II
It feels like Irene is the only other person in the room. Everything in her peripheral vision has blurred as if it's just her and this enigma of a woman alone. It's like without them, reality would just phase away. She's utterly unfazed, arms resting on the wood above her waist, her fingers delicately poised on the table's brimming and that same impeccable posture that she had seen yesterday. Not one part of her moves; she's so still to the point that Irene can feel a sense of nervousness at the unnaturalness of it all churning in the pit of her stomach. Despite the devil's static eeriness, she exudes fire, fear, and force- the absolute pinnacle of purposefulness. She hasn't even said a word- in fact, she's late, and yet nobody has questioned her. Why was it that they were so scared of her? She wasn't Satan himself, she's just his left hand and so surely everything she does is just a relay of him. Irene likes to think that those types of people only hold as much power as you let them have, she had hoped that the stranger would face a lot more 'don't shoot the messenger' situations but clearly this woman's word was never trespassed against. Despite her beliefs, she can't calm the spine-chilling trepidation crawling up her back.
Did she know who she was? That's a stupid question. Clearly a woman so influential wasn't stupid enough to forget about a literal angel spilling wine on her at her own party. There are enough guards stationed around the room for her to simply snap her fingers and never even have to worry about the trespassing angel again and yet... she stays still. Why isn't she moving? Why isn't she saying anything? Their eyes still haven't wavered from one another's and Irene is feeling her hold on maintaining eye-contact beginning to sputter out. The trepidation on her back had become a vice of terror gripping her head and it isn't just last night's wine that's making her head throb now.
Irene's fingers bend and hold the edge of the table, arms tensing up so that she can stand and leave or make a run for it or something because she's sure that this staring contest is going to lead to her demise but just before she does so, the almost tangible laserbeam between the two of them is gone at the click of a tongue. The woman has turned her attention away as if the interaction had never just happened, it's like Irene may as well have just vanished. There is no fiery temperament in her eyes like what she could have sworn she just saw. It's replaced with a calm coolness, one that is exuded most ominously. Whoever she is, she has an overwhelming amount of influence. It's evident not only through her manners and her physical character but the brainless way that everyone had reacted when she had entered. It would be a lie to say that she wasn't intimidated.
"I see a few new faces here today," The captivator of everyone's attention raises an eyebrow, her finger dancing across two others but, curiously, not Irene. "In that case, I'm Kang Seulgi and--"
As soon as her name leaves her lips, a woman beside Irene is rendered into a fit of coughs that wrack her entire frame (which isn't much of a feat judging by her petite size.) Her short, blonde hair bounces wildly, her cheeks paled with shock growing increasingly red at the force she's exerting and one of her hands clutches at her chest as if she's gasping for air. Nobody moves. Is that what Hell is like? Irene reaches a friendly hand out but once again she's interrupted. It feels like nothing is going right for her.
"Moving on," Seulgi steeples her fingers, eyes narrowed suspiciously in a manner similar to that Irene had been on the unfortunate receiving end of at the blonde-haired woman who's breathing is ragged although her chokes have subsided for the most part. Upon meeting Irene's concerned gaze the woman gives her a few dismissive nods, her eyes fearfully flitting back to whom she can only presume is Seulgi. "I said: moving on." With bated breath, Irene turns to face forwards not paying attention to the woman at the head of the table. Not the woman who's eyes are burning holes in the side of her head. No, no. Not her. Not Kang Seulgi.
Whether this small act of defiance just blew the unusual terms on which Seulgi has allowed her life to continue, Irene has yet to find out.
The rest of the meeting slips by unusually fast. For the most part of it, Irene is weighing up her fate between her two palms. Will she live, or will she die? She's sure that living would mean her tongue gets chopped off and becoming a nameless creature who's only purpose is to serve. She'd never feel the warmish glow of her halo on her head ever again, doomed to live in a world of autumn hues for eternity; how awful. Now that she's thinking about it, does her halo actually radiate any heat? Or was that something she'd made up to elate her social status amongst devils? God, she hopes she lives to debunk the theory.
If she dies... well. Would it be painless? Irene likes to think Satan would have enough power to just 'vapourize' her. That sounds painful. More like just take her out of existence as if she wasn't even there in the first place. Upon reflecting on that wish, if Satan did have that much power, then her angelic counterparts most likely aren't going to fare well in the future.
Did Hell have a justice system? Maybe that'd be too contradictory--
"You're dismissed,"
Seulgi's low register snaps her out of her thoughts and Irene is dragged forcefully back into reality. Satan's second in command is already half-way out of the door and as soon as the same skittish servant has swung the wood closed again, the devils surrounding the table make haste in packing away. The older man opposite her, with horns that protrude from his forehead in such an odd manner that it looks like they would ache, is eyeing her with caution and Irene feels a flush of embarrassment as she realises that he was the unfortunate soul her eyes had landed on for the entirety of the time she was spaced out.
