Chapter Text
Death was nothing but another notch on your belt.
This was something that had been drilled into you ever since you were old enough to understand what it meant.
“Death was a tool,” your dad and his colleagues would tell you, “A stepping stone to get you to the top,”
Death was brought to you like a comrade in arms; a kind visitor to your table every evening for dinner. Death was your ally. Death was not to be feared. It was to be wielded against your enemies. Death was greater than life itself, as far as they were concerned.
You had been raised by a man who could unleash death like it were nothing more than a breath. A man who death cowered in the face of and bowed to his feet.
They called him The Operator.
This seemed like a fancy title for a man who had spent the first ten years of your life recording your every move through a 2002 camcorder, but okay.
The Operator, as a construct, was the most important job in the Nation. The Operator controlled everything. They called the shots for building monuments and houses, and for destroying petty criminals and the lives of their enemies.
Kinda like if the president and the mafia boss had a crossover.
You didn’t care much about the job, which was a grave inconvenience, because it was no regular occupation.
The Operator was a title bestowed upon by every member in your ancestral chain. It trickled down your bloodline like a gene that only strengthened with time. Since the beginning of the early 1600s, the position had infected your lineage and lingered around like an old ghost, waiting to haunt you.
Right now, it rested on your dad’s shoulders.
And he was doing a damn good job of it. You had never known the nation so coordinated than it was under your dad’s reign. When your grandfather held the position, there were threats of war every other week.
Your dad had maintained a sense of calm and collection, despite the obvious murders and occasional genocidal tendencies.
But you didn’t really care about that. You didn’t care how good your dad was at being ‘The Operator’, nor did you care how skillful he was at commanding crowds.
You cared that he was your dad. And he was the best dad ever, by the way.
The Operator was nothing compared to that.
You just wished he saw it the same way.
Nothing made your dad happier than his job. He had a gentle heart, despite his morals. And even at that, you couldn’t even blame him. The Nation had worked under a strict ‘eat or be eaten’ rule: prioritize yourself and show no mercy. Being soft at all was rare. You were glad he maintained at least that.
He thrived in the spotlight. He was a natural-born people-pleaser, eager to make the world around him flourish and shine like the visions of static in his mind.
And he was bursting with pride at the idea that one day you would take over from him.
“One day, this will be you, my child…” he would coo to you, showing off his polished trophies and statues in his name, “long will you reign…”
Since you were eight years old, you were prepped and preened into the perfect little Operator-in-training. Your dad only had you, so the responsibility had fallen int your hands like a very annoying scab that wouldn’t disappear.
One day, this Nation would rest on your shoulders. One day, you would call the shots. And you were going to do it alone.
You didn’t question this until you did.
For the first eighteen years of your life, you were content simply training and pretending it was for nothing. The whole Operator thing seemed to be decades away, so you pushed it to the back of your mind and told yourself that it was a problem for future Y/N.
By ten years old, you discovered your trademark.
Scissor-throwing. Where you could throw one knife into the heart of a defense dummy, you could throw ten pairs of scissors without missing a beat.
This was good, your dad said. You had something that differentiated you from a crowd.
By fifteen, you received adequate homeschooling, and by eighteen, you were trained to handle financial operations and management.
You were growing into the perfect little weapon for future generations. Your dad was ever-so-proud of you.
And then one day, at nineteen, you realized that actually, death was just not it.
Don’t get me wrong, it didnt come out of nowhere. Your anti-operator beliefs began at around sixteen, when your dad began to rhyme off all the different potential torture methods you could use to take down opponents.
And instead of nodding along nonchalantly, you felt on edge.
Why would anyone want to implore torture? Was this really what you had to do to become the Operator? Was this the type of thing that would become natural to you one day?
You had barely even come to terms with the death thing, but now, they were introducing torture methods. You couldn’t imagine yourself torturing anyone! The idea of your DAD using anything on that list of methods made your throat go dry.
