demanded an explanation. Weather, holding his breath for a moment, continued in a voice laced with a sigh.
Listen carefully, Jester.
“Louis is you.”
“What?”
Once again, Jester couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t understand what Weather was saying.
“Wait. I don’t understand. My name is Jester, Weather. You told me that.”
“Yes, you are Jester. But you’re also Louis.”
“Are you saying I have two names?”
Weather nodded.
“To be precise, you have a real name and an alias. Louis is your alias.”
“Why do I have an alias?”
“That’s…”
Weather, shifting his gaze to the unconscious man, answered in a low voice. The reason you have an alias, Jester, is…
“…because you’re a wanted criminal.”
Jester blinked blankly. Staring at Weather’s solemn expression, he let out a hollow laugh. It was a reaction indicating disbelief, but Weather was serious.
“It’s true, Jester. You’re a criminal with a bounty on your head.”
At the resolute words devoid of humor, the smile that had formed on Jester’s lips disappeared.
“And I’m a criminal too.”
Towards the clear face gradually tinged with bewilderment, the low voice continued.
“We’re being chased.”
Looking at the man with an angelic face, Weather uttered a lie.
Containing countless stories within it.
🎥
Hello, Dr. M.
While creating numerous humanoids, haven’t you ever thought about this?
That I wish this thing I made would really come alive. Of course, you are someone who creates moving machines, so in a way, it’s probably a natural part of your daily life.
Well, then how about thinking about it this way? Not just injecting a battery and artificial ego into a humanoid, but breathing ‘real life’ into it. It’s different from human conception. That’s no fun. It has to be a machine.
If I could breathe ‘life,’ just like a real person, into a body I assembled and created with my own hands? If it could ‘really’ move and live, not just through movements designed with advanced technology? Isn’t it thrilling just to imagine? I always have these thoughts. The thought of the being I created actually coming to life.
Actually, I emphasized ‘machine’ to make you understand, but I hate ‘machines.’ Because the technological advancement brought about by machines is polluting art.
Ah, I’ve been rambling. I am Jason. A cartoonist.
“What is this crazy bastard.”
The old man, reading the handwritten letter, cursed. A handwritten letter in this day and age. Simple greetings were one thing, but who writes a request form that seems to be at least ten pages long by hand? Just looking at the letter, densely packed with meticulously written characters, made him feel nauseous.
“No consideration for an old man’s eyes, this guy.”
He had been reading the request form during a break before finishing his work, but instead of resting, he only felt more tired.
Clicking his tongue, the old man tossed the letter. The pages, densely filled with characters smaller than those in an ancient book, scattered and fluttered to the floor. The old man, who only accepted requests that piqued his interest, felt no interest in the man’s letter.
That is, until he discovered the drawing among the scattered pages.
“…….”
The old man, upon seeing the drawing, picked up the scattered letter. It was difficult because the pages were out of order, but his gaze, fixed on the letters, didn’t waver.
I am Jason. A cartoonist. I don’t know if you know, but a cartoonist is a being who creates a world. Like a god. When I say this, people get angry and accuse me of blasphemy, but I don’t care at all. Because it’s true. It’s the world I created, so if I’m not the god, who is?
“…A typical social misfit.”
No one treats him well, so he wants to play god and wield power in the world he created. He’ll soon start complaining about the environment around him. The old man, holding a cigarette between his lips as he read the letter, sneered. Because it flowed exactly as he had thought.
The development of machines is making humans into unparalleled fools. It’s a world where you can easily get information just by moving your fingers, so thoughts become shallow, and personalities become impatient.
Regrettably, this industry I’m in is the same. Artistry and depth are disappearing, and like an instant factory, it only produces stimulating and superficial things. The funny thing is, it sells. It’s truly appalling.
I hate to say this myself, but I was a very promising art student. If I tell you that I graduated from the Dalai Academy with excellent grades, you’ll probably get the picture. Everyone praised me as a genius, but in reality, I was an incredibly hard worker. I dare say no one worked harder than me.
I was truly obsessed. That’s how much I loved drawing, and I was a pure young man who loved stories as much as drawing. Everyone tried to dissuade me, but upon graduation, I chose the path of a cartoonist. The face of my professor, stamping his feet in regret, is still vivid in my memory.
