Chapter Text
“Catnip, come in?”
Seokjin feels tired to his bones. He’s hunched over his desk, nursing a can of energy stolen from Taehyung. It tastes absolutely foul, like artificial pineapple and cotton candy, but Seokjin hasn’t gotten more than five hours of sleep in the past two weeks.
“Catnip, requesting a status update.”
The call sign was Hoseok’s idea. He thinks Seokjin has lost his sense of humour, and forcing him to say stupid things is going to fix the problem.
Seokjin draws up the map of the facility with the flick of a finger. Yoongi appears as a dim red dot close to the perimeter, but his movement has slowed down into a crawl. It’s nothing unusual – Yoongi isn’t the type to go in guns blazing, even if he’s a good shot with his concealed laser pistol. He likes to prowl, likes to remain undetected. Sometimes he goes barefoot against Seokjin’s wishes because “human shoes give him toe blisters”. There’s a whole routine to how Yoongi prepares for missions, which includes fasting for a day and sharpening his claws on his favourite scratching post.
“Catnip?” Seokjin repeats. Yoongi’s heart rate is spiking even though he’s staying still, but he hasn’t sent a mayday signal. Should everything go awry, Seokjin has his finger resting on a button that would deploy a squadron of drones as a diversion. It would compromise the mission and alert the wrong authorities to what Seokjin has been trying to accomplish in relative anonymity, but getting Yoongi safely out of a heated situation always takes precedence. It’s a point of pride for Seokjin that he’s overly cautious when it comes to his partners.
Suddenly, Yoongi’s voice comes through, but it’s distorted by static.
“…hear me, hyungnim? I think they… jamming the comms. Asking for permission to proceed.”
“Status check,” Seokjin repeats stubbornly, glancing to the left to check his fleet of drones. Fully operational. The order to pull Yoongi out sits on the tip of his tongue.
“I’ve located the lab,” Yoongi says, sounding mildly irritated. “Five more minutes… out before they know where the breach was.”
Cold sweat beads on Seokjin’s forehead as he weighs the risks. Having that energy drink was a mistake – the amount of caffeine and sugar is going to keep him awake all night, even if Taehyung has become practically immune to the effects after developing a nasty habit.
“Fucking hell…” Yoongi grumbles. “...a lot of rats in this place. Weren’t they supposed to grow new parts for… shit.”
“Stop getting distracted. I’m going to pull you out.”
Seokjin takes another sip of the energy drink, which is a horrible idea, and waits for a snarky comeback. There is none.
“Catnip?”
Nothing.
Silence.
The line crackles with static. The red dot on the map disappears, and Seokjin knocks over the can in his rush to deploy the drones.
They’re offline.
•••
The ground is slippery after a rain shower, the asphalt a fluttering mirror as a train passes overhead.
Jungkook leaps over a puddle because he had to throw his stolen combat boots in the trash and go barefoot. He can jump much higher this way, run faster. And his cover is blown, anyway.
The yells of his pursuers grow nearer. They’re riding Z-bikes which whine and zap as they speed up.
“Stop, you little whore!”
Obscenities. Forbidden words.
Before he got away, Jungkook was used to being called names; he let it enter one ear and exit the other. When it got bad enough, he’d yank on his ears until they were sore at the base.
A warning shot of a laser pistol breaks off a small piece of the brick wall next to Jungkook. They won’t shoot him point-blank, not as long as Jungkook has some lingering value to the company, until they strip him down and see the piercings and tattoos Jungkook has ruined his body with. If he’s going to get caught, he’s going to cause the company as much headache as bunnily possible.
Jungkook reaches the end of the alleyway as the second warning shot licks at the fine hairs at his nape. The men in pursuit are growing impatient, clearly considering if it would be less trouble to write Jungkook off as an operating loss.
Thinking grim thoughts, Jungkook rounds the corner and almost comes to a halt. In front of him, a tall chain link fence stretches between the buildings. Jungkook bends his knees, hears the loud wailing of the accelerating bikes. The fence is at least three metres tall, with almost nothing to grab onto.