But you had kept your mouth shut.
This was normal for the Nation. It was not a kind place to live when it came to ethics. It was something you had to quietly obey. But still, you refused to partake in it.
The feelings of malcontent continued into your seventeenth year when you went out of your way to seek more information on what exactly being ‘The Operator’ meant.
Ruling an entire nation was starting to taste sour in your mouth. You were suddenly gaining urges to overthrow the government, but unfortunately, you WERE the government, so what the hell were you supposed to do?
Long story short, it didn't take a genius to figure out that actually, you didn't want to become the Operator.
I mean, torturing and murdering people to get what you want? Ordering those under you to do your dirty work? Being nothing but someone people silently feared and respected only out of submission?
Yeah, you would pass.
Eighteen was a weird period of existentialism. You had spent your entire life training to be as great as your dad, and then just before the curtain was drawn, you pulled the rose-colored glasses off and realized that maybe, just maybe, your dad’s job wasn’t all that great.
This spiralled into a pre-twenties crisis, and you felt as though everything that had ever happened to you had been terribly wrong. Why were you taught to use weapons at seven years old? Why were you so skilled with scissors? Why had your entire life been centered around death?
You tried to work up the courage to tell your dad that actually, you weren't all that interested in carrying out the whole bloodline thing, and you’d rather do something fun like exploring the world instead, but every time you so much as mentioned it to him, he would immediately interrupt you with his own excitement for the ordeal, and shower you in pride that you would be continuing the legacy on.
You knew he meant well, but talk about giving you a guilty conscience.
If there was anything worse than ruling a nation through autocracy and death, it was disappointing your dad.
He would wrap his tendrils around you, pulling you into a hug and petting your head. That was a weird thing about your dad. He had tendrils, you did not. He also had no face, you did.
It was a win-win situation for you.
So you sat, praying for the courage to just speak to him about it, but even then you knew it was useless. You couldn't just change an entire system by telling your dad you wanted to. It wasn't that easy.
And then one day, the system changed for you.
There you were, nineteen and clouded with guilt, pacing your bedroom floor on a rainy afternoon in December 2012.
You were trying so desperately hard to think of something- anything- to get you out of it. Months had gone by like sand in an hourglass, and you were beginning to feel trapped. With every passing hour, you hated the idea of it more and more. Even the thought of having people kneel to you made your stomach twist.
It just wasn't right, to command people and control things like death. Who were you to play God with the innocent? Who were you to take control of an entire nation? Who were you to even try?
You were helpless.
But then, the strangest thing happened.
“Can I come in?” your dad called, opening the door and sitting down at the edge of your bed. You noticed, on his featureless face, that he was conveying a devastating sort of look.
“Y/N, I have to share some terrible news…”
Immediately you thought, ‘Oh my god, the Mayans were right, the world IS ending in ten days’
But before you could open your mouth, he silenced it for you,
“The world is not ending-” he held up a hand, and you nodded with a sigh of relief. At least that was off your shoulders.
“Rather the contrary,” he said to you, “the Nation’s Official Administration, have ruled a system change…”
“We have been training our entire lives to perfect and carry on this dynasty…” his tone carried disgust, “And all of a sudden… you now must compete to win the title of The Operator,”
You tried so hard to match his disappointed energy, you really did. But you felt like, for the first time ever, a god was listening to you somewhere.
This was officially the best day of your life. You’d never complain again. Compete for the title? Instead of inheriting it?
All you had to do was lose. You would place bets on your opponents being the strongest, best-suited candidates from around the entire country. You could make it look easy. You could taste the freedom already.
“I know this is a lot of pressure, Y/N, but I know you’ve got what it takes in you. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t win, of course, but we both know you’re the only person right for the position…” he nodded to you, a hand on your shoulder.
And just like that, you became a liar.
“I’ll do my best, Dad-”
You were eighteen years old. It was 2012. And you were about to meet your freedom.
