Chapter Text
It isn’t a city of heroes.
It isn’t a city of caped crusaders who protect them when the skies are torn open, and monsters from other worlds pour from gaping holes into their planet’s orbit and rain bullets onto them like blood. The city is under siege, and Jeon Jeongguk is helplessly stowed under the table by his Uncle Ben, who thinks that their council housing with its flimsy brick walls and mouldy ceiling would hold; if time comes, when time comes.
It is not a house of heroes. It is a house of poverty.
Jeongguk can feel the biting December wind enter his hole-ridden converse, his knuckles pink from both the winter and nerves. He pushes his glasses up, listening keenly to the sound of bombs outside. Uncle Ben has drawn the blinds to keep them obscure from the wrath of whoever floats outside. They call him Loki. He is a trickster, a God.
Jeongguk is only allowed to wait. To wait numbly for a sign, a warning, a false alarm. Beside him, Aunt May is shivering, and Jeongguk wants to believe it is December that makes her tremble and not fear. Suddenly, he hears a roar and watches Uncle Ben recoil in horror. Jeongguk bumps his head, rushing to his side, and he holds his uncle in his arms. He opens the blinds, unable to help himself and carefully stands watch. Outside the city is in smithereens, the air heavy with soot and the strange musk of alien blood. Monsters whizz around them like fruit flies. Jeongguk can spot Iron Man up there, his red suit leaving behind a haze of death in its wake, and a trail of steam that follows him as he tackles an enormous metal monster. Jeongguk opens his eyes in horror as the metal warship suddenly plunges, his uncle yelps as it crunches the building and the ground beneath it - three blocks from where they are, near his school, Jeongguk realises. He was about to graduate in three weeks, his face whitens when he remembers the decorations that the juniors had put up for them - gone, he realises, all of it, gone.
The light goes out, and they are plunged into darkness. His uncle is worried about heating, he knows. Jeongguk wonders if they would be dead by the next morning, found frozen, hand in hand under the wooden table, huddled as a last resort to seek warmth. The air cools around them, and he can see ghosts of his breath surrounding him, and panics when he looks at Aunt May, whose thin cardigan does nothing to help. He and his uncle haul their coats and their blankets from the rooms and heap everything together. Aunt May thrusts the hot water bag into the blanket citadel, and they lie stacked up on each other, in the darkness, waiting for the light.
Waiting.
*
Outside the world gyrates and grenades fall, outside there are Gods fighting Gods, robot men and Russian spies, war heroes frozen in time, outside the Avengers fight to protect the People, but Kim Taehyung wonders if people ever cease to be casualties, or worse statistics, in a perpetual game of power. He seethes being a pawn, a nobody, helpless in the face of such wrath - wrath brought upon them by the same people who promised to save their world. His father hasn’t bothered to shield the windows, so Taehyung has open access to the carnage that is being laid bare. He steals a glance at his father, who is staring outside, a drink at hand. Taehyung wonders if his father cares about the world ending; he knows it would take more than a hellfire of shells ripping the air to move the man. Wonders if anything beyond the death of his mother has ever moved the man, wonders what it might mean to die with the man who always blamed him for his wife’s death.
His father had let spite become the breadwinner in his household.
Taehyung thinks even in death, he wouldn’t rest in peace. What kind of a monster was he? He killed his mother the minute she gave birth to him. The question haunts him, but his father has only ever met his questions with silence.
Thus, Taehyung waits.
Waits in the silence, waits in the wreckage of a city, waits for his father. His body stills when he sees a large warship crumble and sink from the heavens, plunging somewhere over the East, watches as it takes down building after building with itself, and hears the roar of its defeated body thudding on the ground. A sudden anger blooms inside Taehyung. He doesn’t need to be saved, no, he just wants a fair chance at surviving.
*
A year after the alien invasion, the city was still being built.
Alien technology, guns, and drugs that could give you temporary superpowers were being sold in the black market at a record high. Every one of his classmates was either foraging the city for leftover spoils or vying for an internship at Oscorp, Life Foundation, or Stark Industries. Sometimes Jeongguk couldn’t even process how he ended up at the city’s most prestigious university on full aid, and then remembered how his previous school had been blown to dust.
Stark Industries had intervened. They offered jobs to adults and scholarships to students from the East, which had taken the most heat during the War. So, Jeongguk and a few of his ex-classmates had found themselves in the sleek, shiny building at Empire State University, which boasted a view of the river like no other. The university was situated on the outskirts, further south. If you drove further, you would reach the estuary, the large mouth where the sea drinks the river, the saline swallowing the fresh water in gleaming white waves. Jeongguk tugs at his tie; his throat feels too tight. He didn’t realise studying in such a posh place would warrant posh uniforms or the need to pick up posh etiquette.
“Jeon-”, a voice broke him out of his thoughts.
“Good morning, Professor.” He turned around to face his Media Studies Professor.
“Young man, I hope you are applying for the Oscorp internship.”
“Umm, me? Well, I didn’t think…I mean, I don’t have enough experience, Sir,” Jeongguk mumbled.
“That is what internships are for! You have excellent grades, Jeon. I expect your application by tomorrow. It’d be foolish to let this opportunity go.”
“I’ll do my best, Professor! Thank you,” he bowed his head in respect.
Yes, Jeongguk had decent grades, and he was a quick learner, but he didn’t know if it was enough to land him an internship at Oscorp’s Communications Team. He also would rather work in their lab. He loved science. But he didn’t have the connections to land an internship at any of the labs. At least now he might have a shot. He was great at photography and decent at visual media, but he wondered if his beat-up Nikon would match the glitzy photo-ops Oscorp was used to. Yet, he made a mental note to print his portfolio and CV, just in case. He could do with the money; he didn’t want to burden his uncle anymore. He was 18 now. And he knew, every little bit helped.
When he expressed his sentiments to May, she tenderly ruffled his hair, “Our Jungkookie has grown up, hasn’t he? He’s grown up so well.” Uncle Ben looked at him and then simply said, “Do it for the experience, kid. Don’t do it for the money. I want you to learn lots at the job. Don’t worry about us, we will get by.” Jeongguk nodded. A lot had changed in one year. He had gotten the miraculous opportunity to study at the best university in the city, one he could have never been able to afford, and he wanted to make the best of it. He had to. Times were rough.
*
Times were rough, and there was not enough for most people - not enough food, not enough jobs, not enough money to pay heating bills and keep the hot water running. Taehyung wasn’t blind - the city was running on survival mode. People were brawling on the streets, fighting each other, clawing for whatever little they could fight over. His father was a reporter, and these days, if you kept your mouth shut and wrote what you were asked to, instead of doing real journalism, you’d get by. However, with his tuition and his father’s escalating alcoholism, Taehyung found himself struggling to put meals together. Most days,s he would cook large batches of spaghetti in tomato sauce and throw in the cheapest sausages he could find. Some days, when he would get lucky at the food bank, there would be cabbage or broccoli on the table. Not like his father noticed, that man would eat whatever he could muster on a plate and then get back to his drink as quickly as he could, leaving Taehyung alone at the dining table. Taehyung didn’t mind. Coursework was company, and Taehyung realised getting school work done at the dinner table was easier than chewing in complete silence. He worked extremely hard to keep the bursary that paid partially for his tuition. He kept his grades up, tutored his peers, and every day at the dinner table, Taehyung resolved a little harder to get the fuck out of there.
