산 자들을 위한 추도 연설

NOTE: This is Part 22 of the 23 part series, The Cool War. Reading this part first is a very bad idea and will spoil a lot of the story.
주의: 이 이야기는 쿨한 전쟁 시리즈 23편 중 22편입니다. 이 이야기부터 읽는건 어마어마한 스포일러가 될거라 아주 나쁜 생각입니다.


평가: 0+x

"Ruiz Duchamp."

Ruiz stirred, rubbing his eyes and yawning as he woke himself up. He went to stretch his arms, but was stopped by the clanking metal restraints chaining him to the table. He looked up, staring into the terse face of Agent Green.

"Fuck."

Agent Green had taken every possible precaution. The remainder of MTF Upsilon-18 were stationed outside the containment chamber; in retrospect, the last breach was only possible because Green was alone. The room was vacuum-sealed, with no methods of opening the door from the inside. Cameras observed every nook and cranny of the room, even well outside the visible spectrum. Green opened a thick Manila folder, spreading photographs and incident reports across the table.

"You've gotten our attention, Mister Duchamp. Seventy-three anomalies recovered in the last six months. All of which have your name on them."

Ruiz leant as far over the table as his restraints would let him, looking at the pictures before falling back into a seated position, grinning.

"You're missing a few."

Green drove his right fist into Duchamp's jaw; Ruiz jerked roughly in his chains, then rubbed his chin gingerly, grin dissolved. Green moved closer, staring into Duchamp's eyes as menacingly as he could.

"You do not speak unless I ask you a question. Is that understood?"

Duchamp remained silent. Green sat down on his seat again, straightening his tie.

"Glad to see we can do this the easy way, Mister Duchamp."

Green sorted through the photographs, picking one out at random.

"Let's have a look at this one, hm? 'Bells And Whistles'. A noisemaker. A public nuisance. You want to know what we did to this, Mister Duchamp?"

"No."

"We destroyed it. We put the thing in a trash compactor and squeezed until it went silent."

Green slid two photographs across the table; one was an intricately fashioned golden quadruped, shooting steam from vents along its back. The other was a shiny cubical brick.

"Before and after. Mister Duchamp, this is not art. It is not clever. It is not thought-provoking. It is not 'cool'. It is simply annoying. Let's look at another one. Ah, I remember this. 'I Know You’re Going To Fuck This Up, You Assholes, Why Can’t You Just Learn To Leave Well Enough Alone'… so on and so forth. And, indeed, fuck it up we did. Now it's just a pile of broken glass. I keep a fragment of it on my desk, just to remind me of how it shattered into a thousand pieces. What was the purpose of that work, Mister Duchamp?"

"For you to break it."

"Well, I'm glad to have played right into your hands. What an amazing statement you made! What a revolutionary masterpiece. This is sarcasm, Mister Duchamp, in case you couldn't recognise it. You clearly don't have much of a mind for subtlety."

Ruiz tapped his fingers against each other. It wasn't the restraints that were getting to him, nor Green's criticism of his work; it was the lack of stimuli. He started to spin the sides of an imaginary Rubik's cube, thinking of the clacking of plastic against plastic. Green stared at the fidgeting artist.

"Pay attention, Mister Duchamp. We're about to get to the most important part. 'The Hanged King's Tragedy'."

Ruiz looked up suddenly.

"That wasn't m-"

Green slammed a left hook against Ruiz's cheekbone, growling at him like a rabid dog.

"THAT WAS NOT A QUESTION, MISTER DUCHAMP."

Ruiz rubbed his cheek as it started to bruise, glaring angrily at Agent Green.

"'The Hanged King's Tragedy'… SCP-701, we call it. See, what you have done has broken our containment procedures, Mister Duchamp, and we do not take kindly to that. Sure, stupid scraps of anart, we get that all the time. We'll clean up your messes, we don't care. But this? This performance constituted a containment breach. That changes our operational procedure quite a bit."

Green sat down, scratching his chin as Duchamp fidgeted in his seat.

"Mister Duchamp, we are going to terminate you."

Ruiz felt his heart skip a beat. The conversation had become too… real. He raised his hand as much as his restraints allowed.

"Yes?"

