It's a classic setup, pure game theory.
A terrifying spin on the Prisoner's Dilemma that asks, Is it possible to out-think yourself?
Jennie's not safe.
Lisa isn't safe.
But what can she do?
If every possible move she think of is doomed to be anticipated or made before she even get a chance, where does that leave Jennie?
Jennie feels like crawling out of her skin.
The worst days in the box—volcanic ash raining down on her face, almost freezing to death, seeing Lisa in a world where she had never said her name—none of it compares to the storm that's roiling inside of Jennie in this moment.
She have never felt farther from home.
The phone rings, snapping her back into the present.
Jennie walks over to the table, lift the receiver on the third ring.
"Hello?"
No response, only soft breathing.
Jennie hangs up the phone.
Move to the window.
Part the curtains.
Four floors below, the street is empty, the snow still pouring down.
The phone rings again, but only once this time.
Weird.
As Jennie eases back down onto the bed, the phone call keeps needling her.
What if another version of me is trying to confirm that I'm in my room?
First, how the hell would she find me at this hotel?
The answer comes fast, and it's terrifying.
At this very moment, there must be numerous versions of Jennie in Seoul doing exactly what she's doing—calling every motel and hotel in her neighborhood to find other Jennies. It isn't luck that she found Jennie. It's a statistical probability. Even a handful of Jennies, making a dozen phone calls each, could cover all the hotels within a few miles of her house.
But would the clerk give out my room number?
Maybe not intentionally, but it's possible the man downstairs watching variety shows and stuffing his face with Shin Ramyun could be duped.
How would a Jennie dupe him?
If it were anyone other than Jennie looking for her, the name she checked in under would probably keep her undetected. But all these other versions know Lisa's other name. Jennie screwed that up. If using that name was her first impulse, it would have also been another Jennie's first impulse. So assuming she knew the name Jennie might have checked in under, what would she do next?
The front desk wouldn't just give out Jennie's room number.
The other Jennie would have to pretend to know that she was staying here.
Jennie would call the hotel and ask to be connected to Pranpriya Manoban's room.
When the other Jennie heard her voice pick up on the other end of the line, she would know Jennie was here and hang up right away.
Then she would call back thirty seconds later and say to the clerk, "Sorry to bother you again, but I just called a second ago and was accidentally disconnected. Could you please reconnect me to...Oh shit, what room number was that?"
And if she got lucky, and the front-desk clerk was an absentminded idiot, there'd be a decent chance he would just blurt out Jennie's room number before reconnecting the other Jennie.
Thus the first call to confirm it was Jennie who answered.
Thus the second, where the caller hung up right after learning which room Jennie's staying in.
Jennie rises from the bed.
The thought is absurd, but she can't ignore it.
Is the other her coming up here right now to kill her?
Jennie slides her arms into the sleeves of my wool coat and head for the door.
Jennie feels dizzy with fear, even as she second-guess herself, thinking maybe she's crazy. Maybe she's rushing to some outlandish explanation of a mundane thing—the phone ringing twice in her room.
Perhaps.
But after that chat room, nothing would surprise Jennie anymore.
What if she's right and doesn't listen to her gut?
Go.
Right now.
Jennie slowly opens the door.
Step out into the hall.
It's empty.
Silent save for the low-register hum of the fluorescent lights above her.
Stairs or elevator?
At the far end of the hallway, the elevator dings.
Jennie hears the doors begin to part, and then someone in a wet jacket steps out of the elevator.
For a moment, Jennie cannot move.
Can't tear her eyes away.
It's the other her walking towards Jennie.
Their eyes meet.
She isn't smiling.
Wears no emotion on her face but a chilling intensity.
She raises a gun, and Jennie's suddenly running in the opposite direction, sprinting down the hallway toward the door at the far end that she's praying isn't locked.
Jennie crashes through under the glowing Exit sign, glancing back as she enters the stairwell.
Her doppelgänger runs toward her.
