Nishitetsu Hotel Seoul Myeongdong, South Korea, September 2035
The following recordings were sent to me by previous interviewees. For security reasons, some of the names, locations, and dates have been redacted or altered.
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A phone flash flickers, casting light on the combat pants of the person holding the camera as they carefully descend the dark basement stairs. Below, two industrial lights flicker over a pile of crab bodies, and a large table holds cut up remains of some of them where they're being processed. The large basement is cluttered with everything from makeshift ovens to butcher's tools. A faint noise echoes from behind one of the closed doors.
The man recording moves toward the wooden door and slowly opens it. In the center of the room, a live crab sits on a chair, its metal base bolted to the floor beneath a single flickering light. The creature’s limbs are bound to the chair with several rolls of duct tape.
"Jesus Christ, did you really go to [Redacted] for the coffee?" one of the men, wearing a cap and a sleeveless t-shirt and who has just finished beating the crab, asks, turning toward the camera.
"Recording for your girlfriend, [Redacted]?" another man chimes in, inspecting a metal drill in his hands.
He places the drill on the table before snorting a line of powder.
"Where did you find this one?" the man recording asks, as the crab, battered and barely alive, its right arm only held to its body by duct tape, begins to click erratically.
"This one here just woke up—saw the pile of crabs shift. Lucky for us, he's only about a meter and a half. Remind me to slap [Redacted] when he gets back with the next batch of crabs," the first man replies.
"Thought we'd have some fun with him until then! In remembrance of [Redacted], the bastard would’ve turned 30 today!" the other man says, cleaning his nostrils before securing the drill to its electric machine.
The crab’s clicking grows louder, more desperate, as the man positions the drill on its knees, aiming it where its tibia would be—if it had one.
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A hand reaches toward the radio’s volume knob inside the indistinct armored vehicle. Outside, distant explosions shake the air. The hand twists the dial, and the radio crackles to life.
"Tornado, what the hell are you shooting at? Cease fire now! Stop shooting!" A frantic voice shouts, barely audible over the chaos.
"Volk 1 here, confirming friendly fire, cease fire, cease fire! You're bombing your own troops!" another voice cuts in urgently.
"Is anyone getting through? Does anyone have eyes on Tornado? Fuck!" someone else chimes in, the panic in their voice growing.
"Tornado, there’s no one left! Cease fire! You killed us all!" the previous voice roars, desperation creeping in as artillery thunders in the background.
"Tornado, if I get back, I’ll fuck you like a pig!" the voice screams one last time before the transmission abruptly cuts out.
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The screen shows the face of a teenage girl, the camera shaking as her wide eyes capture the fear on her face. In the background, two voices are shouting at each other.
"How am I and my family supposed to flee?" a loud, desperate voice demands. The camera tilts, revealing the legs of a man in jeans and another in military clothing, standing rigidly.
"Like everyone else—on the bus or on foot!" the soldier in military attire shouts back.
"The last bus left one day ago!" the civilian responds, frustration thick in his voice.
"Then you know what to do!" the soldier snaps. "If you start walking at sunrise, you and the rest should make it by noon! Me and my boys need to get to the front line ASAP unless you want the crabs to catch up with you lot!" The soldier’s voice rises, urgency lacing his words.
"Like you guys won't flee west with our car! You bastards can't even save us, so you're just saving yourselves!" the man yells, his voice shaking with anger and desperation. The camera lifts, capturing the escalating tension in the room.
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The man lunges toward the soldier, grabbing at him, but the soldier pushes him back violently against the kitchen counter, silencing him for a moment. The girl screams, panic flooding her voice as she watches the scene unfold.
In a frantic attempt to defend himself, the man grabs a cooking pan from the counter, swinging it toward the soldier with a wild, desperate rage. But before the blow can land, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoes through the room. The man collapses, cut down by a bullet from another soldier in the corner.
The girl’s voice cracks as she shouts, "Dad!"
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A girl in a military uniform laughs as she adjusts the camera mounted on her friend’s helmet. The deafening thump of electronic dance music drowns out everything else, vibrating the walls as the two soldiers make their way through the crowded main floor. Soldiers—men and women—are everywhere, some in military gear, others in medical or worker attire. The DJ, dressed in military uniform, works his magic behind the turntables, sending pulses of music through the room.
The two soldiers navigate through the crowd and finally reach a plastic table. They sit down on camping chairs, the girl pulling out a piece of aluminum foil from her bag. Inside is a small pile of white powder. She uses a her metal dog tags to neatly make two lines before she sniffs one, then another. She hands the straw to her friend, who nods in acknowledgment, grabs the straw, and snorts two lines himself.