“And it wasn’t because you were jumping for joy?”
The old man, now with his second cigarette, frowned.
I remember when I submitted my first manuscript to the contest. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep. Because my first serialization would soon begin. I secured a studio so I could immediately immerse myself in work and bought new equipment. When I finished all these preparations, the contest results came out.
I was devastated. I cried and denied reality. Because my painstakingly created work had been rejected. In anger, I looked up the winning entry. And I became even more furious. Because the winning entry that beat me was the work of a mere seventeen-year-old.
A style with no basic skills, characters without distinct characteristics like a person with multiple personality disorder, and a melodrama that forced tears. And to think I lost to something that wasn’t even hand-drawn, something that used the help of machines. To think that I, who spent an astronomical amount of money honing my basic skills at the academy, lost to such a thing…
The man’s lament, filled with inferiority and self-pity, continued for several more lines, but the old man continued to read the letter with impassive eyes.
Everyone criticizes me for being behind the times. Nevertheless, I couldn’t give up my pen and ink. Because that is the true foundation of cartoons. But I’m also human, and I became tired of the constant rejection. Moreover, I was deeply hurt when I heard the comment, ‘It’s a shame about the character’s appearance.’ It’s not all about appearances, why don’t they understand?
The fact that the subject of such a comment was ‘Zero (0)’ hurt even more. Because ‘Zero’ was my most beloved character.
At some point, he started being mocked by readers. At the same time, he started to deviate from my control. He was ruining the story with unexpected thoughts and actions, deviating from his original settings.
A character who knew no pity or tears would suddenly smile like a fool. He would obstruct the development with stupid mistakes he wouldn’t normally make, and even ruin the appearance I had painstakingly crafted. Even though I had never given him such an expression or face.
I started to hate him, the one who dared to defy my will, become a laughingstock, and ultimately make me a laughingstock as well. It has even come to a point where mockery and criticism are considered his characteristics. I put in so much effort because I loved him, and I had high expectations because of the hard work I poured in. I wanted to ask him, the one who only brought me disappointment:
What are you thinking? Why are you making me a laughingstock? Once I started thinking that way, I really wanted to have a conversation with him. If he existed before my eyes in a real form, not just on paper. If he could talk to me…
“A lunatic.”
The flow didn’t deviate one bit from his expectations. Self-pity of a dropout ostracized by society, anger towards the world, misplacing blame. And self-justification as well. He could tell just from reading the letter. How uninteresting this guy’s cartoons would be.
These guys are all cowards who hide behind pessimism and spout nonsense from their rooms. There are always causes and effects in every situation, but they neglect to analyze them and judge and define things solely based on the single aspect, emotions, and senses they perceive.
The old man had encountered countless people who believed and indulged in the fleeting moments of brilliance that visit everyone at some point in their lives as if they were eternal, only to fall into ruin.
This guy was the same. Perhaps he wrapped himself up, treating the momentary glory created by countless coincidences, situations, and luck as if it were a grand history he had single-handedly achieved.
What value does a drawing created with the help of a machine have? It’s not real. It’s all fake.
“Such an arrogant fellow.”
There’s no such thing as unnecessary development. There’s no development aimed at causing unhappiness either. All development throughout history is the result of struggles to create a slightly better world. Although it leads to errors of making wrong choices and unintended consequences, that’s why we struggle to move forward again, isn’t it?
The fight between those who seek change and those who seek to preserve will always exist, so can we say that among them, there are those who fight for the wrong side? Each side’s position can only be understood by those who have experienced that reality. But those who deny without even trying to understand will never escape their own world. Just like this guy.
“I absolutely detest these kinds of people.”
Even as he thought he didn’t even want to deal with the guy, the old man couldn’t easily put down the request form. He had become interested in the production requirements he had written. Just as the long-winded boasting suggested, the drawing evoked admiration the moment he saw it. Staring intently at the figure in the drawing, the old man suddenly chuckled. He finally admitted that he wasn’t such a good person either.
Even if he was an unbearable person, a client was a client. Moreover, since it was an interesting request, there was no reason to refuse.
The old man, feeling the quickening beat of his heart, taped the drawing to the wall.
It was the moment ‘Zero’ was born.