Down the steps, Jennie's hand sliding along the guardrail to steady her balance, thinking, Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall.
As Jennie reaches the third-floor landing, she hears the door bang open above her, the echo of the other's footsteps filling the stairwell.
Jennie keeps descending.
Hit the second floor.
Then the first, where one door with a window in the center leads into the lobby and another without a window leads elsewhere.
Jennie chooses elsewhere, smashing through...
Into a wall of freezing, snow-filled air.
Jennie stumbles down some steps into several inches of fresh powder, her shoes slipping on the frosted pavement.
Just as she right myself, a figure emerges out of the shadows of the alley between two Dumpsters.
Wearing a coat like Jennie's.
Her hair dusted with snow.
It's her.
The blade in her hand throws a glint of light from the nearby streetlamp, and she advances on Jennie, a knife spearing towards her abdomen—the knife that came standard-issue with the Velocity Laboratories backpack.
Jennie sidesteps at the last conceivable moment, grabbing the other's arm and slinging her with all Jennie's power into the steps that lead up to the hotel.
The other crashes into the stairs as the door busts open above them, and two seconds before Jennie run for her life, she commits the most impossible image to memory: one version of myself stepping out of the stairwell with a gun, the other version picking herself up off the stairs, her hands frantically searching for her knife, which has disappeared in the snow.
Are they a pair?
Working together to murder every Jennie they can find?
Jennie races between the buildings, snow plastering her face, her lungs burning.
Turning out onto the sidewalk of the next street, she looks back down the alley, see two shadows moving toward her.
Jennie heads through the blowing snow.
No one out.
The streets empty.
Several doors down, she hears an explosion of noise—people cheering.
Jennie rushes toward it, pushing through a scuffed, wooden door into a dive bar with standing room only, everyone turned facing the row of flatscreens above the bar, where a bunch of Korean idols are standing side by side in a stage, watching as the three nominated group waits on the result.
Jennie forces her way into the crowd, letting it swallow her.
There's nowhere to sit, barely anyplace to stand, but she finally carve out a cramped square foot of legroom underneath a dartboard.
Everyone is glued to the game, but Jennie's watching the door.
Mamamoo wons first place and the room erupts in a roar of pure joy, strangers high-fiving and embracing.
The door to the bar swings open.
Jennie sees herself standing in the threshold, covered in snow.
She takes a step inside.
Jennie lose her for a moment, then sees her again as the crowd undulates.
What has this version of Jennie Kim experienced? What worlds did she see? What hell did she fight through to arrive back in this Seoul?
She scans the crowd.
Behind her, Jennie can see the snow falling outside.
Her eyes look hard and cold, but Jennie wonders if she would say the same about her.
As her gaze tracks toward where Jennie's standing in the back of the room, Jennie squats beneath the dartboard, hidden in a forest of legs.
Jennie lets a full minute pass.
When the crowd roars again,Jennie slowly stands.
The door to the bar is closed now.
Her doppelgänger gone.
___________________________________
Mamamoo wins.
People linger, happy and drunk.
It takes an hour for a spot to open up at the bar, and since Jennie have no place to go, she climbs onto a stool and order a light beer that brings her balance down to less than ₩11000.
She's starving, but the place doesn't serve food, so Jennie devour several bowls of Gallo Macho Chicken as she nurse her beer.
An inebriated man attempts to engage her in a conversation but Jennie just stares down into her beer until he insults her and starts bothering two women standing behind them.
He's loud, belligerent.
A bouncer appears and hauls him outside.
The crowd thins.
As Jennie sits at the bar, trying to tune out the noise, she keeps landing on a single concept: I need to get Lisa away from our house. As long as they're home, the threat of these Jennies doing something crazy persists.
But how?
Jennie2 is presumably with her right now.
It's the middle of the night.
Going anywhere near their house entails way too much risk.
She needs Lisa to leave, to come to her.
But for every idea she has, another Jennie is having the same, or already has, or soon will.
There's no way for Jennie to win.