She laughs as he struggles to keep it in, but soon, both of them lean in, embracing, and begin to kiss, lost in the haze of the music and the moment.
The two making out is interrupted by a sharp knock on his helmet. A staff member, wearing a reflective vest, leans in, his voice harsh as he shouts into his ear.
“NO CAMERAS INSIDE!” he yells, before slamming his finger on the camera, turning it off.
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The camera of a DJI drone flickers to life inside a dimly lit basement. A Belgian officer stands in the center of the room, holding two phones, one pressed to each ear, his eyes darting between the various men moving around him. Some are carrying documents, others are absorbed in their tablets, and one is adjusting numbers on a whiteboard, scribbling furiously.
"Nigerians are asking when the water will arrive?" the Belgian officer asks, his voice tight with urgency.
"Correct designations, for crying out loud!" a sharp voice, distinctly American and northern in accent, shouts from across the room.
"AFG 3 is asking when the water will arrive!" the Belgian officer calls back, his frustration growing. As he speaks, he glances at the drone being handled in front of him. A face appears near the drone, inspecting it for any issues, fingers running over the equipment as the officers continue to manage the tense situation around them.
"XO of the Frankfurt garrison is asking whether or not his men should expect the AC130 duo to come back at dawn?" A voice yells.
"Hey, Dustin, that's your queue!" the American voice yells again.
"1st Special Operations Wing is stuck in line waiting for refueling RAF Lakenheath. Shouldn't arrive before 1300 tomorrow. Tell them we already dispatched a flight of B-1 lancers to their position. Should be on station by 0300." another voice is heard from the other side of the room.
"What the fuck is this grunt doing here playing with his toys?!" A voice yells before the man handling the drone stands up and walks out.
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The automated voice barely cuts through the noise of the crowded platform: "Next train for K?ln Hauptbahnhof, 14:15, platform." The announcement struggles to be heard over the hundreds of civilians sitting, waiting anxiously.
"Women and children first!" A voice rings out through the GoPro of a Korean couple, terrified, sitting close to other civilians. Their eyes dart around nervously as the tension rises in the air.
In front of the high-speed train’s closed doors, a police officer shouts at a group of ten or so men standing on the far side of the platform.
"We've been waiting for hours!" one of the men calls out in frustration, his voice rising over the din. The group faces off against four police officers, heavily armored and carrying MP5 submachine guns, who stand firm in front of the doors.
"Unless you have your kid with you, or your wife, you're not getting on that train, buddy!" one of the officers yells, his voice sharp and final.
A split second later, chaos erupts. The officer recovers his balance and, without hesitation, raises his MP5 and opens fire in the direction of the group of men. The sound of gunfire fills the air, deafening and relentless. His squad joins in, opening up as well. Civilians dive for cover, some throwing themselves to the ground, others screaming in terror as the men are torn apart by automatic fire.
One officer’s MP5 jams. He curses under his breath, drops it to the ground, leaving it hanging by its sling. He swiftly draws his pistol, raising it toward one of the men scrambling desperately for cover. Two shots ring out, the man crumples to the floor, lifeless.
The officer stands, face sweaty, pistol in hand, scanning the sea of refugees on the platform, his eyes sharp, looking for any further threats. Amid the gunfire and chaos, the cries of men, women, and children echo in the cold, tense air as the platform is consumed by confusion, fear, and grief as the automated voice reminds travelers to watch their belongings.
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An older woman, tears streaming down her face, struggling to get her phone camera to work. The faint sound of church bells rings out in the background. After a few shaky attempts, she finally gets the camera turned around to capture the view in front of her.
The town square is packed with people. The cobblestone streets are narrow, but the square feels open, filled with the quiet murmurs of the crowd and the church bells. The town’s old buildings surround the space, their balconies draped with flowers, Greek and a few European flags, giving the whole scene a calm, timeless vibe despite the countless crying parents.
In the middle of it all, a line of soldiers kneels in the square. Some are in full combat gear, their military uniforms looking sharp but worn, while others wear mismatched Greek uniforms, clearly not as polished, but still standing strong. Some old, some young. All silent.
An Orthodox priest walks slowly past them, his robes flowing gently with each step. His movements are steady and purposeful as he walks by, blessing the soldiers one by one. Dropping holy water on them as he recites something..
The woman with the phone watches, her camera capturing the scene before zooming in on one of the boys. A young face, clearly hasn't started shaving yet.
"Theodore" she says between a few quiet sobs. The square has quieted, the usual noise of everyday life fading into the background. The priest, walking with such calm reverence, is the center of it all, a symbol of protection and faith. The bells toll again, almost on queue as the woman lowers the camera. Her sobs and those of the people near her louder than the bells.