Dodging and weaving through the clumps of devils outside of the conference room is a hard enough feat to complete without drawing attention to herself too. They chatter amongst themselves, idly standing with one another for no real reason other than unanimous, mutual politeness that they all pretend to enthuse in but most certainly will complain about how they were 'kept back' later. Devils are more sequacious than one would initially expect considering the very anarchistic ideologies that they centre their lives around.
The hallway is long, people at the end of it are seemingly materializing from nothing or disappearing as if they were never there before. No one gives her a passing nod and greeting or even a glance. Away from the thick bubble of a dismissed meeting where each attendee is unsure how to break through it, attention is a precious commodity and time cannot afford to spare it. The tiles beneath her feet don't seem to end, the grout in between the whitened slabs is darkened and the soles of her shoes scuff them, sending squeaks that make her back stiffen like that of a nail drawn down a chalkboard would which echo throughout the tunnel, no doubt making a few horned heads turn in her direction. Doors line the walls, leading to other rooms most likely a hub for devils and the thought of how many she is truly amongst is beginning to become suffocating and so she picks up her pace and the only thing that snaps her out of her determination to leave is the absolute, foreign feeling of someone else's skin upon her own: more poignantly, a hand around her wrist and it's dragging her inwards before she can cry out and her words are lost in her throat in a hitched whirlpool of shock and confusion and yet the same silhouettes fading in and out of sight continue with their predetermined paths.
Irene is in a bathroom now after being pulled with unforgiving force through one of the doors she now so wishes she had been paying attention to, as if the very presence of her gaze might've warded off this threat. Traipsing her eyes up the index finger and thumb locked around her wrist up to the shoulder leads her to the threat in question: Kang Seulgi but before she can utter a word, whether it be apology, cry, curse or thanks (for whatever inane reason that could be) she's being backed up against the tiled walls and Irene is pushing too (with the underpowered force she can muster in such a short turnaround.) The bathroom is small, the gap between the wall and the stalls opposite is no more than a metre at most, the gap between sinks and the door to the world outside continuing undisturbed is even less than that and there would be no use running out there where Seulgi's brainless minions would most certainly veer and swarm her as if they had all been moving to her in the first place. Seulgi's back barely misses the stall behind her to a point that any loose threads on her blazer would have tickled it and yet the size of the room doesn't seem to affect the sudden ferocity that sparks behind her irises.
A fist swings towards Irene's sculpted jaw but whether it's from the fear and anticipation or some other primal survival instinct that Irene would otherwise be curious in learning about, she turns her head past it, catching her arm and yanking her forwards into her now upraised knee which sends the devil reeling. Either the woman trusts her fists or Irene has angered her beyond a point of control because now punches are flying this way and that and her knuckle connects with her lip and a pain blooms around her lower face and the second connection is at her temple, sending her crashing into the enamel sink and adding to the mounting pain from her hangover. Hands slipping on the water lining the sink's brim in which a normal situation she would have cried out in disgust, she's powering a kick at a quickly approaching Seulgi, catching her in her hip and sending her careening into a stall door and beyond it. In the moment, she wonders if the passing hoard outside is too enthralled in their own dull lives to hear them or if fights inside bathrooms were a regular occurrence here.
Seulgi's out of the stall now but instead of raising her fists, her leg shoots out, the sole of her shoe binding to Irene's stomach giving her the leverage to get close to the pinned woman. De-escalation is her physical aim when her hand lurches for her throat and holds her to the wall beside the sink but mentally, Irene's thoughts are a mess. She knows at least she can still breathe and she's alive but her breathing is ragged and shallow much alike to the devil's who's grip is loosening. She thinks maybe she could push her hard enough and run but then she wouldn't know where to go and so she lets a suffocating stillness fall upon them which makes her acutely aware of the warm fluid running down her chin and neck and pooling on the collar of her shirt which she can only assume is blood. Regarding Seulgi, her high cheekbone has sustained a scratch, one that Irene thinks she probably gained mid-fall because she doesn't recall moving in the vicinity of her face although she wouldn't put it past herself. They took a moment to stand there catching their breath.
Just like when Seulgi had broken their eye contact, she lets go of the angel who, with a subdued panic that she's not yet ready to reveal, moves to the murky mirror in which she shifts in a way that isn't quite reflecting her properly, a vision of her distorted self which feels like it's been becoming more and more real since her arrival in Hell. Looking down at the sink, there's a soapy residue building up around the half-opened plug and a well in it where the bubbles have mostly sunken in and disappeared, a red blood splotch from her lip being the perpetrator which makes the surrounding area bloom pink in a way that she would likely admire if it wasn't trickling down her chin in a most unpleasant way.
Wiping at it, Seulgi is hovering over her shoulder in the slanted image. "Tell me your name." She says and nothing else: simple words with a commanding aura.
