“rowoon, listen to me.” eyes focused, breaths even. he needs to stay composed, he owes his teammate that much. “we can— no, we will get through this. but to do that i…” a pause, to confront his reality. their reality. “i have to turn into that.”
the bitter admittance leaving his mouth wasn’t intended to further fan their fears, but to confirm the evident danger of their current position. they don’t have the firepower to launch a counterattack, and he can’t risk rowoon going under further stress. it’s simple rationalisation perhaps, but he still hates that it had to come to this.
“focus on protecting yourself. until it clears us a path, and once that happens, i’m trusting you to put a stop to it.” it’s unfair, he knows. but he doesn’t have time to supply a sufficient apology. “please.”
at their agreed cue, he runs out into the corridor. he doesn’t hesitate. he doesn’t think. ‘it’ doesn’t need to think; ‘it’ doesn’t need to fear. if sticks and stones can’t break its bones, then bullets sure as hell couldn’t. it’s an entrance that signals the cacophony of gunshots and agonised screams, shock and fear at the man that so readily switched into a beast. and that’s what they don’t know, that’s what they won’t understand. it’s not a switch that comes instantaneously — he’d never needed a switch, and that’s his secret.
He’s not sure if he’s good and he’s not sure if he’s bad. What do those words even mean anymore anyway? Does the answer even matter? Everything is so confusing. It’s hard to believe that salvation will come through these missions, sneaking around places they’re clearly not meant to be in, hurting people that are just doing their jobs, getting away with it all under the guise of research that’s nothing but lies on top of lies. But when Wonil pats his shoulder and asks he forces a smile and nods, because regardless of what he thinks he knows he’s supposed to be good-- no, he has to be good. This is one of many moments they’ve been trained for after all.
Mongolia is another term he’s not sure about, another place out of many he has yet to experience, but there’s no time to appreciate the scenery when they’re in the middle of a mission. He tries to drown all of it out as he trails behind Wonil: the foreign words and faces surrounding them as they approach the compound, the structure they’re climbing right now, the fact that they’re not in the training room anymore, the fact that this time either of them could die if he messes up, the fact that he’s now responsible for both his and his friend’s life. He manages to maintain focus for the most part, thinking of nothing except supporting his partner as he follows his senses and guides them along, but an alarm blares and his dam cracks. All the worries come flooding in at once and he tenses amidst the tides, waiting to see what his partner will do, or what he’ll become.
No. The thought is instant. They’ve trained enough times that he knows what will happen next. His lips part as Wonil speaks, but the word never finds its way out. He’s too afraid to even tremble, more so shake his head or speak. That thing isn’t him; it’s a monster that consumes his soul. Every time it appears, Rowoon doesn’t know if he’ll ever see his friend again, and the worst part is that he has to torment the human to tame the beast.
Wonil keeps talking and eventually he snaps out of his trance and grabs him, seizing the other’s arm before he can do anything rash. “Wonil, I- I don’t want to hurt you again. I can’t.” Bullets click into place around them and dozens of barrels loom overhead. Armored guards barricade the corridor ends with steel and leer beneath uniform helmet visors. They’re all shouting obscenities his ears can’t understand and he can already feel the muscles beneath his palm swell. With nothing else to do, he drops his arm to his side and musters a quick “okay”, darting forward after Wonil.
As soon as the other moves he creates a field around them to block the bullets and makes haste to keep up with the beast. Rowoon is fast but it’s impossible to stay at its heels. He exchanges strength for size to compensate for the gap between them that grows wider with each step, not worrying about containing it just yet, nor preventing the guards from lunging through at them. Though it’s not something he likes working with, he’s fought with it enough times to know it won’t just ignore them.
Pairs and tuples of men fall at its feet with each passing moment, but he tries not to think about what he’ll have to do once the last gun has have ceased its fire and when the grounds will be stained with red. He keeps his eyes on the figure in front of him and breaks out into a sprint when it seems like he’s about to lose sight of it, trying to close at least some of the distance. When it turns a corner at the end of the passage, he compresses the force field into a shield to protect himself from the security firearms above and slams down a wall to block off the enemies still chasing from behind, picking up his earlier pace as soon as he’s done, praying that once he finds him -- the real him -- Wonil will be okay.
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