A lot had changed in a year. Taehyung was not an idealist anymore. He was running his house on food stamps. He was hungry.
*
Times were rough. Things had changed. A year had passed. The city was rancorous with criminals and illegal activities. There were reparations, but never to those who needed them the most. People accessing food banks and homeless shelters had tripled. More people were on food stamps, council housing waiting lists, and on government benefits. The government didn’t know how else to double down, so they enforced rules, curfews, and censorship. The people were better left in the dark, in fear of riots breaking out. If you didn’t tell them how poor they actually were, and how much money arms dealers and industrialists were making there, it wouldn’t be a problem. Journalists were either being bought or being permanently silenced. And while financial aid was given to a handful of people to keep up appearances, criticism towards the government was not allowed, and the Avengers had silently agreed to take the blame, bear the heat, and wear the cross. The government was wary of what it might mean for the People to be subjected to a bunch of volatile do-gooders, who kept missing the point despite their good intentions. Moreover, Intel said that there were internal disputes amongst the heroes, but news of a Civil War within the Avengers could not reach the People who still looked at them with hope.
Thus, there was a silent agreement between the heroes and the politicians: the People had to be protected. That protection came with the iron hand of rules and regulations, charges of sedition and disappearances, and a rampant clampdown on dissenters. The city was under reconstruction; they had to build it up from scratch. With plenty of hope. But only the truly powerful knew that the only way to do it successfully was through fear.
The city couldn’t afford a revolution. The rich would never let it happen.
*
Taehyung was running late; he was pedalling with his entire might to get to Life Foundation on time. First impressions were everything, and he did not want to be late for his first day. When he had heard back from the Foundation, his heart had stuttered a little. He couldn’t believe his luck! He would get paid ten bucks per hour the whole summer, which meant that not only had he secured his semester fees, but that he could save some of it too.
Three months. Taehyung had three months to change his life.
Taehyung biked all the way to the outskirts of the city, way beyond the North, far away from his cramped West apartment.
Exercise, Taehyung thought grimly, as his feet started protesting. He was lanky and wafer-thin. He hoped it wasn’t malnutrition; his collarbones had always jutted out of his skin in defiance. He had a small face, an angular nose, and a pair of lips perpetually set in stone; he didn’t remember the last time he laughed. It wasn’t like the atmosphere warranted joy. Everybody was worried. Not even the great Captain could elicit hope from the citizens, and that is an Avenger Taehyung approved of – and the God, of course – the golden-haired, non-spandexed amidst mortals. Thor was built like the Sun. Yet, everything had still gone to shit.
Taehyung didn’t even have time to baulk at the stunning interior of the Foundation, the grandiose of the biochemist lab suited a Mayfair at the West End, not the barren outskirts of their fallen city. But before he could scoff at the spotless gilded lobby, he spotted his classmate Park Jimin loitering near the escalators. Jimin was the closest thing he had to a friend in the Empire State University – they had survived freshman year together and had a lot more in common than they had expected - “daddy issues” – Jimin had joked, and even though Taehyung had rolled his eyes at him then, deep down he secretly agreed.
“Oi, Park!” he hollered.
“Ah, Kim,” Jimin sing-songed in retaliation, “late, are we?”
Taehyung bit his lips guiltily, checking his watch. He didn’t know where he was supposed to go, and he was already fifteen minutes late.
“Don’t worry,” Jimin continued, “I know Drake. Let’s meet him, and then I will get you to your desk.”
“You’re buddies with Carlton Drake?”
“Yeah, we have met a few times in the ring.”
Taehyung gaped at Jimin. Carlton Drake, biochem prodigy who dressed like a 17th-century lawmaker, had met Jimin in the ring?
“Oh, don’t be fooled by his appearance,” Jimin snickered, “he can hand your ass to you. His speciality is jujutsu.”
Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up as they climbed into the elevator.
“Who won?” he finally managed.
“Me, of course,” Jimin whispered.
The elevators had ears – the entire building did. You couldn’t think without the Foundation picking up on your inner monologue and firing you, and once you were fired from the Foundation, nobody else would hire you.
Taehyung had to be careful. It wasn’t new to him, though; he had censored his thoughts all his life. His father had hammers for hands. Not that he ever hit Taehyung, but he had smashed enough beer mugs to make Taehyung permanently flinch at loud noises.
Taehyung mildly looked at Jimin, who was lithe and extremely quick on his feet. His speciality was mixed martial arts. Taehyung had seen Jimin fight once. It had felt like watching a dancer bodyslam men twice their size. In another universe, Jimin could be a ballerina.
“Do you dance?” Taehyung blurted out stupidly.
It was Jimin’s turn to raise his eyebrows, “Yeah, as well as you sing, Tae.”
Taehyung was a horrible singer. He couldn’t hold a note. Taehyung huffed out a laugh – maybe in another universe…who knows?
Carlton Drake was everything Taehyung had expected him to be. His hair was a startling blonde, bleached platinum; his eyes perpetually covered in Celine shades. He moved like he had more money than God – which he probably did, to be honest. He didn’t bother with Taehyung at all, just dismissed his hands at them once Jimin explained he was giving Tae a “tour”.
“Take it all in, Taehyung,” Drake smiled, “this is the most exciting place on Earth. The only thing you need to know is that, at the Foundation, we don’t pretend to be heroes. There are no Gods amongst us because we have killed him. So, I say let us not fool ourselves. Let us create life as much as any God might.”
Taehyung had kept his mouth shut, mulling over the Nietzsche. He was there to write smart and effective bylines, not indulge a God complex. Jimin smiled tightly beside him. “Just roll with it,” he whispered when Taehyung looked at him disbelievingly.
Once they were out of the office, Jimin yanked him into the corner, “He gets in these moods sometimes...all braggadocio and illusions of grandeur. Maybe it’s NPD. Hell, if I know, I am just the muscle here.”
“What do you mean?” Jimin was tiny as he was lethal.
“I am guarding the lab on 05, Tae.”
“They could have allotted you to cybersecurity.”
“As if. They keep all data. Which reminds me, never log into your personal accounts on their WiFi, and use a brick phone to communicate.”
Taehyung gulped as he brandished his bandaged iPhone 11, “This is the only one I have.”
Jimin contemplated a bit, “I have a spare one, I will get it for you tomorrow. Don’t use your phone today. You will be using the company machines, anyway. Email me if you need anything – just nothing personal.”
Taehyung nodded. He could live without his phone, his father did not care about his whereabouts, and he had nobody else to notify. Jimin shoved him into the Marketing floor and left. He looked at the sterile white cubicles. It was going to be a long three months.
