—pandemonium
mongolia. simply another label for a place he’d never find himself in if not for the arc. but that’s the aspects that he enjoys: the travelling, the experiences, the culture — expanding his horizons. from breezes atop skyscrapers to this chilling mountain air; it’s not part of his supposed objective but he takes appreciation in the little things regardless. he’s not sure if rowoon agrees though; this is, undoubtedly, one of many firsts for them both — and firsts are either scary or exhilarating. “you good?” he accompanies the question with touch on his partner’s shoulder. it’s a gesture both for reassurance and to get rowoon’s attention. wonil doesn’t know how far his voice can travel in this howling wind.
infiltration of the compound went by surprisingly smooth, at least by his expectations. in theory and training, their combination of mobility and scouting capabilities already foresaw these outcomes. but to replicate such success on their first field mission? he’d be lying if he claimed it didn’t instil a sense of confidence and little optimism for the rest of the way. it’s okay. he thinks. they were made to be ready for this, they were meant to be ready for this.
it’s in the midst of him counting his blessings that they immediately slip from his grasp. in the form of a blaring alarm alerting of their presence. it’s a realisation that comes too late and too quick. “shit.” he missed one of the cams, and now they’ve got no choice but to backtrack and rendezvous at their initial vantage point. everything is running downhill, and their streak of misfortune comes hitting like a landslide.
guards. stationed numerously around the exit; they’re prepared, armed and ready. there’s no more training, no more safety net. this is the real thing. and he’d already fucked it up; depleted their options. they’re trapped. escape routes cut off and communications blocked; cornered like two pups who strayed too far from their packs. hesitation slimming their chances of survival by the second — and it’s all his fault. he no longer has the luxury to think. he has to act. now.
“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 always angry.