"Bae Joohyun. Irene."
"And why on earth are you here?"
The bloodstain on Irene's collar is turning wine-dark, much like the stain she had left on Seulgi last night. "What is it to you?" She knows what it is to her. It's everything to her. Of course it is, but it's fun to play with fire when it's been extinguished and she can poke at the whispering embers that remain.
"Tell me."
"No."
"I'd suggest you do or-"
Irene doesn't let her finish, ignoring the irritated grimace crossing her expression. "This happens regularly. A checkup."
"A checkup?"
"That's what I said."
"Can you elaborate?"
"I really shouldn't."
"Do I have to remind you who's-"
"Angels come here often. They watch and make sure there's no extremist behavior rallying up the people. I'm really the first you've known about?" Interrupting again, Irene tries to keep her answers vague. Don't let her add too many details to her questions.
"I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
"Well, I think about it now and there are a few faces that come to mind."
"Well. It's a little late for that one."
The silence that ensues the snarky conversation, stirred by both of them but pushed most by Irene, isn't comfortable and the only sound that fills the air from there on is their labored breathing and the sound of the pipes squealing as water fights through their congealed insides and spurts out the tap to wash away the pinkened clouds and after that, the water is clean and it swirls, pushing away the last drop of blood the angel allows to fall in before she upturns the corner of her darkened collar and holds it to the perpetrating lip. No one speaks for a bit longer and yet they tell volumes by simply tolerating one another's presence. Irene isn't pretending to take interest in the water anymore and she turns off the tap.
"For your checkup, what did you find out?" Seulgi speaks, breaking the ever-thickening silence that was enveloping them. Irene looks up into the mirror, watching how the devil's eyebrow quirks in both curiosity and a challenge. 'Were you paying attention, Irene? Did you do your job, Irene?' is what it feels like she's really asking. It's only now that she realises how severe her situation is: she was burning up in the meeting so much so that she never even paid attention to what was discussed. She doesn't bother to hide this fact, her head dipping in dismay which tears her gaze from the mirror as she pinches the bridge of her nose.
The silence is enough for Seulgi who's tongue clicks as if she's reprimanding her, lips curving into an amused smirk. "You're harmless."
"At least I put up a fight." Irene's words are quick, but they're certainly not sharp and she knows she should've just stayed quiet judging by the ever-growing smile on Seulgi's face which is rounding out her sharpened bones with her cheeks and making her eyes tilt upwards in a way that Irene would find adorable on someone if they weren't peering down on her from a hierarchy of which she is the lowest and most vulnerable of the low.
"Yet look wear we are."
That's a question Irene would much like to ask. How come Seulgi isn't tearing her throat out or dragging her to fiery pit to pay for her crimes? What scheme is she conjuring? If Seulgi doesn't kill her, she's fairly sure the weight on her shoulders will; the list of problems she's stirred up tally to a number that she can't count on both of her hands and if they keep standing in this bathroom they'll keep growing and she'll keep feeling the weight of heaven and hell pushing down on her shoulders.
"Won't you come with me?" Seulgi asks, once again being the one to break the silence. "I'd like to speak away from this." Her hands gesture unceremoniously at the bathroom. Irene doesn't think privacy is an issue here, nobody noticed them even when they weren't trying to hide something but then she's walking out, opening the door with the tip of her shoe and looking back but Irene's already following without so much as a word. Whether it's fear and intimidation of the consequences of her rejection or something else entirely, she doesn't think she's ready to know.
* * *
Now they're standing atop a small hill overlooking the monotonous buildings made of concrete plastered white and glass, glass and more glass. The same figures seemingly phase in and out of existence when they enter or exit a hallway and it's a difficult thought for Irene to get her head around that each of them has their own busy life. It's a train that makes her stomach twist in anxious knots at how truly outnumbered she is but, if they have any idea she's amongst them, they make no sign of it; continuing up and down the same stretches of corridors with no real effort. She wonders what drives them to their routines. Mercy? Reward?
"It's not the most gracious sight," Seulgi comments with a voice that sounds almost crestfallen; disappointed at what Hell could be and what it is. If it were to better, would it become like Heaven or become increasingly hideous? These are the thoughts traipsing through Irene's mind when she looks at the landscape. "But the sky is nice."
"Quite." Seulgi's right. The orange and yellow hues in the sky blend like watercolours to make one painting. Pink trickles at the bottom of the horizon line, red dabbing its corners tentatively and telephone lines streak through the swirl of colours like the artist has torn through it with black ink. Birds occasionally flit about the lines, sitting and watching the world go by before they go too and leave no trace. "But why are we here if it's not to look at the view?"
"Are you different?" Seulgi asks randomly. "To other angels?"
"Different? No. I'm just the same as any other."
"But you remind me of myself. I think we're similar."