*
It was the beginning of a long three months, Jeongguk knew. His Uncle had driven him to Oscorp on a bright June morning and smarted his powder-blue shirt. Kook was fidgeting and shoving his tongue everywhere in his mouth. “Don’t worry, kid,” his uncle huffed, “Just go in there and blow them away with your Golden Closet talent.” Jeongguk had smiled slightly at that. The only time he had broken out the Golden Closet talent was when he went to an underground fight between Jimin, who went by ‘Flash’ in the ring (his playpen bully – turned college senior – turned friend) and ‘Riot’ (Jeongguk had baulked when he discovered Carlton Drake under the mask). Jimin had asked geeky little Jeon to film the match for publicity purposes. Jimin was a dark-web genius; Jeongguk knew it had probably taken him less than twenty minutes to get the rough cut viral. The club had raked in a lot of money on the next match – money Jeongguk had not seen, even though he was suspicious that Jimin might have made a small fortune with his winnings and the PR cut. The rest of his Golden Closet talent was spent mostly on people who were incidentally close by – his uncle & aunt, his friends from soccer, his neighbour (Mary Jane, who, Jeongguk thought, was the prettiest girl he had ever seen in his whole life) and sometimes, just strangers. Jeongguk liked people watching. He enjoyed getting lost in the city. Taking the train up West. Clicking the rows and rows and rows of apartments matchboxed together. The sudden bicycle flashing past him, the boy in a green sweater and perpetually changing hair. Jeongguk had seen him at college, too – Kim Taehyung – Jimin’s friend. Tall, slim, serious. If looks could kill…well, Jeongguk wasn’t sure if he could finish that sentence. Taehyung never looked at him. Yet, Jeongguk found himself unable to stop. It was the hair, Jeongguk thought – the blue, the red, the silver. Jeongguk had to squint the first time he saw Taehyung. Taehyung had stepped into the sun that day; his silver head a halo against the stainless steel and glass panopticon. His face was forever set in a blank, never betraying any hint of emotion. Like other days, Taehyung had not looked at him. Like other days, Jeongguk could not stop looking. Some days, he just wanted to raise his camera and cross the line but then he remembered the look on Kim Taehyung’s face and hurried to hide himself in darkrooms.
Jeongguk was hiding now too. The Oscorp building was magnificent. It was all glass windows with pouring sunlight and Paul Klee installations.
“Jeonggukkie–,” a voice rang out. What was she doing here? Jeongguk thought.
“What are you doing here?” Mary Jane asked, surprised.
“I am interning,” Jeongguk responded, a bit bashful. His neck reddened under her careful gaze.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Have you met Yoongi yet? He is an old friend – from when I volunteered at an NGO his father sponsors.”
Jeongguk shook his head. How would he know the heir of Oscorp? He was a nobody.
He was dragged into a well-lit office by MJ, whose flaming red hair swung behind her. It was a different red. A gingerbread, cinnamon, Christmas-y red; not Kim Taehyung’s flaming hot cheeto, libertine, rebel red. Jeongguk wondered how he would look with cherry hair, wondered if it would cost him his job, wondered if anyone actually saw him, if anyone ever looked.
“Yoongi,” MJ called out to a mint-haired boy crouching over a computer, who looked up at her and smiled a private smile – a smile Jeongguk thought nobody else should see. His stomach flipped. Who was this guy?
“MJ! What a surprise. And who do we have here?” he inquired.
“Jeon Jeongguk. Communications Intern. Glad to meet you.” He extended his hand, and Yoongi laughed.
“No need to be so formal. My name is Min Yoongi. I am working right now, but let’s get lunch later. I like to know my employees better. I will mail you the time, Comms Intern.”
Jeongguk thanked him over and over again, only to be met with a waving hand.
“He is super nice,” MJ whispered. “He is a very good friend. He will win you over. Give him a chance.”
Jeongguk nodded again. He took a deep breath. Maybe he could learn something from Min Yoongi. Learn how to win people over. He wondered how much being an heir helped his case; he learned over lunch that money played hardly any part; Yoongi was naturally charming. He didn’t mind sharing his ideas or asking for Jeongguk’s opinions. Jeongguk felt guilty. Then, he felt grateful. He had three months to cultivate all that he could from one Min Yoongi at his kingdom of Oscorp. Jeongguk was going to make it count.
*
The first month of the internship had gone by smoothly. Jeongguk was partly grateful, partly terrified that he had gotten closer to Yoongi. The day Yoongi had offhandedly mentioned to call him hyung, Jeongguk had keened a bit. He wasn’t that great at social cues, but Yoongi didn’t mind.
“The kid is just shy,” he shrugged at MJ, who was concerned about little Jeon Jeongguk feeling intimidated by the hard and fast corporate world. “But he is damned talented. Picked up all the little tricks on Procreate by the end of his first week. Why isn’t he on the Uni paper with us?” Yoongi frowned. He hated seeing talent going to waste. It ruffled all his ugly feathers. Nobody with that much potential should be overlooked. Especially a kid, he thought bitterly, while looking at the sprawling complex his father had built. Daddy dearest had no time for his son, and eyes, well, always, only on the prize.
“Well…you could pull some strings,” MJ smiled at him.
Now that was something Min Yoongi was good at – strings. Ventriloquism was a skill he had perfected under his father’s care, being the subject of daddy dearest’s puppeteering for years. An absent father had meant that Yoongi had rebelled out through the booze and the pills by the time he was 16, and his father had never batted an eye. He was sent to rehab, then to a care home before he turned 18. Knowing that his father would build a cloning machine just to keep his lineage intact before he had to deal with his troublemaker of a son, Yoongi had given up. He didn’t know who was winning the war: the father who did nothing to stop his debauchery or the son who had cleaned up his act as quickly just to prevent giving his father the satisfaction of being right. Yoongi had a sneaky feeling his father would actually be pleased if he turned out to be a fuck up, as opposed to the gracious, polite, resourceful man Yoongi was hell-bent on becoming. Hell, he even smiled at girls and lived in the closet and was ready to go through with the picket fence purgatory if it sold his image of being a good heir. An heir with a heart, who cared about his employees, as opposed to his father, who was a fragile narcissist with an Excel sheet inside his chest. Yet, Yoongi could bet his last dollar and dime that the ability to manipulate people into getting what he wanted was something he had inherited from his father. At least, Yoongi wanted to prove that his heart wasn't in the right place. And thus, he volunteered to take poor Jeon Jeongguk under his wings, teach him the ropes. He’d make sure he got into the Uni Paper, refer him to the Daily Bugle, where his father’s old pal J. J. Jameson Jr. worked. He would make a man out of this kid who always looked out of place in his starched, stiff, collared shirts and overly polished shoes. The first thing Yoongi needed to do was get the boy a new camera on company dough – light leaks looked edgy, but he wanted a spread on the recently bought arachnoid specimen, and Vogue was hardly the vibe for spiders. Those runty-legged bastards; pitch black and venomous – they were Oscorp’s latest digs. His father was working with a scientist, some Otto Octavius, who was supposed to be a genius engineer. His father was experimenting with serums that could enhance the body, probably inspired by the pretty-boy Captain. Not everyone could create a life-enhancing serum, not everyone was Howard Stark, Yoongi mused, and not everyone got the chance to float across the city in a tin suit. Sometimes, Yoongi would watch Iron-Man whizzing across the sky and wonder if superheroes had assholes for fathers, too.