"It wasn't me."

"We have verified sources that say otherwise. Do you have any proof?"

"Sandra Paulson's immune to hypnotics… as am I, by the way. This stuff's just making me drowsy."

Agent Green stared at Duchamp, observing as he scratched where the needle had filled him with a scopolamine cocktail. He thought for a few moments, then continued.

"Do you know who provided Sandra Paulson with that document?"

"Oh, yeah. The Sculptor."

Agent Green raised his eyebrows.

"Do you know where The Sculptor is?"

"Haven't been tracking the real one for days. Stupid clones."

"Are you aware of the incident involving The Sculptor this morning?"

"Oh, yeah. You guys were shooting at me for a bit."

Green frowned, moving closer.

"You were inside 16 Hartford Street?"

"Yep. For a while before you were."

"Why?"

"A private issue. Family matters."

"Don't make me punch you again, Mister Duchamp. It's harder to understand someone with a broken jaw."

"I was recovering my brother."

"Your brother?"

"Pico Wilson. The Snipper."

Green frowned, trying to hide his confusion.

"Different surnames?"

"Changed mine five years ago. Never made it formal; I'm not known as Duchamp in any paper records."

"I see. Are you aware that your brother has similarly acted against our organisation?"

"In a non-specific fashion."

"Like you, he was involved in a containment breach. A substantially more serious one."

"I wasn't-"

Green drew back his fist; Duchamp cut off mid-sentence before a blow could be delivered.

"Only when I ask a question. Mister Duchamp, if what you say is true, and Miss Paulson and yourself are immune to hypnotic effects, then nothing that you tell me has any weight. Your words, and hers, now mean nothing. Her word against yours, and neither can be verified. That said, given your forthrightness in providing answers, I have no reason to doubt you."

Green moved to the door, pressing a button for the intercom.

"Alcorn, can you look up records on a 'Pico Wilson'… look up 'Ruiz Wilson', while you're at it."

"Understood."

Green turned around, then sat back down at the table.

"Mister… Wilson."

Ruiz squirmed, uneasy at the use of his birthname.

"I have no proof of your relation to the SCP-701 breach. You have no proof against it. I would tend to err on the side of leniency, but given your track record, I'm not feeling particularly generous. See, Mister Wilson, in this room, I am the judge. I am the jury. And, should I find you guilty, I am the executioner."

Green unholstered his pistol, pointing it squarely towards Ruiz's head.

"If Agent Alcorn returns to this room, and any of what you said turns out to have been a lie, I am pulling this trigger."

Ruiz stared down the barrel of the gun, feeling drops of sweat form around his hairline, slowly sliding down his face. Green closed his left eye, positioning his right one along the sights.

"Feeling scared, Mister Wilson? If you've been honest, there's nothing to fear."

The two of them sat in silence for one minute, then two. The vacuum seal on the chamber resisted all sound; Ruiz heard his pulse throbbing in his ears. The intercom buzzed.

"Found your files, Green."

Green stood, moving to the small metal cube and pushing the talk button. Ruiz exhaled a breath he hadn't noticed he was keeping in.

"Relation?"

"Brothers."

"Thanks, Alcorn. I think we're almost done in here."

Green moved back to the table, taking his seat again. Ruiz was faintly smiling, relieved at his imminent release.

"Don't celebrate just yet, Mister Wilson. There's still no pressing reason to keep you alive."

Ruiz swung from elation to fear in an instant.

"We do, however, need to bring your brother in for questioning. And, unfortunately, you are the best lead we have on him."

Green scratched his chin, contemplating the best course of action. Ideally, Ruiz would default to their side, acting as willing bait for his sibling… but, of course, his resistance to hypnotics made him untrustworthy at best. They needed to keep him under control, within their surveillance, without any risk of him running off. They needed to keep him unaware. They needed to make him boring.

And then, through a spark of genius, Green had an idea.

"Mister Wilson, you say you have a resistance to hypnotics. How do you respond to amnestics?"

Ruiz felt the blood drain from his face.

"Poorly. Very, very poorly."

Green laughed.

"Well, I don't see a downside here."


the rest was forgotten
AS WAS THE WORLD


Ruiz rubbed the grit from his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the gallery. During the middle of the day. For several hours. While standing up. Again.