As the door to the bar swings open, Jennie look over.
A version of her—backpack, peacoat, boots—steps through the doorway, and when their eyes meet, she betrays surprise and raises both arms in a show of deference.
Good. Maybe she's not here for Jennie.
If there are as many Jennies running around Logan Square as she suspect, chances are she just stumbled in out of the cold, seeking shelter and safety.
Like Jennie did.
The other crosses to the bar and climbs onto the empty stool beside Jennie's, her bare hands trembling with cold.
Or fear.
The bartender drifts over and looks at both of them with curiosity—as if she wants to ask—but all she says to the new arrival is, "What can I get you?"
"Whatever she's drinking."
We watch her pull a pint from the tap and bring over the glass, foam spilling down the sides.
The other lifts her beer.
Jennie lifts hers.
They stare at each other.
She has a fading wound across the right side of her face, like someone slashed her with a knife.
The thread tied around her ring finger is identical to Jennie.
They drink.
"When did you get—?"
"When did you get—?"
They can't help but smile.
Jennie say, "This afternoon. You?"
"Yesterday."
"I have a feeling it's going to be kind of hard—"
"—not finishing each other's sentences?"
"You know what I'm thinking right now?"
"I can't read your mind."
It's strange—Jennie's talking to herself, but her voice doesn't sound like what Jennie think she sound like.
Jennie say, "I'm wondering how far back you and I branched. Did you see the world of falling ash?"
"Yes. And then the ice. I barely escaped that one."
"What about Jisoo and Rosé?" Jennie asks.
"Rosé were left at the hangar while Jisoo and I were separated in the storm."
Jennie feels a pang of loss like a small detonation in her gut, "We stayed together in mine. Took shelter in a house."
"The one that was buried to the dormer windows?"
"Exactly."
"I found that house too. With the dead family inside."
"So then where—?"
"So then where—?"
"You go," the other says.
As she sips her beer, Jennie asks, "Where did you go after the ice world?"
"I walked out of the box into this guy's basement. He freaked out. He had a gun, tied me up. Probably would have killed me except he took one of the ampoules and decided to have a look at the corridor for himself."
"So he went in and never came out."
"Exactly."
"And then?"
Her eyes go distant for a moment.
She takes another long pull from her beer.
"Then I saw some bad ones. Really bad. Dark worlds. Evil places. What about you?"
Jennie shares her story, and though it feels good to unload, it's undeniably strange to unload on the other her.
This woman and her were the same person up until a month ago. Which means ninety-nine-point-nine percent of their history is shared.
They have said the same things. Made identical choices. Experienced the same fears.
The same love.
As she buys their second round of beers, Jennie can't take her eyes off the other her.
She's sitting next to her.
There's something about her that doesn't seem quite real.
Perhaps because Jennie's watching from an impossible vantage point—looking at herself from outside of herself.
She looks strong, but also tired, damaged, and afraid.
It's like talking to a friend who knows everything about you, but there's an added layer of excruciating familiarity.
Aside from the last month, there are no secrets between them. She knows every bad thing Jennie had done. Every thought Jennie have entertained. Her weaknesses. Her secret fears.
"We call him Jennie2," Jennie says, "which implies that we think of ourselves as Jennie1. As the original. But we can't both be Jennie1. And there are others out there who think they're the original."
"None of us are."
"No. We're pieces of a composite."
"Facets," the other says. "Some very close to being the same person, like I assume you and I are. Some worlds apart."
Jennie say, "It makes you think about yourself in a different light, doesn't it?"
"Makes me wonder, who is the ideal Jason? Does he even exist?"
"All you can do is live the best version of yourself, right?"
"Took the words."
The bartender announces last call.
Jennie says, "Not many people can say they've done this."
"What? Share a beer with themselves?"
"Yeah."
The other Jennie finishes her beer.
Jennie finishes hers.
Sliding off her stool, the other says, "I'll leave first."
"Which way are you heading?"
