Profiles (1,380,049 files)
[ Profile: Lee Minho ]
➤ Basic Information
| Age: 21
| Birthday: October 25th, 1998
| Assigned Color: Lime
| Generation: Third Wave
| Children: None
➤ Games Won: 365
| Game 1, duration 24:53
| Game 2, duration 15:21
| Game 3, duration 12:35
View 362 Other Games…
Minho heard stories of the planet the elders called ‘Earth’. It was said to be large, but not larger than the planet to their right, Jupiter. It had sparkling blue oceans and sandy banks that people used to tan. Some of the elders still had their spots from such endeavors. Earth was populated with humans of every race, ethnicity, and sexuality. The sunset at night, a foreign concept in space, and rose in the daytime. But that was before the Election, before the overcrowded landfills and selfishness of humans destroyed the planet. There was nothing left on Earth besides discarded forks and toothbrushes. People abandoned the planet in favor of life. They were promised food, shelter, and water if they boarded the spacecraft ‘Beyond’ and traveled into space. Minho’s grandparents agreed in a heartbeat. Minho wouldn’t do the same.
He didn’t know the concept of daytime and nighttime. The sun constantly beat on the rusted metal spacecraft, even after he closed his eyes during Replenishment hours. Plants were a legend passed through generations by the ancestors who hardly remembered their own names. The only similarities between Beyond and the planet Earth was the population. Since the Second Wave, the Captain implemented a program used to reduce population size and single out the weak from the strong. Teenagers on Earth may call it a futuristic holocaust, but Minho had no access to the textbooks the elders spoke of. All he knew was that the weak died, and he had to be strong. Third Waves without children participated in this program, called Among Us by the teenagers and Population Decreasing Program (PDP) by the elders.
Among Us shoved eight Third Waves into an unoccupied area of the ship and told them to kill each other. It was a test of wits, bravery, and cunning that ended in death. One person was dubbed the Imposter and was meant to kill everyone to survive. The other seven completed Tasks around the ship, which Minho believed was a lazy way for the higher-ups to do their jobs via terrified Third Waves. Each player was equipped with a colored suit and a glowing button in the same color, meant to be clicked when a player encountered a dead body. The players were children, adults, and teenagers of the latest generation in their family. Minho was a Third Wave and an only child. His children would be forced to participate in the games when they turned thirteen, seeing as they were the latest generation. Some of his fellow Third Waves already had children of their own as a scapegoat to avoid participating in the games for longer than necessary. Minho found it despicable. He’d rather spend his entire life fighting than force his children to fight for him.
He wiped the blood from his knife on a black cloth he kept on his bedside table and tossed the weapon to the side. His lime green suit glowed eerily in the flickering lights of his bedroom. It was stained on the left knee, a splotchy blood spot from some kid in cyan he hadn’t bothered to remember. That was a trick of the game. Don’t look at your victim’s eyes, they hold too many memories. Minho had a mental list he created after his third game as an Imposter.
1. Don’t look into their eyes
2. Don’t speak unless spoken too
3. No one is innocent
4. Your best friend is not your ally
5. Do your tasks diligently
6. You are not a bad person
The sixth was a newer addition to the list. Minho knew of people, Impostors, specifically, who willingly admitted to their positions as a means of suicide. It broke his withered soul every time a person begged for death. How scary it was to live in a reality where murder was a better alternative to life.
The dinner alarm sounded throughout the ship, and Minho winced at the shrill screech. His hair was matted with blood, and the boots on his feet reeked of iron. He slipped the shoes off his feet and stowed them under his twin bunk before hobbling to the shower. Cyan fought back, surprisingly, and his thick boot heel left a blooming bruise on Minho’s thigh. It would be gone by the next game on Saturday, but it served as an unwanted reminder. The dinner alarm rang and rang, and Minho ignored it in favor of starting his shower. Water was once a luxury in space, and Minho was trained to treat it as such. He scrubbed his body, spending a few seconds longer on his thigh as if a loofah could wash away years of guilt, washed his hair, and turned the water off. The dinner alarm was still ringing when he stepped into a pair of sweatpants and threw a wrinkled t-shirt over his scarred torso. He slid his chamber door open with a swoosh and pattered his way to the cafeteria. The Beyond was quiet at dinner, save for the electric whirring of the lights and occasional clank of meteors on metal.
Minho grabbed his tray from the food cart and found an unoccupied table near the Admin Room. Most tables were empty or sparsely occupied, and the full tables held only family members. Socializing was dangerous. Friends were dangerous. One day you were eating dinner in the cafeteria, talking about girls or whatever normal teenagers talked about, and the next, you had a knife to their neck to survive. No feelings, no remorse.
He shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and locked his eyes onto the lights peeking from the Admin Room door. An hour ago, he killed a fifteen-year-old in that room. A week ago, he swiped his ID card and escaped death by the skin of his teeth. A year before that, he watched a girl in pink snap his best friend’s neck. No feelings, no sorrow.
Minho handed his empty tray to an elderly attendant with orange fingernails. Representation was common in families of fighters. Parents, siblings, grandparents, the few friends one managed to have, would paint the assigned color of their loved one on some part of their body. Women typically leaned towards the appeal of nail polish, and the men preferred colored war paint. Taeyong preferred a shimmery lime coat of nail polish over the flashy streaks across cheekbones and foreheads. He was different in that sense. He wasn’t made to kill, not like Minho, who’s frightening nonchalance towards death pumped through his veins. Taeyong was sincere in every definition of the word and had deep-sunken benevolent eyes that stared into Minho’s soul when the knife thrust through his abdomen. He died slowly. No feelings, no longing.
The lady took Minho’s tray with a charming smile, and Minho returned a curt nod. He escaped the cafeteria with nimble steps. Taeyong once said he resembled a cat. Minho had never heard of cats before. They were cute, according to his friend, with big shining eyes and pointy ears. They prowled lightly, paws barely touching the floor, and attacked when least expected. They had swishy tails and slits for pupils. To Minho, they sounded terrifying, but Taeyong knew the truth. Taeyong always knew the truth. No feelings, no betrayal.
He shut his compartment door and flicked on the lamp. The yellow glow against his neon suit made an ugly puke color that looked similar to the potatoes he digested minutes before. The laundry room was usually unoccupied immediately after dinner, with most of the population preparing for Replenishment. He manhandled his suit into an easy-to-carry bundle and walked the short distance to the laundry room. True to his observations, only two out of the twenty washers were occupied, and he plopped his clothes into the one closest to the door. Minho needed to see a door at all times. Some called it instinct, he called it survival.
After thirty minutes of counting the meteors that passed outside the glass pane separating the laundry room and certain doom, the washer beeped. Minho pulled his sopping uniform from the washer and tossed it into the adjoint dyer, setting a timer for an hour. As fun as mindlessly watching large rock bodies zoom through endless darkness was, Minho refused to stand around for an hour. He would have to fetch his uniform in the morning. The digital clock flipped to 6:55 p.m. when Minho entered his room indefinitely. He cuddled under his itchy duvet and turned the lamp off. The sun was shining through his window, and his Replenishment began.
YOU ARE READING
among us | minsung
Fanfictionno feelings, no remorse. those were the rules of the game, and minho knew them well. han jisung did not, and yet, minho couldn't kill him. why not?