Ruiz looked at the digital watch on his right wrist. It was 3:45 pm.

Ruiz looked at the analogue watch on his left wrist. It was 3:45 pm.

Ruiz looked at the pocket watch in the painting in front of him. It was melting onto a tree branch, and had likely not been wound for some time. Ruiz knew not to trust readings from surrealistic timepieces, and pouted at the piece. That said, however, it was still 3:45 pm.

Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the street, entered a coffee shop, and asked for an espresso.

He picked up the cup and turned to leave. The barista talked to his back as he walked out.

“You feeling okay, Ruiz?”

He turned to the concerned girl behind the counter.

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks."

He walked out, sipping his coffee. He'd have to learn that girl's name one day.


confusion then acceptance
STOLEN FROM ONESELF


Ruiz returned to his studio, finding it filled with various deathtraps. He massaged his temples, trying to drown out his pervasive headache. When had he put this together? He looked at the plaques by the installation, confused at the purposeful misspelling of various words. It looked complete, he thought; may as well open it up to the public.


thus came the beginning
그렇게 처음이 찾아왔다
THE REST WAS CONTEXT
나머지는 전후 사정이었을 뿐


“Three people have died from your exhibition.”
“자네 전시회에서 세 명이나 죽었어.”

“They signed waivers.”
“각서에 서명한 사람들입니다.”

“I’ve got people breathing down my neck, here.”
“알지 모르겠지만 나에게도 위에서 압박이 들어오고 있다네.”

“They all signed waivers. They knew what they were getting into, they were consenting adults.”
“전부 각서에 서명한 사람들입니다. 어떤 일에 참여하는지 알고 있었던 법적 성인들이었습니다.”

Ruiz Duchamp’s latest exhibition was, he believed, his masterpiece. An installation that had taken him five months in total to construct, ‘wowwee go kill ursefl’ was his homage to stupidity. How he'd come up with the idea still seemed to escape him, and yet, it was one of his best. He had jumped through so many hoops to absolve himself of responsibility, and yet he was still being slammed by The Man. It was ridiculous.
루이즈 뒤샹의 최근 전시회는, 그의 생각으로는 역작이었다. 설치하는데만 5개월이나 잡아먹은 설치물인 ‘이얏호 나가 돼져’는 어리석음에 대한 그의 존경의 표시였다. 책임을 벗기 위해 수 없이 많은 장애물을 뛰어넘었지만, 여전히 자신은 '남자'에게 혹평을 받고 있었다. 정말 웃기는 일이었다.

“They’re demanding you get rid of the smallpox.”
“그들은 자네가 천연두를 치료해주길 요구하고 있네.”

One of the most popular parts of ‘wowwee’ was ‘stab ursefl with nedles’. It was simply an open box containing needles with samples of the most virulent diseases and deadly poisons in the history of mankind. This was how one of the people had died, after wilfully injecting himself with a deadly dose of everything. Whenever anyone asked how he obtained such things, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said he had his ways.
‘이얏호’에서 가장 인기있는 부분 중 하나는 ‘자신을 바눌로 찌릅시다’로, 단순히 인류 역사상 가장 치명적인 질병과 독이 약간 묻어있는 바늘을 담은 상자였다. 한 사람이 자기 의사로 그 안에 든 모든 것을 치사량까지 투여한 후 사망했다.

“I won’t compromise the integrity of the piece to accommodate for morons.”
“그 머저리들에게 맞추려고 작품의 완전성을 양보하진 않을겁니다.”

“You’re going to have to. And the blades have to go too.”
“해야 할 걸. 게다가 칼날도 빼야 해.”

The noisiest pieces in the hall, ‘shuv ur figners in blads no. 1-5’, were simply high rotation carbon steel circular saws. They had been painted in bright, primary colours, but besides that, they were perfectly normal, and could easily remove a hand. Two hands had been wilfully removed by critics. Ruiz hated The Critics. He couldn't quite recall why.
전시관에서 가장 시끄러운 작품인 ‘1에서 5번 칼날에 지버 너으세요’는 빠른 속도로 회전하고 있는 탄소강 회전 톱일 뿐이었다. 밝은 원색으로 칠해져 있다는 것만 제외하면, 손 하나쯤은 간단히 없앨 만큼 지극히 정상적인 톱이었다. 평론가들은 자발적으로 손 두 개를 잘라냈다.