She hesitates. "North."
"I'm not going to follow you. Can I expect the same?"
"Yes."
"We can't both have them."
The other says, "Who deserves them is the question, and there may be no answer. But if it comes down to you and me, I won't let you stop me from being with Lisa. I won't like it, but I'll kill you if it comes to that."
"Thanks for the beer, Jennie."
Jennie watches the other her go.
Wait five minutes.
She's the last one to leave.
It's still snowing.
There's a half foot of fresh powder on the streets, and the snowplows are out.
Stepping down onto the sidewalk, Jennie take a moment to absorb her surroundings.
Several customers from the bar are staggering away, but she sees no one else out on the streets.
Jennie doesn't know where to go.
She have nowhere to go.
Two valid hotel keycards in her pocket, but it wouldn't be safe to use either of them. Other Jennies could have easily obtained copies. They could be inside her room at this moment, waiting for Jennie to return.
It dawns on Jennie then—her last ampoule is back at that second hotel.
Gone now.
Jennie starts walking down the sidewalk.
It's two in the morning, and she's running on fumes.
How many other Jennies are wandering these streets at this very moment, facing the same fears, the same questions?
How many have been killed?
How many are out hunting?
Jennie can't escape the feeling that she's not safe in Seoul even in the middle of the night. Every alley she passes, every shadowy doorway, she's looking for movement, for someone coming after her.
A half mile brings her to Humboldt Park.
Jennie tracks through the snow.
Out into a silent field.
She's beyond tired.
Her legs aching.
Her stomach rumbling with hunger.
Jennie can't keep going.
A large evergreen towers in the distance, its branches sagging with snow.
The lowest limbs are four feet off the ground, but they offer some semblance of shelter from the storm.
Close to the trunk, there's only a dusting of snow, and Jennie brushes it away and sit in the dirt against the tree on the leeward side.
It's so quiet.
Jennie can hear the distant mumble of snowplows moving through the city.
The sky is neon pink from all the lights reflecting off the low clouds.
Jennie draws her coat in close and ball her hands into fists to preserve some core heat.
From where she sits, her view is of an open field, interspersed with trees.
The snow falls through the streetlamps along a distant walking path, making coronas of brilliant flakes near the light.
Nothing moves out there.
It's cold, but not as bad as it might be if the skies were calm and clear.
Jennie don't think she's going to freeze to death.
But she don't think she's going to sleep either.
As Jennie shuts her eyes, an idea strikes her.
Randomness.
How do you beat an opponent who is inherently wired to predict any and all moves you might make?
You do something completely random.
Unplanned.
You make a move you haven't considered, to which you've given little or no prior thought.
Maybe it's a bad move that blows up in your face and costs you the game.
But perhaps it's a play the other you never saw coming, which gives you an unanticipated strategic advantage.
So how do Jennie apply that line of thinking to her situation?
How do you do something utterly random that defies anticipation?
___________________________________
Somehow Jennie sleeps.
Wake up shivering to a world of gray and white.
The snow and the wind have stopped, and through the leafless trees she can see pieces of the skyline in the distance, the highest buildings just touching the cloud deck that overhangs the city.
The open field is white and still.
It's dawn.
The streetlamps wink out.
Jennie sits up, unbelievably stiff.
There's the faintest dusting of snow on her coat.
Her breath plumes in the cold.
Of all the versions of Seoul she have seen, none can touch the serenity of this morning.
Where the empty streets keep everything hushed.
Where the sky is white and the ground is white and the buildings and the trees stand starkly against it all.
Jennie thinks of the seven million people still in bed under the covers or standing at their windows, looking out between the curtains at what the storm left behind.
Something so safe and comforting in the imagining of it.
Jennie struggles onto her feet.
She woke up with a crazy idea.
Something that happened in the bar last night, right before the other Jennie showed up, inspired it. It's nothing she would have ever thought of on her own, which makes Jennie almost trust it.
Heading back across the park, she walks towards home.