"And the devil's advocate does stand up in her free time?"
"I'm serious."
At this Irene scoffs slightly. Turning around from the edge of the hill she's standing a few paces away from Satan's second command who has modestly seated herself at the base of a tree that looms over them. The tree's boughs that bare a pelt of leaves shrouding them in shade is the only uniting trait they share. "We couldn't be more opposite."
"How so?"
"Do I really have to answer that?"
"Yeah."
"I'm an angel," She gestures to herself, placing two hands above her head as if framing a halo and follows it by pointing her index fingers upwards at her temples. "You're a devil. See?"
"But can you list any other reasons?" Seulgi's eyes narrowed in a challenge. The silence that follows is telling. She's reeling her into this little game of hers that Irene likes to call 'Make Joohyun commit treason!' She's standing with a horned stranger who has considerably more power than her and whom she was fighting with only moments ago yet they're acting civil, in a position that friends would call normal. Why was that? They're strangers. "I should go. I have to rest up well tonight."
"Why's that?"
"We're running low on guardians. Something you would know if you paid attention to the meeting." Seulgi makes to stand, dusting herself off. Irene is stunned to even receive an answer, regardless of the spite on her part. "I have to step in to guard some girl. Kim Yeri? Yerim. Something like that."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Why not? What are you going to do?"
"I don't know, I mean... why aren't I dead or something?"
A look of hurt flashes across Seulgi's face but as quickly as it appears, it's gone again. "What do you take me for?"
"A devil." It's a simple answer but it says everything that needs to be. The mention of their differing species is able to put back whatever mutual pact exists between them to where it was born: a mind of curiosity for what it's like on the other side where it will grow again no doubt and intertwine two other souls if it fails this time.
"We don't know each other. Not at all." She scoffs and the same look crosses her expression once again when her head shakes and gives her a dismissive nod, walking now down the hill.
Irene takes a few steps after her. "Can I ask you something?"
"Go for it." Seulgi says but she doesn't slow her pace.
"Why did that girl panic when she heard your name?"
There's a moment of quiet between them, filled only by the evenly spaced steps of Seulgi's shoes hitting the grass. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Irene stays a little bit longer at the edge of the hill even once Seulgi is long gone and retreated into whatever lavish lifestyle she imagines her to have. There's something strange about the horned woman; the way she feels deeply is clear- flashes of anguish on her face when she relates her to stereotypes is something she never expected to see on someone so highly ranked in the underworld. How she dismisses small details. The peculiar way that she's speaking to Irene as if they're old, devilish friends when in reality, the truth couldn't be more of the opposite.
When she finally reaches the pulsating portal that throbs like something alive which will transport her to the place she oh-so-longs-to-be there's another obstacle. The petite woman. The petite woman with the short blonde hair. The petite woman with the short blonde hair who choked upon hearing Seulgi's name as if she was a six year old with a pen lid lodged down her throat. She stands there, her weight unevenly distributed on one leg, hip jutted because of it and an eyebrow raised on her slightly tilted visage. She's all smirking lips and with her cocky demeanour, it's clear that she knows something.
"Having fun with the devil's advocate?"
"What's it to you?" Irene asks again; she's not about to rinse her mouth out to strangers for the second time since her arrival in this doomed journey.
"I'm the other undercover angel," She says it like Irene was supposed to know that. "Son Seungwan? Wendy? You should have known there was someone else." Oh.
"Ah- sorry, of course I knew!" Irene waves her hand as if it was a ridiculous notion. "I'm Bae Irene."
"Soon to be Kang?"
Irene comes to a veering halt in her path. "Excuse me?"
"You and Kang Seulgi," Wendy pushes her neck forwards as if what she's trying to say is obvious. "Suddenly gal pals and all that?"
"Do you see this?" Irene gestures jabbingly at the healing cut upon her lip and the wine-dark stain on her otherwise stark-white shirt collar with distaste. "She gave me that."
"Ah, so all isn't well in paradise, mm?"
"This is literally Hell, Wendy."
"A match made in Heaven."
"Not funny. That woman hates my guts and I know it. I'm really unsure as to why she's keeping me around."
"Maybe she's a sadist."
"Maybe."
"And then, just when you thought you might have breached the gap between Heaven and Hell, angels and devils, good and evil, she'll like... snap your neck." Wendy's eyes widen tauntingly at the end of her sentence.
"I said something like that earlier and she looked... upset." Irene grimaces at the memory.
"Upset? As in sad?"
"Yeah, I'm as surprised as you are."
"Perhaps for the short time you have left with her, you could squeeze some more information from her? You know, judging from how you didn't seem to collect anything from the meeting."
Irene reflects on the words that her and the devil exchanged and with a pang of both guilt and excitement, she realises something that tugs the corner of her lips into a cunning smirk. "I know just the thing."