“There are warnings everywhere. The whole point of the piece is to put people in easily avoidable, but very real danger. If you recontextualise any of it, it’s worthless.”
“이곳저곳에 경고문을 놓아 놨습니다. 이 작품의 요점은 사람들을 간단히 피할 수 있지만, 매우 사실적인 위험에 처하게 하는 것이라고요. 그 중 하나라도 재맥락화 시켜버리면 아무 의미가 없잖습니까.”

“Not good enough.”
“충분치 않군.”

“You’re marching to the drum of The Man.”
“당신은 '남자'의 장단에 놀아나고 있는겁니다.”

“I’m trying to save people’s lives.”
“인명을 구하고자 할 뿐일세.”

“You’re trying to save idiots who shove their fingers into bloody saws.”
“망할 톱에다가 자기 손가락이나 쑤셔넣는 바보들 말씀이시겠죠.”

“THE NAME OF THE PIECE TOLD THEM TO!”
작품의 이름이 그러라고 하고 있잖는가!

“Hell, at least I didn’t name anything ‘jump off a bridge’. What a catastrophe that would have been.”
“옘병할, 적어도 ‘다리에서나 뛰어 내려’ 같은 이름은 안 붙였잖습니까. 그랬다면 진짜로 재앙이 벌어졌겠지요.”

Every piece in the exhibit was designed to kill or, at the very least, grievously injure. The one fear that Ruiz had was that some particularly idiotic person would use them to kill or, at the very least, grievously injure another person. Fortunately, this had not yet occurred. The very thought of killing another human being repulsed him.
전시회의 모든 작품은 죽이거나, 적어도 지독한 부상을 입도록 설계되어 있었다. 루이즈가 걱정하고 있는 것 중 하나가 특출나게 등신같은 누군가가 다른 사람을 죽이거나, 아니면 적어도 지독한 부상을 입히기 위해 작품을 사용하는 것이었다. 운 좋게도 그런 일은 아직까지는 없었지만.

“We’ve already taken the C4 from you.”
“벌써 C4는 압수했네.”

“What? Nobody even used ‘press buten 4 firwroks’, this is downright puritanical!”
“뭐라고요? 아직 ‘불꼬놀이는 바튼을 누르세요’는 써보지도 못했는데요. 청교도도 아니고 이게 뭡니까!”

“Safety comes first. You can’t pull shit like this in my gallery.”
“안전이 먼저네. 이딴 걸 내 미술관에서 터트릴 수는 없어.”

“You’re ruining the vision. You saw it before.”
“절경을 망치고 계신 겁니다. 전에도 보셨잖아요.”

“The work’s been recontextualised, the police weren’t breathing down my fucking neck. You need to make everything safe or you need to get it out of here. I regret it, and you know I love the piece, but people are just too stupid for it.”
“작품이 재맥락화 되었을 때고, 경찰들이 나한테 압력을 가해오지도 않았을 때였지. 전부 안전하게 만들던가 여기서 꺼져 주게. 나도 후회는 하고 있고, 자네도 내가 이걸 좋아하는 걸 알고는 있겠지만, 사람들은 이 작품들을 이해하기에는 너무 멍청하네.”

“THAT. IS. THE PURPOSE. OF THE WORK. If you’re too stupid to not know to sit in an electric chair and pull the lever, it’s your own damn fault. Their blood is my canvas.”
그게. 이. 작품의. 목적입니다. 전기의자에 앉아서는 레버를 내리는 것도 모를 만큼 멍청하다면 그건 그 인간들 잘못이고요. 그들의 피가 제 캔버스입니다.”

“I know. I get it. But get it somewhere else. Sorry.”
“알아. 이해한다네. 그렇지만 다른 곳에 가서 해주게. 미안하네.”