*
“I don’t care about Government mandates, Namjoon.” Kim Seokjin snapped at the bespectacled boy in front of him. “Bucky is my friend; I will protect him at all costs.”
“We are your friends too,” Namjoon raised his eyebrows. He didn’t like the way Seokjin was letting emotions get the best of him. He didn’t like the way Seokjin would flush red and tighten his fist while talking about the man who killed his parents – brainwashed or not.
“Then act like it,” Seokjin challenged, rolling up his spandex suit. Seokjin didn’t know if the red and blue suited him anymore. Didn’t know if the role of the righteous, ever moral Captain suited him any longer.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t sign the papers, dammit.”
“This is our only chance of being held accountable.”
“I don’t need a bunch of yes-men who have never stepped on the line to tell me right from wrong.”
“This isn’t about you!”
“Clearly, since everything has to be about you and your conscience, Iron-Man.”
“Oh, get off your high horse and look around you! The city is crumbling. There are Gods amongst men, tricksters amongst civilians. How can we protect them without laws?”
“The laws are not here to protect them. They are here to bind us. I am not signing away my freedom. Ever.”
“How can you be so selfish?” Namjoon muttered, his anger getting the best of him. Seokjin looked at him once, and Namjoon saw that he had hit a nerve.
“I am being selfish? I didn’t even want to be here. I was woken up against my will. I was thrust into this world with its modern tech and modern values without my consent. Don’t tell me I am being selfish when all I am trying to do is protect my autonomy,” Seokjin snapped at him. “I am not signing the papers, Namjoon. And I don’t think you will be foolish enough to force me.”
“Fine,” Namjoon snapped. “Leave behind the vibranium. You don’t deserve that shield. My father’s shield. The one your friend murdered.”
“I wish I could return the power your father gave me with it,” Seokjin threw the shield on the floor. The loud clank bounced off the Avenger’s headquarters. Seokjin knew the Widow was listening somewhere and relaying it to Barton. He wondered if his decision would make Wanda feel abandoned after the loss of Pietro. He was exhausted. He didn’t like fighting with Namjoon. He felt the exhaustion of 77 years churn inside him. Namjoon just wouldn’t understand. He was too young, too obstinate, too arrogant. His intelligence did not suit his hubris. He took one good look at Namjoon and shook his head in a confusion of emotion – defiance, sadness, conflict. He just couldn’t get through to the self-proclaimed “genius, billionaire, philanthropist” in front of him. Out of his tin suit, he was ultimately a young man in his late 20s, stubborn about carrying the world on his shoulder. So stubborn, Jin thought bitterly.
Namjoon watched Seokjin as he walked out the door. He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew Jin would drive off into the fading sunset on his bike, in his leather jacket. The aviator sat perfectly calm on his otherwise stormy demeanour. He hated it when Seokjin walked away from him. Hated when he chose Bucky over him. Hated how he had to rein in his heart every time he looked at him, how his hands itched to soothe Jin’s injuries despite his own bleeding, hated how the shrapnel swimming near his heart felt less painful than Jin choosing to walk away. He looked at the papers in front of him. He wasn’t being obstinate; he just wanted to be sure that the Avengers could be held accountable for the damages they incurred. The city outside was in ruins, and there was only so much he could do. Financial aid aside, it was impossible for him to clean up the mess alone, to plunge his hands in the filth and sort out the underbelly of the city rife with criminals. The papers meant precaution for the next time, and he knew there were going to be multiple next times. They were the ones who had gone and invited trouble in the first place. The papers were a reminder, a reality check that there were actual human lives involved and not just numbers, figures, and statistics. But Jin wouldn’t understand that, wouldn’t understand the sacrifice Namjoon was willing to make. A trait he had picked up from his father, perhaps; a trait which had ultimately led Howard Stark and his wife to death. Namjoon didn’t know if the Papers would rip apart the team. Didn’t know if the Avengers would be forced to choose sides. He just wanted Jin to look. To see the bigger picture, the grand scheme of things. Just like his father had – beyond Stark industries, beyond SHIELD, beyond the Captain he had made, beyond his young son left to his own device at home – his father had always looked ahead at the Future, to beat it. Namjoon just wanted to be prepared. Sometimes Namjoon thought that if he wasn’t an heir, if he wasn’t born with his father’s legacy, he wouldn’t have to carry the world on his shoulder, or make sacrifices for the greater good. But currently, his hands were tied. He just wanted to do right by the People.
*
Jeongguk had not meant to get bitten by a damned spider.
Oscorp was hosting a charity gala to show off their latest discoveries; their primary focus was on the developments underfoot at their genetics laboratory. Professors, scientists, squeaky white mice – Jeongguk had taken it all in before he began snapping away with his new camera. It was a Sony Alpha 7R V Full-Frame Mirrorless Camera. The IBIS was great, the image quality stunning, the details too good to be true, the subject recognition impeccable, and from what Jeongguk understood,d it was a still-photograph-first product. The videos were shaky, and the battery didn’t last as long as his faithful Nikon did. But he was hardly going to complain. Yoongi hyung had not only given him this camera but also promised to put him on the creative team at the Uni paper. With the right portfolio, maybe he would land a permanent job at Oscorp, Jeongguk thought longingly. No more of their shabby two-bedroom, perpetually damp flat, and Uncle Ben’s sputtering old Honda Civic. He could probably get his own apartment, move out, and even buy a small car. He just needed enough to get by. Thus, Jeon Jeongguk immediately agreed when Yoongi asked him to do a photo-op of their genetics laboratory, get a couple of rough cuts, and put together a 90sec video. He was given clear instructions – don’t ask questions, stick to the script given by the PR team, and don’t go around poking his nose in places where it didn’t belong. Jeongguk was fine with that. Impressing Yoongi was what mattered to him the most. So, he adjusted the lights, double checked the mic, and heard what the scientists had to say about biochemical engineering. He blissfully ignored a vat of eels swimming in a corner of the lab as well as the glass box containing four jet black spiders. He had finished shooting and was in the process of editing the video when his phone lit up. “Intern-ssi, I need a favour,” huffed out Min Yoongi. “How can I help?” Jeongguk asked eagerly. He stayed back longer than it was expected of interns, and finalised the video. He loitered in his cubicle and retouched a portrait of Min Osborn Sr. in a green suit.
