Dal Segno
Ding—
A message came in.
[WEB Sender]
Hello. This is Park Taehyeok, Branch Director of the Seoul Guide Branch. The Ministry of Employment and Labor has issued a survey on the working conditions of guides. We sincerely ask for as many honest responses as possible so that it may serve as a solid foundation for improving the working environment of guides!
https://forms.gle/ary3ZG
Normally, I ignore surveys since nothing ever changes no matter how many you fill out, but this plea was worded in a way I just couldn’t pass up.
I happened to be on my way to the Guiding Center, riding in the car the Center had sent as soon as school ended.
[Your responses will be used only for statistical purposes, and under Article 13 of the Statistics Act, your personal information is strictly guaranteed to remain confidential.]
I skimmed the notice while transfusing myself with an Americano, then scrolled down with my thumb—damn it, there were more than thirty questions. I was already exhausted.
I wanted nothing more than to hit the back button, but since I’d gotten this far, I figured I might as well. So I half-heartedly checked off answers.
[I am satisfied with my current duties.]
Yeah. Not at all.
[I am overall satisfied with my current work as a guide.]
Isn’t that the same as the last question? Not at all.
Ten or so more questions just like that.
[I am satisfied with the esper I have been matched with.]
Yeah, not at all.
[I have experienced unilateral abuse (verbal abuse, physical assault, etc.) from the esper I have been matched with.]
Does treating someone like an object count as unilateral abuse?
I narrowed my eyes, debated, then checked “Neutral.” That was me being generous.
I went on, ticking boxes with a blank face, until the last question made me quietly set my cup down.
They wanted me to write down the reason if I wasn’t satisfied with my guiding work.
To type it out, I had to grip my phone with both hands. It wasn’t like I only had one or two things to say. Honestly, eight out of ten posts in the guide community cursing out their assigned espers these days were mine.
Praying that my response might spark some change in the structure of guide work, I wrote:
[The esper I am currently in charge of summons me six or seven times a week, to the point I can’t maintain a normal life. There are seven days in a week, but if I have to visit the Center seven times, am I a resident guide or a summoned guide? Even a resident guide wouldn’t be worked this hard. Also……]
Eyes blazing, I poured out over twenty lines. And then I saw it. The final required field, already checked as mandatory:
[Please provide your name/affiliation/contact information.]
“…You said it was anonymous, you bastards…”
Cursing under my breath, I backed out of the survey page.
In the window glass, my reflection had hollow eyes, more zombie than human.
Such is the ruined life of a 21st-century guide. They say the workload used to be even heavier, but that’s not my business.
These days, those judged suitable to become guides have a choice:
Option 1: Field Guide.
Just as the name says, guides who go out into the field. They get the highest pay, including hazard allowances, but in last year’s survey of 150,000 office workers, the job was proudly ranked number one in “Most Dangerous Occupations in Korea.”
Option 2: Resident Guide.
These are permanent Center employees without a dedicated esper, working on-site 365 days a year. They usually work three shifts, and the Center provides room and board. I heard the pay is decent and the benefits aren’t bad.
But the workload is intense, the treatment inside the Center isn’t exactly great, and above all, the three-shift rotation is said to be absolute hell.
Option 3: Summoned Guide.
There’s an official title, but everyone just calls them “free guides.” Freelance guides, basically. They are assigned to a designated esper, and whenever that esper calls, they must appear at the Center within six hours to provide guiding.
Because of this, free guides cannot leave their assigned Center’s jurisdiction. If they need to travel, they must obtain prior approval. And there are no set working hours. They’re effectively on standby twenty-four hours a day.
The trade-off is that they can hold another job at the same time—the biggest advantage of being a free guide.
When I was judged suitable at twenty, I didn’t even hesitate before choosing Option 3 and enrolling in university. Now I’m twenty-three. Majoring in practical music, composition—one of those majors famous for starving you to death. I’m graduating this year.