Ruiz was disappointed. He walked into his favourite room, passing the box of cyanide pills saying ‘Complementary, Please Take One’. He moved past the automatic countdown guillotines. He looked passively beyond ‘here paly wit thes knivs’. He had one piece that he’d been saving for a particularly disappointing event. He closed the airtight door, and breathed slowly.
루이즈는 실망했다. 그는 ‘칭차뇽, 하나 가져가세요’라고 적힌 청산가리 알약 상자를 지나쳐, 가장 좋아하는 방으로 걸어들어갔다. 그리고는 자동 초읽기 단두대 옆을 지나쳤다. 루이즈는 ‘자 이 칼을 갇고 노세오’ 너머를 조심스래 바라보았다. 특별히 실망스러운 사건들을 위해 남겨놓은 작품이 하나 있었다. 루이즈는 기밀문을 닫고는 천천히 숨을 쉬었다.

Everyone was a fucking idiot.
모두가 병신새끼들이었다.

Nobody got it.
아무도 이해하지 못했다.

Nobody REALLY got it.
아무도 진짜로 이해하지 못했다.

Nobody?
아무도?

Nobody.
누구도.

nobody
아무도
Nobody.
누구도.
Nobody
아무도
NOBODY
아무도 아닌 자가

Nobody at all.
그 누구도.

this isn't right
이건 아니야

As he turned the knob, liquid nitrogen sprayed across his scalp and flesh.
루이즈가 손잡이를 돌리자 액화 질소가 그의 두피와 피부 위로 흩뿌려졌다.

His final thoughts were that it didn’t matter.
더 이상 상관없다는 것이 루이즈의 마지막 생각이었다.

DIDN'T MATTER?
상관이 없었어?

doesn't matter
상관 없어

His Final Thoughts Were That It Never Mattered
그의 마지막 생각은 한번도 상관있는 적이 없다는 것이었다

At least he got it.
적어도 그는 이해했으니까.

He really got it.
그는 진짜로 이해했으니까.

He Got It?
이해했어?

HE
GOT

IT?
그가
이해

했다고?

he got it
그는 이해했으니까
He got it.
그는 이해했으니까.
He Got It
그는 이해했으니까
HE GOT IT
그는 이해했으니까

And that was all he needed.
그에게 필요한 것은 그게 전부였다.

‘take shwoer 2 b cul’
‘쿨해지려면 샤어를’
what a stupid name
참 바보같은 이름이야


Sometimes, Ruiz, things just… I don't know how to say. Perhaps I would call it… 'reversion'. Sometimes things revert, have you noticed? It's as though we were living on the edge of a coin. A knife, even. Sometimes things revert and the world feels horribly different. Can you feel it? You've felt it, haven't you?
가끔은 말이야, 루이즈, 모든게…뭐라 말해야할지 모르겠네. 굳이 말하자면…'회귀'라고 할까. 가끔 모든게 되돌아가. 알고 있었어? 마치 우리가 동전 모서리에 살고 있는것 같아. 더 정확히 말하자면 칼의 모서리에 말이야. 가끔은 모든게 되돌아가고 이 세계가 소름끼치도록 다르게 느껴져. 느낄 수 있어? 느껴본적 있지, 안그래?

But there's just something about my brain.
It's been twisted, you understand, twisted by a man who thought it would be fun.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps he kept me the same and twisted the world.

하지만 내 뇌에 뭔가 문제가 있기도 해.
너도 알겠지만 비틀려 있잖아. 순전히 재밌겠다고 생각한 남자 때문에 비틀려있어.
어쩌면 그게 아닐지도 모르지.
어쩌면 날 내버려두고 세상을 비튼 것일지도 몰라.

How could you even tell?
그걸 어떻게 알겠어?


death followed
죽음이 뒤따랐다


You are cordially invited to the funeral of
RUIZ EDWARD DAVID DUCHAMP
An Artist
귀하를
예술가
루이즈 에드워드 데이비드 뒤샹
의 장례식에 정중히 초대합니다


the six of one is peace and joy
여섯 중 하나는 평화와 환희
The six of second, censorship.
여섯 중 둘은, 검열.
The Sixth Of Third Is Start Revealed
여섯 셋은 드러난 시작
A BIRD'S FRESH WINGS HAVE THUS BEEN SNIPPED
갓 태어난 새의 날개가 막 꺾였다
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