Yoongi had left for the day, but not before casually mentioning that it was very much possible for Jeongguk to get a shiny reference from Oscorp and land himself a cushy part-time job at the Bugle as a photojournalist after the summer was over. The thought of being a salaried employee and being able to afford to buy a proper meal for his aunt and uncle had been more than enough. “I can help you with whatever you want,” Jeongguk quickly confirmed. Yoongi chuckled before explaining what needed to be done. It was nothing, really. Yoongi suddenly had the bright idea that they needed a central spread of the spiders to go along with the new hydrogel that Oscorp was working on, as it mimicked the arachnoid adhesive and was pretty much ground-breaking in terms of biopolymer chains. The only problem was that Yoongi had to fly to Bolivia to personally escort Dr Stromm to the gala, who was his father’s mentor. Now, only if Jeongguk could go, quickly click a few pictures of the spiders and send them to the PR team, everything would be sorted. Jeongguk strolled up to the genetics laboratory, eager to finish the job and head home. The guards didn’t bother to bat an eye at the bumbling intern who was there to photograph some bloody spiders. Jeongguk was met with some disapproving looks at the lab, who looked at his camera in disdain and worked in complete silence.
The lab’s atmosphere sent the usual eerie chill down Jeongguk’s spine. His glasses had fogged up from the sudden temperature change. Sleek LED lights flickered above him, and the only noise which came was from the whirring ventilation ducts in the room, the chittering of the spiders that scuttled across their glass boxes, the wheezing of the eels in the glass vat, and the frightened squeaks from the mice. A stern-looking woman had guided Jeongguk to the spiders. He followed her, enveloped and echoing the silence, his camera poised. Four deathly still spiders. The lady opened the glass box slightly, so he could take a few close-ups of the insects, without the glass reflecting the sterile light and spoiling the photos. Clearly, nobody in the lab wanted to entertain a freshman intern. She retreated to her desk.
Jeongguk swiftly began and hoped the snap snap snap of his shutter wasn’t too loud. As Jeongguk shuffled around, what he failed to notice was the lone spider which had escaped the box and was currently riding up his shirt towards the nape of his neck. Before Jeongguk realised, the spider had already sunk its venom into his neck, and the searing pain made Jeongguk flinch. He wildly swatted at his neck, his camera almost crashing out of his hand. He grabbed his neck and cursed; the gig was over; he was going home. Fuck the photos.
The stern lady hissed at him in disapproval, rushing by his side to see what was wrong. Jeongguk opened his mouth to complain, but saw that the bastard that bit him had scurried back into the box. He clamped his mouth shut, his neck stinging like it was on fire. He quickly left the lab, stashed the camera inside his bag, and with a hand on his neck made his way home.
That night, he dreamt of flying. Not falling. Flying. Levitating. In the air.
*
Jimin regretted the day Taehyung came to his desk for lunch, regretted that it was his bright idea to ask Taehyung in the first place. But he had made cheesy tteokbokki and had wanted to spare Taehyung from cold cuts and processed cheese. It wasn’t his fault, really. The café was offering a particularly bleak version of American cuisine on an equally bleak Monday morning. The Foundation was rife with rumours. Their biggest competitors, Oscorp, had a major, major accident days before their charity gala. There was a short-circuit at their genetics laboratory, the whole place was up in flames, and once hosed down, the only bits remaining were some eels slobbering on the wet floor. Nothing survived, barring what was digitally backed up. But sinister news was afoot. Apparently, an employee had died. No one confirmed a corpse at the scene. Everyone knew that Oscorp’s pockets ran too deep and a cover-up was a piece of cake in a city as corrupt as theirs, and anyway, if anyone did die, they’d probably be burnt to a crisp. Jimin shivered, an uneasy feeling settling down on his chest. As soon as the news of Oscorp’s toasted lab had reached Drake’s jealous ear, it had been a week of his unbridled (and equally shameless) glee. The Foundation had the upper hand, at least for the next few months. Drake was onto something, Jimin knew. He had hinted as much in the ring when Jimin had smashed his nose into a bloody pulp – Next time, I will not be a mere man, Jimin-ssi. I will be a God. Do you think you’d have the courage to hit a God?
Jimin had obviously shrugged it off as one of his narcissistic displays. But the glint in Drake’s eyes these days creeped him out. Everyone at the Foundation could feel it – heck, they could taste it in the air. Drake was up to something, and everybody who knew Drake knew that he was up to no good. Previously, at 05, where Jimin was stationed, the lab was only for bio-engineered plants that were used to create lifesaving medicines. Life-saving medicines that only the super-rich could afford, Jimin thought humourlessly. The Foundation did not cater to the poor, nor even to the middle class. It only catered to the 1%, and for that, the government showered them with resources and sneakily forgave tax levies as long as the Foundation could keep those in power, healthy, de-aged, almost immortal. In the last few years, the Foundation had been hankering to escalate this process by trying to create a serum that could solve the problem of the human condition, as Drake called it, and allow for infinite regeneration of healthy cells, allowing a person to live forever. Jimin knew this desire was stoked by the presence of the Avengers – the sheer proof of their existence – had triggered scientists all around the world to replicate such superpowers. Oscorp and the Foundation were waging a Cold War of their own, and Jimin knew better than to get into the crossfire. And yet, he had given Jeon Jeongguk a call. That kid was interning at Oscorp. Was he okay? Had he heard anything, Jimin had wanted to ask. Jeongguk sounded so very disoriented on the call; Jimin thought he was still reeling from the shock after what had happened at his workplace. He let him be. Jeongguk had always been…sensitive. There was no other way to put it. Ever since he was a child, he simply cared too much. That made him an easy target. Jimin, too, had picked on him. It was easier to go along with the other kids as opposed to trying to protect the orphan. Jimin was ashamed of himself and slowly but steadily had made amends. He regularly checked in on him, helped him with his homework, and offered to travel to Jeongguk’s flat to hang out with him, even after Jimin’s family had moved out of their neighbourhood and shifted to the West. Jeongguk had gradually opened up to him, relaxing bit by bit. Underneath his shy, introverted personality was an undiscovered whizkid who was good at everything. Literally. He had a knack for science, was a great photographer, and had even grown up to be athletic. There wasn’t a damned thing that kid couldn’t do.
Taehyung had sauntered in that afternoon, exactly three days before the disaster at Oscorp. Jimin cleared his desk and opened a Tupperware filled with angry-looking red, saucy tteokbokki drowning in gooey mozzarella. Taehyung’s stomach growled at the familiar sight, and he attacked his lunch with the precision of an eagle. While the two of them chewed rice cakes, Jimin’s laptop chimed. One look at the screen, and Jimin hastily slammed the screen shut. Taehyung’s interest immediately piqued. He looked questioningly at Jimin, who shrugged and said, “I’m being assigned as a security detail to some fancy suit who’s coming to visit.” Taehyung nodded; a simple change in Jimin’s work schedule wouldn’t warrant a reaction. “Oh! Who?” he asked calmly, not wanting to betray his increasing curiosity. “Erm, something Weying, I think, Anna. Yeah.” Taehyung recited the name inside his head thrice, and when he slipped to his desk, he made the mistake of searching for Anna Weying. Almost immediately, he and Jimin were called to Drake’s office. Jimin looked like he had shot himself in the foot and threw daggers at Taehyung, who still hadn’t grasped what was going on. “Taehyung-ssi. Why are you interested in Anna Weying?” Drake asked, he was sitting on the table, a leg dangling, his hands clasped. “I-wha-sorry what?” Taehyung blinked. “You looked her up, didn’t you?” Shit. Jimin had warned him: you couldn’t even think in the Foundation without someone eavesdropping. “Ah… yeah, well,” he coughed, “I remember her from a case a couple of years ago. Actually, my father covered that case…I wanted to see if she was the person Jimin was going to be assigned to. I actually wanted to go go-karting, but Jimin turned me down, so I wanted to know who was so important,” Taehyung lied smoothly. Jimin’s ears had turned red. Never in a million years would the two of them ever go near a go-kart. Jimin hurriedly opened his mouth, “Yeah…actually, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have divulged details…it was unprofessional on my part,” he jumped into apologies. Drake turned towards Jimin, his head tilted. “Which case?” he asked. “Sorry?” Jimin stuttered. “Which case did your father cover, Taehyung-ssi? It must have certainly left an impression on you that you remember her so vividly.” Drake continued to look at Jimin. Taehyung shifted his weight, “She was Oscorp’s defence counsel for their alleged involvement in a suspected scam involving solid waste management last year.”