For free guides like me, everything comes down to one thing: which esper you get matched with. The esper you meet determines your fate. So free guides divide espers into two categories: “godspers” and “dogspers.”
A “godsper” is one who doesn’t even remember they have a guide, the kind who might call once or twice a year. A “dogsper” is the kind who treats their guide like a personal portable battery, summoning them three or four times a week without fail.
By that measure, my esper—who calls me seven times a week—is a dog-dog-dogsper.
And yet, up until last year, he was the world’s greatest godsper. He called me less than ten times total the entire year.
But lately, he’s been promoted to dog-dog-dogsper.
I got fed up and asked the Center why in the hell my esper suddenly needed so much guiding. The reason was simple.
My esper’s wavelength levels were apparently in terrible shape this year. And since he refused mucosal guiding, he had no choice but to call frequently. The Center kept subtly hinting I should try mucosal guiding, but… that’s just because they don’t know him.
My esper goes ballistic if so much as a collar brushes against bare skin. His eyes go wild, his face twists, and he snarls like he’s about to kill you.
If I ever tried saying, “Shall we attempt mucosal guiding?” with him, I’d probably be flying out the window in seconds.
And to make things worse, last semester’s Kim Doweon had decided to screw future Kim Doweon by taking only fifteen credits with the thought, “Next year’s Doweon can deal with it.” So my life is completely wrecked now.
Seven-day work weeks plus twenty-three credits. This isn’t a human life.
Two weeks ago, I couldn’t take it anymore and went to the Center counseling office to beg them to reassign my esper. Of course, the only answer I got was that it wasn’t possible.
Our matching rate is apparently on the high side.
And besides, they said the way my esper treats me is actually better than most. Plenty of guides had run away from him before I came along.
And so, here I am today, summoned once again.
“Hello. Where’s my sunfish?”
“Ah, are you the guide assigned to Esper Cha Gweonwoo?”
These days, the reception staff hand me his room card the moment they see my face at the counter. No surprise—I’m here nearly every day now.
“You’ve been working hard. He’s in Room 305.”
Even Room 305, which he insists on every time, is sickening now. I’m so tired of it. Honestly, I just want to shoot him with a tranquilizer gun, grit my teeth, do one intense mucosal session, and then live in peace for a week.
…Or so I say, but in reality, I wouldn’t have the guts. I’ve never even done it once. If he ordered it, I’d probably do it, but still…
Inside Room 305, Cha Gweonwoo was sitting comfortably against the raised back of the bed.
Looked like he’d rolled around on-site again last night—fresh cuts and scratches covered his face. And that face was the only thing worth looking at on him. I clicked my tongue silently. From what I’d heard, he practically throws his body like a live grenade in the field.
I took off my coat and sat down beside him. Judging by his condition, whatever the hell he’d been doing yesterday had his wavelength levels practically at rock bottom.
At this point, shouldn’t they let him rest, or at least shoot him with a tranquilizer and force him into mucosal guiding? But that’s not my decision. It’s his.
“You went out to the field again yesterday?”
“……”
“Take care of yourself.”
Not that I said it for Cha Gweonwoo’s sake—of course it was for precious me. Gweonwoo, as if to say stop babbling and just do your job, thrust his hand out toward me. I shut my mouth, pumped a load of sanitizer gel onto my hands, and muttered indifferently:
“Beginning guiding.”
Guiding isn’t anything special. Just channel your inner small-town pastor, clasp their hands, and pray earnestly for the wounded esper’s healing…
Not really. All you do is hold hands and zone out, and my wavelength transfers to him until he calms down.
Looked at one way, it was the easiest money in the world—but staying frozen like this for three or four hours without being able to shift position was no joke.
Other guides joke with their espers during sessions, counsel them, even flirt, or so I’d heard. Which is just… unbelievable.
Espers who actually treat guides like people? My esper treats me like an IV drip bag dangling in midair.