Doll Parts (taekook)

Chapter 1

Oxygen scratched its way down his trachea and settled in his lungs with a velcro itch. Breathing was a hazard in Seoul. Tonight, the air had claws.

Taehyung tightened the filtered mask at the sides and upped the setting. On either side of him, neon pulsed: narrow storefronts displaying genetic material for sale, spliced pharmaceuticals, and chop shops for boutique surgery. At every turn in Yongsan, pixels danced and pulled for his attention. He patted the zippered pocket of his vest. One more stop before home.

A holo popped up on the pavement, blocking the way. Two bloodied fighters from the Dome with knives for limbs circled each other in a holographic dance of death. No sound. The one with cobalt blue hair slashed his opponent with a bladed right hook. Three-dimensional blood splattered. An eyeball rolled on the pavement. From somewhere to Taehyung's right, a child cheered.

Taehyung walked through them. He brought his tinted spectacles down, filtering the bluelit ads. A few steps and the boutiques were replaced with massage parlours, street food carts haphazardly piled one on top of the other like DNA blocks, and the low electronic hum of a ten-storey PC bang. Taehyung walked further, turned a corner to glass fronts lined with neuroelectric prosthetics, counterfeit implants, and cheap plastic pistols. He eyed the second store to his left. Above it was an unlit sign: Gears. Taehyung shouldered his way through the cave-like store. With a light press, his filtration mask loosened to cradle his chin. Rows of merchandise caged him, a nudge away from caving in. If he raised his arms outwards, he could reach the edge of the shelf with one hand and the opposite wall with the other.

At the counter, an old man sat like a relic. His belly rounded over his belt. In front of him, a line of acrylic boxes filled with an assortment of items. The thing about crank shops: there was no way to sort through the clipped fiber optics, bent circuit boards, or miscellaneous parts. No mixing, no matching. A simple ploy to get rid of worthless junk. Beneath the clear box, the price glowed in red: ₩ 40,000,000.00

Taehyung pointed at the acrylic in the middle. "Twenty. That's my final offer."

The gear dealer scoffed, flashing teeth blackened by SinMeth, and shook his head. "Your final offer? Not happening. This was sourced from the finest synths."

He placed the box on the counter, flipped the lid, and took out a dotted aluminum chassis board. The wires were cut, but Taehyung could easily replace it with a roll up in his apartment right now.

"Forty," the man said, twisting the board in his stubby fingers.

"This is junk," Taehyung countered, snatching the acrylic box. It's contents clanged against each other.

"Oy! Careful with that. That's the latest mech you got there."

"Latest mech? This was a model from before my mother was born. Who d'you think you're fooling?"

"Ah, this kid."

"I'd be lucky if I could use a piece or two from this box. I'm doing you a favour getting it off your hands."

The gear dealer took that in. "Thirty."

"Twenty five," Taehyung shot back.

"Thirty."

"Twenty seven."

"Thirty. I'm not budging, kid."

"Add that roll of copper over there and thirty it is."

"Done."

Taehyung pressed his thumb onto the counter until the little green check mark appeared on the glass: payment successful.

A press, a whirl, and the filtration mask fastened itself snug on the lower half of his face.

Out of the shop and onto another onslaught of bluelight, Taehyung brought his shades down. A billboard swooped in to hover in front of him. It played Real Food's newest campaign, clipped down to fifteen seconds for hovers— Delicious! Nutritious! All real ingredients!