“Alleged…suspected…,” Drake muttered. “You sure choose your words carefully.”
Taehyung interjected, “Well, she won the case. They couldn’t pin anything on Oscorp.”
“So, you think Oscorp was guilty?” Drake asked boring into his eyes.
Taehyung scratched his neck, “Well…the court said otherwise.”
“And the evidence?”
“They didn’t find any.”
Drake hummed. Both he and Taehyung knew that Oscorp had bought the DA. His father had hinted as much in his reporting; these were times when the Freedom of Speech still held, when investigative journalism could still ruffle a few feathers. Someone smashed his father’s ancient Prius, but apart from that, they had left him alone. If his father were to say something now about how the judiciary was run, he was surely going to disappear before the paper even ran the news. “So, do you think she still helps criminals to get away with everything?” Drake smiled at him coldly. Taehyung gulped. “Actually,” he exhaled, “I wanted to see if she was still hot.” Jimin snapped his neck at Taehyung so fast that Taehyung feared he would get a cramp. Drake’s eyebrows shot up. Taehyung shrugged, “She looks great in a suit.” Drake smashed his lips together and let out a breathy chuckle. “And what’s the verdict, Your Honour?” Taehyung broke into a smirk, “Still hot. Great legs,” he thrust his hands inside his pocket, relaxing a bit. “I agree,” Drake winked at him and dismissed them. That day, as they walked Taehyung’s bike from the parking, Jimin huffed, “Do you think he bought that?”
“Wasn’t I convincing?”
Jimin grimaced.
“I did my best,” Taehyung snapped.
“You bet your gay ass you did,” Jimin shot back. After a long look at Taehyung, he broke down into giggles, his body convulsing with laughter, his face turning red. He began hiccupping. Taehyung looked at him indignantly. “Well, I have never had to cosplay as a heterosexual before. Why don’t you give me notes?”
Jimin raised an eyebrow at him, “You think I know?”
Taehyung smirked. He broke into a wicked grin as Jimin looked at him warily. “What?”
Taehyung cackled.
“Kim Taehyung.”
“Why don’t you ask Min fucking Yoongi for tips? He’s fantastic at pretending like he doesn’t suck cock in the University gym after hours.”
“Tae!” Jimin covered his friend’s mouth, his eyes rapidly darting around. “Don’t say that! What if someone hears you?”
“Nobody’s going to believe that Daddy Osborn’s golden boy is a fa-,” Taehyung couldn’t finish his sentence as Jimin kicked him. “Ow! Fine, fine, I won’t say anything. But seriously, the chances of people believing that and the chances of Tin Man,” Taehyung nodded at the sky as a blur of red occupied their skyline, did this Iron Man guy EVER stay indoors, Taehyung wondered before adding, “- Tin Man coming out to the media as a boy kisser are the same. Zero.”
Jimin frowned, “You never know. Iron Man could very well be gay.”
Taehyung dismissed him, “He’s always with his secretary. The peppy blonde one…Sugar…?”
“Pepper!” Jimin swatted his arm.
“Yeah, her. She looks like a Barbie in power suits.”
“As does the Widow.”
“Man, I love the Widow,” Taehyung sighed dreamily, “she is so fucking cunty.”
“True. But isn’t Thor your favourite?”
Taehyung hummed. “He’s really fucking nice to look at, but…”
“But what?”
“I think I am ready to be Cap’s wife.”
“THAT BOOMER?”
“Come on, Chim!!! He’s not even that old. He’s barely 35.”
“He literally fought Nazis. He is ancient. He is a relic. He probably doesn’t even know men are allowed to be gay.”
“Are you kidding? Those soldiers were always writing homo-erotic love letters to their comrades,” Taehyung said wistfully.
“Nope, I still think he has some dough-kneading, bread-baking trad wife he pines for.” At this, Taehyung pouted.
That night, when Taehyung sat on his bed and stared at his open laptop, he did wonder. Not about Cap’s sexual exploits, but about Anna Weying. Was she really coming to the Foundation as legal counsel? That could not be good. Recently, things had changed on Jimin’s floor. The plants kept dying, Jimin had ruefully said one day. The lab at 05 looked gaunt and empty. Instead, there was way more bustle at Drake’s office. Previously, ministers, judges, and high-ranking government officers would visit the 05 lab to witness with their own eyes the medicines used to keep them in power, but these days they would go straight to Drake’s office and disappear for hours.
*
Taehyung spotted Anna Weying eating a gigantic salad at the cafeteria. Jimin stood behind her, stoic. She forked a mini mountain of lettuce and shaved parmesan, shoving it into her face, which was turning redder by the minute as she stared at the heap of documents splayed in front of her. Jimin was crunching on an apple, looking everywhere but at her or the papers. Taehyung flashed him a bright, snappy smile, to which Jimin raised an eyebrow. This couldn’t be good, Jimin thought warily. “Jiminie,” Taehyung almost sang, “can I sit–?” “No, you can’t. You’re not allowed,” Jimin snapped at him, his eyes narrowing. Lady Suits looked up for a minute, swallowing, what Taehyung thought was the cardboard equivalent of dry chicken breast, and gasped, “Who-?” “Miss Weying,” Taehyung jumped into conversation immediately, before Jimin could swat him away, “I remember you from the Oscorp case my father covered!” he finished hurriedly, helping her with some details about his father and his work. Anna Weying stared at the lanky boy in front of him. Taehyung’s father was one of the few real journalists left, at least back then, he was. He had called out the media play, the judiciary, and even her in helping cover up Oscorp. “Your father is a good journalist,” she smiled. “Take a seat,” she motioned. Jimin opened his mouth in protest. She waved her hand, “It’s fine,” and shuffled the papers into order, stacking them into a neat pile and placing her hands over them, hiding them from Taehyung’s view, to his utter dismay. “Have lunch with us,” she smiled warmly. Taehyung muttered a quick thank you and shoved a forkful of quinoa in his mouth. He fucking hated quinoa. “So, what do you do around here?” she hummed. Taehyung swallowed his abysmal lunch and explained the mundane details of his corporate comms role. Grounded, down-to-earth, eager to prove himself, Anna thought. He was a smooth talker, too. Anna stared at the young boy in front of her. Could he be of help? He and her ‘muscle’, who didn’t look like he had any muscle at all? When Jimin was not with her, he was at the mysterious 05. Any and all mentions of the 05 were redacted in the documents she was given. Anna was here to help Drake file a lawsuit against an export company. She was not here for a cover-up. But Anna could almost taste it. The evil. The insidious. Something was going on. She had already spotted two Defence biggies disappear with Drake into his little cabin. They had emerged wearing a manic expression on their faces, their eyes glinting. Anna lived with her grandmother after her father had passed during service. She had never known her mother; her grandmother was her whole universe, which rapidly came undone when she was diagnosed with emphysema. Anna was just about to join high school. They were short on cash most of the time, but her grandmother was stubborn about Anna getting a college degree. Anna had worked her ass off. The idealist in her wanted to work for the mayor’s office, but the realist in her chose otherwise. Suddenly, they could afford fresh fruits and medications. All thanks to the scum she won cases for. Anna was great at compartmentalising. Anna was tough. Her grandmother loathed that her fresh-as-a-daisy granddaughter ran around with men who wouldn’t think twice about hurting her. Rumours swirled that Drake was working on a medicine that would cure even the toughest of diseases. Her grandmother suffered from a chronic autoimmune disease. Hadn’t her grandmother suffered enough? Who knew how long she had left? Anna sighed. She just wanted her to be free of pain. Let her breathe easily.