///
By twenty, you thought you’d be ready to grab life by the reigns and ride into it like the legend you learned to be.
But here you were, staring into your vanity mirror, realizing that actually, you had never been ready for anything in your life.
Freedom? What a joke
Two years had passed since the news that you would be part of a competition to gain the title of Operator. Two years of constant training, lessons, preparations, and advertising around the Nation had led you right here, sulking at yourself in the mirror.
Tonight was the opening ceremony for the candidates in the trials- a name given to the competition by the Administration- to meet and get to know each other.
These candidates in question were currently making their way into your kitchen. You had no idea who they were. You only knew that one day, one of them would rule the world.
A gentle sunrise poured into your bedroom, heating you up and giving you the last bit of comfort before everything changed.
You didn't have long left with it all, you were trying to cherish it.
Your reflection stared back at you in the shiny, white vanity, and you smiled at her. You looked beautiful. Your hair was done to perfection, and you were wearing your favorite dress, your makeup adding a flawless finishing touch.
If you were getting ready to lose this competition, you were gonna at least look good while doing it.
You heard the voices of your so-called rivals from below you. Any minute now, you'd be summoned downstairs to join them for the ceremonial dinner.
You didn't have a lot of experience with the outside world, save for press conferences and work-related meetings your dad had dragged you along to observe ‘for future reference’.
You were good in theory, but useless in practice.
And the thought of them. How many of them were there? Were they older than you? Younger than you? Were they all men?
Oh my god, you wanted to be sick.
You fumbled with your silver necklace, forcing it to sit straight and suddenly becoming hyperaware of your own appearance. You sprayed a few extra drops of your perfume onto your wrists for good measure.
The door knocked three times and then clicked open.
There was your dad, looking as fancy as ever in his newly drycleaned suit,
“Are you ready darling?” he asked, “Our guests are waiting-”
You noted how the word 'guests' dripped with a sarcastic tone, and indulged in the fact you had at least one person backing you up here.
Dragging your feet along the carpet, you followed as he led the way down the huge, mahogany staircase that you used to slide down the banisters of when you were young. Back then, it seemed like a landslide. Now, it seemed tiny. You slowly made your way down, gripping the handrail like it were your lifeline and begging the universe to not let you fall.
You tried to remind yourself that you owned this house, they did not. They were YOUR guests.
Convincing yourself you had the upper hand somehow diminished your anxiety a lot more than you thought it would, and you straightened your back as you landed on the wooden floors.
The double doors to the dining room lay ajar, and you noticed how polished up it looked from where you were standing in the hallway. What was usually just a regular, ten-foot-long brown table with a wonky leg that had never been fixed, was now polished, covered in a spotless, white lace cloth, and decorated with large wax candles and tabletop flowers- all freshly picked from the garden outside and giving the place a soft scent of lavender. The general ambiance of the room, however, remained as creepy as your dad liked it- with the walls only lightened up with dim candles, casting shadows along the floorboards.
You made your way to the entrance, and the smell of food was so rich that you gave your dad a look that was trying to communicate ‘ What the fuck is all of this about ?’, but he waved you off quickly to occupy himself with filling the table.
And that's when you noticed the eleven faces staring back at you.
You had never felt more like a zoo animal being gawked at in your entire life. You noticed a few smiles greet you, and did your best to reciprocate them.
This wasn't awkward at all.
You eyed up the competition, noticing how undeniably strange they all looked. A guy with curly brown hair and scabs over his face twirling a fork in his hands, another guy with blonde hair didn't stop talking for more than a few seconds after acknowledging your presence, and another one, with a cigarette behind his ear, didn't break his stare on you at all, shamelessly sizing you up.
You were trying to find your dad's gaze so he would introduce you, wondering why on earth he was acting as if mashed potatoes were the most important thing in the world right now.
But thankfully, he looked up.
“Ah, everyone- I would like for you all to meet my daughter and your fellow candidate, Y/N-”