So yes, maybe it could work. Maybe she would find what Drake was working on. Use the boy in front of her, who is trying his best to cast a sidelong glance at the documents piled in front of her. Weaponise his curiosity. If he were his father’s son, he would sniff it out in no time. She could use that information to negotiate with Drake. To get his miracle drug. She was great at negotiations. In times of scarcity, resorting to blackmail was just being resourceful. It was one of the many tricks she had picked up on the job. Anna smiled warmly at Taehyung and invited him to lunch the next day.
“You seem awfully friendly with Lady Law,” Jimin hummed two weeks later. Taehyung, who was preparing to take a gigantic bite out of his corn dog, shrugged. He couldn’t understand the play either. There was surely a catch, he reckoned. Anna had been really sweet to him. Enquiring about his father, she often asked him to join her for lunch. Last week, she had dropped by his desk with coffee and doughnuts, much to Jimin’s dismay. “Drake has noticed it,” Jimin said casually. “Did he bring it up?” Taehyung asked. “He didn’t say much. I think he is surprised that Anna has taken to you,” Jimin muttered. Taehyung scratched his chin. He was stumped himself. Anna had not come to the Foundation today. “How long is she here for anyway?” he asked. “Two, maybe, 3 more weeks, depending on paperwork,” Jimin shrugged. Taehyung looked up at Jimin, who was lost in thought. Jimin didn’t know whether he should tell Taehyung that they had begun bringing mice and guinea pigs to 05. The floor now lightly stank of dead rodents.
Anna didn’t return to the Foundation the next morning. Or, the next. Or that week. Jimin had no idea where she was. He was back at being stationed at 05, since Anna’s cabin remained empty. The Foundation continued to hum around them. Staff drifted through corridors carrying coffees. Meetings continued. Drake’s executive assistant cheerfully reminded everyone about Friday's well-being seminar. By Wednesday, Jimin knew something was not right. He had texted Anna to check whether she would be coming back. He’d been with Anna almost every day for the past week. Every car ride. Every coffee run. Every visit to the DA’s office. Every meeting. Except one. Her meeting with Drake. She had insisted on going in alone. “It’s after work, Jimin. Go home,” she had laughed, waving him away. “You don’t have to babysit me.” He should have ignored her. Instead, he had obeyed, grateful that he was getting off early. Grateful that he could sit and eat dinner with his parents after what felt like forever. But since that meeting on Tuesday, Anna hadn’t returned to the Foundation. Anna hadn’t answered a single call. He’d texted, emailed, and even convinced himself she had simply gone off-grid for the weekend. So after one week of radio silence, Jimin decided against his better judgement and visited, first her office and then her flat. Her colleagues and neighbours hadn’t seen her in days. But it was normal, for Anna was a workaholic who would bury herself in work and disappear until she had worked out her case. Jimin debated whether he should go speak with Anna’s grandmother, but decided against scaring the poor woman. The poor woman who had no one in the world apart from her stubborn granddaughter. The thought that his eagerness to get off early somehow enabled Anna's disappearance made Jimin squeamish. He made up his mind.
The next day at the Foundation, a sleep-deprived Jimin decided to skip lunch, complaining about a stomach ache, which wasn’t entirely untrue. His stomach had indeed knotted itself into an unpleasant, nagging feeling. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to involve Taehyung. Yet. The thing was, the Foundation’s internal dashboard was laughably insecure if you knew where to look. A forgotten admin account. An archived permissions folder. Five minutes of boredom and curiosity, and the singular talent of Park Jimin, who could delve into the server without so much as looking up from his keyboard. Or at least that’s what he would tell himself later. He found it easily enough. Her access log. Anna’s visitor’s badge had registered one final entry. 05. No recorded exit.
Jimin brought out his phone, a frown swarming his forehead, and shot a text: “08. Now.”
Valiantly fighting the urge to nap, Taehyung was staring at his screen, as the Foundation’s proprietary Generative AI skimmed through his copy and adjusted it for SEO. At this rate, Taehyung would forget how to write. His brain would rust, and all he would be able to produce would be AI slop. The Foundation loved AI. It optimised workflows, apparently, but Taehyung thought it made his already pedantic job worse. He rubbed his eyes as his phone buzzed. Jimin? He rubbed his eyes again. Stars swam in front of him.
Taehyung had not visited 08 before.
There were pouffes. There were coffee table books. There was an espresso machine?
Jimin was waiting outside one of the glass-walled cabins. Anna’s cabin. “Took you long enough.”
Taehyung glanced past him at the empty office. “What's going on, Chim?”
Jimin jerked his head towards the door. “Come on.”
Taehyung hesitated. “Are we even allowed in here?”
Jimin hummed. “If anyone asks, Anna called me to grab a file for her. She’s off sick with the flu, poor thing. Couldn't even take a day off without sending work ahead.”
“That’s a terrible lie.”
“It's a believable lie,” Jimin tsked, and before Taehyung could protest further, Jimin swiped his access card and pushed him in.
The door clicked shut behind them. At the centre of Anna’s desk sat a thick manila folder along with a half-finished mug of coffee. Her coat was still wrapped over the back of her chair. Taehyung looked from the desk to Jimin.
“Seriously... what the hell is going on, Chim?” Jimin let out a shaky breath.
“I don't know, Tae.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “But I think whatever they’re doing in 05 isn't medicine. It’s where she last went, I checked her access log.”
Taehyung frowned, picking up the folder. “What is this? Is Drake suing a pharmaceutical company or something?”
Jimin didn’t even glance at the file. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Won’t ask.” His voice cracked. “I was assigned to keep an eye on her. Make sure she was safe.” He swallowed hard. “Some fucking job I did.”
Taehyung stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey.” Jimin stared at the floor. “This isn’t on you.”
“I let her walk in there alone.”
“You didn’t know.”
Jimin’s eyes landed on the folder.
“I think Anna found out.” The next words lodged themselves in his throat. “And I think she's in trouble.”
Taehyung squeezed his shoulder before turning back to the folder, flipping it open.
The first few pages were dense with medical jargon. Dosages. Trial phases. Subject numbers.
Then he reached the photographs. His throat went dry. “...What the fuck, Chim?”
“What?” Jimin panicked, snapping his head to see if someone was coming towards them.
“This is so fucked up,” Taehyung whispered hoarsely.
Jimin peered at the file and immediately clamped his eyes shut. “Fuck, no, I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me,” he shook his head violently.
“Human trials,” Taehyung stammered.
“Oh, fuck you, dude!” Jimin snapped, snatching the file from his friend’s hand.
Taehyung felt his pulse quicken, his face draining of colour. “The human trials -,”
“No.”
“She went there.”
“No.”
“She never came back.”
“No.”
Jimin finally turned and said bitterly. “I should’ve gone into that meeting with her.”
“If this is what got Anna taken...,” Taehyung’s expression hardened. “Then it’s probably the only chance we've got of finding her.”
“I don't think the cops are going to believe us,” Jimin muttered quietly.
“I didn’t mean the cops…,” Taehyung bit his lips.
It had to be a dream, Taehyung thought. His mouth was dry. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He cursed the day he joined the Foundation, cursed the day he agreed to have lunch with Jimin at his desk, cursed the fact that he had accidentally found out something he was never supposed to know in the first place. He broke out in cold sweat, his mind dizzy with the horror of knowledge. FUCK aliens, he thought. FUCK the Avengers. FUCK them all, indeed. Weren’t they going through ENOUGH already? Why the FUCK was the Foundation mining a literal alien meteor for minerals and signs of life? LIFE? Wasn’t a HULK enough? Did they really need MORE things to worry about? Taehyung cursed his journalistic instinct, cursed his father, cursed the entire bloody bloodline that had brought him to this point in life.
Jimin snatched the folder away. They should not be snooping around. They could be assassinated. People disappeared at the Foundation. Not often, but enough that everyone quietly understood where the line was. Cross it, and Drake could make a person vanish so completely that there wouldn’t even be rumours left behind. Anna was being made an example of. Jimin had absolutely no intention of becoming one of those. Jimin longingly thought of the weekend, as his eyes registered what his brain refused to acknowledge. It was a lab report. Where the fuck did Anna even get this from? Jimin had promised Jeongguk that he would go to a pottery class with him on Sunday. He intended to be alive for it. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” Jimin muttered. “No,” he corrected. “You’re going to get us killed.”
Taehyung opened his mouth.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Do you know what’s worse than being dead? Being alive but unemployable in this city where eggs cost a kidney and an eye.” Jimin snapped at his friend.
Did he not realise what was at stake here?
“We can’t just–”
“Absolutely not.”
Jimin lowered his voice. “We read something we weren’t supposed to read. That’s already bad enough.”
“You think Drake's hiding pharmaceutical fraud?”
“No.”
“What then?”
Subjects. Compatibility. Host rejection. Mortality rates.
Jimin swallowed. He’d told himself he only wanted answers.
He’d told himself he’d look around, confirm Anna wasn’t there, and leave. His eyes kept drifting to the corners, to the blind spots between glass panels. Maybe they were being watched. It made his skin crawl. Whatever had happened to Anna hadn’t just been an accident. It had weight. Intent, ill intent. “Let's get the fuck out of here,” he said firmly.
“What? No. We need to keep reading.”
“No, Tae.”
“There has to be more.”
“It is none of our business.”
Jimin grabbed Taehyung’s wrist and practically dragged him out of the cabin. Neither of them noticed the tiny red recording light blinking from the smoke detector above the door. Behind them, the glass-walled room remained exactly as they’d left it. Anna’s desk. Anna’s coffee. Taehyung hesitated at the threshold.
“Chim -”
“Don’t,” Jimin said without turning around. His voice was tight now, stripped of its earlier irritation. “We leave. We forget this. We pretend we never saw it.”
“…We leave,” Taehyung said. “We report it. We-”
“No.”
The elevator at the end of the corridor chimed.
“You’ve been looking through things that do not concern you.”
Jimin went still beside him.
Taehyung swallowed. Drake’s executive assistant was smiling at them from inside the elevator. “Where is Anna?” Taehyung stammered.
“Anna was offered access,” the executive assistant said gently, “She accepted what followed.” The corridor lights flickered once. “But you can still choose how much further you involve yourselves.”
Taehyung hesitated for half a second too long. “We don’t want to be involved.”
The executive assistant smiled at him invitingly. “Dr Drake wants to see you downstairs.”
“No, thanks,” Jimin said immediately.
“It is not an invitation, it is an order,” the executive assistant said mildly. “You can either come quietly,” they said, “or be brought down unconscious. Either way, you will enter 05.”
Silence snapped shut around them.
Taehyung looked at Jimin. Jimin looked at the elevator. Neither of them moved. Jimin let out a short, humourless laugh. “This is insane.”
The assistant stepped aside and said, almost kindly, “Dr Drake prefers not to be kept waiting.”
Taehyung resolutely looked at Jimin and then said, “I will go. But just me. Alone. He stays. You leave him alone.”
But before the assistant could respond, Jimin scoffed. “Oh, absolutely not.” He stepped into the elevator first. “If you're going to get murdered, I’m supervising,” he muttered.
The doors opened to silence.
There were no windows, only long concrete corridors washed in cold white light. Every surface smelled faintly of bleach.
Jimin immediately regretted every decision that had brought him here. “I hate horror movies,” he moaned.
“This is worse.”
“Tae.”
“What? We’re literally walking through a secret underground laboratory owned by a billionaire sociopath.”
Jimin let out a muffled noise. The assistant didn’t even bother glancing at them. Security doors unlocked before them, one after another, as though the building already knew where they were headed. They wandered deeper into the maze, scuttling like scared little mice. Drake was waiting inside Observation Room Three. Hands folded neatly behind his back. In a tailored charcoal suit. Perfectly postured, armed with a manic smile.
Behind the reinforced glass, something enormous shifted inside a containment chamber filled with black fluid.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t anything. The liquid moved.
No. Something inside the liquid moved. It struck the glass. Jimin stumbled backwards.
“What the fuck was that?”
Drake beamed. “My life’s work.”
“Where is Anna?” Taehyung breathed.
“Anna is no longer in a position to ask questions,” Drake tutted. “Or answer yours.”
He turned to them, his grin widening. “You wanted to know about the human trials.”
Neither of them spoke.
“Allow me to show you exactly what we’ve been building.”
The emergency lights suddenly began flashing crimson. Before either of them could move, Drake looked towards the corridor and sighed. “It seems,” he said calmly, “we have failed to contain the rogue symbiote.”