It’s perfect.
Jungkook feels weightless when he jumps. At the hybrid centre, they weren’t allowed to jump very high at all – the ceilings were low and scoldings frequent. Sometimes the handlers would tie their arms to their legs as punishment for hopping around or thumping their feet too loudly. They called it socialisation.
Jungkook’s hands and feet catch on the slippery metal, and he hoists his leg over in one fluid motion. The men are still yelling profanities, but Jungkook is no longer afraid of becoming roadkill bunny.
His other foot follows suit, and he’s almost made it over when a sudden sting of pain shoots up his leg like a bucket of ice water.
Jungkook loses his grip and tumbles to the ground, which makes the pain worse, like a thousand needles digging into his heel. He’s not sure if he cries out or not, the sound of his blood rushing to his ears drowns out all other noise.
Somehow, Jungkook still manages to get back to his feet and limp forward, every uneven hop leaving a smear of red on the asphalt. He must have cut his foot on something sharp sticking out of the fence; a laser pistol would’ve burnt him, and a sonic weapon would’ve knocked him out.
Jungkook grits his teeth and crosses a street with a few vendors arranging their wares: bungeo-ppang, wilted vegetables, random trinkets and cheap jewellery. Jungkook apologises for the mess with a small bow as he pushes through the people, into another alley with exposed wires crisscrossing the narrow space between the buildings, a few back alley neon signs flickering ominously, advertising services that no respectable citizen should be looking to hire.
Maybe it’s a sign. As soon as the men get through or around the fence, Jungkook will be extremely easy to track down. And even if not – the wound throbs at every step. It feels like someone is pushing thin shards of glass through his skin and jostling them around without care.
“You’re not going to cry,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, teeth gritted together. His leg is wobbling under him, so he braces a hand against the wall. It’s sticky to the touch, covered in layers of neon graffiti that blend together into orange and pink swirls without meaning. He’s not going to cry.
At the centre, the handlers didn’t scold bunnies for crying like they did for all other behavioural issues. They would almost encourage it, because some owners loved a sniffling pet. Jungkook didn’t understand at the time what it meant. He does now.
“Hyung, blood.”
Jungkook’s head snaps toward the sound. He makes out the shape of two people standing at the door to a restaurant. The smell of cooking grease reaches Jungkook’s nose, and his tummy twists with sudden nausea.
The taller of the two figures takes a step forward, his hand raised. There’s something strange about it, a flash of metal peeking out of the sleeve of a worn leather jacket.
“Stand back, I’ve got this,” he says, approaching. “He could be armed.”
“Don’t you see he’s a bunny?” the shorter one exclaims. “When did you last see one of them out in the wild?”
Jungkook lifts his injured foot, rolls his ankle to check if he still has full range of motion. He could kick the man with the weird arm if he allowed him to come close enough. The element of surprise has saved him before.
“Exactly,” the taller man says and reaches for something in his pocket – a knife, gun or a taser? Jungkook’s trembling muscles lock up.
“Stop scaring him,” the shorter one says, taking a step forward with his palms up. Even in his pained state, Jungkook finds himself breathless at the sight of the man in front of him: he’s of a lithe build, with raven black hair and full lips, a cone-shaped piercing right below his eyebrow. Jungkook has only seen pictures of people like him, in commercials and the enormous hologram billboards that loom above people’s heads in the shopping district.
“Can I see that foot? I bet it’s really painful to hop around with a wound like that.” The unfairly pretty man leans forward, flashes a smile. “One of my good friends is a hybrid, and he prefers going barefoot too, even though it’s a little dangerous in the city.”
Jungkook recoils backwards, but there’s only a solid wall behind him.
“Honey, if he’s a purebred hybrid, he…”
“I know what it means,” the pretty man hisses. “And don’t call him that. He’s just a scared little thing.”
Honey? Little thing? Jungkook would’ve never guessed these two were dating. The other man is handsome in a gruff sort of way, tanned skin and smile lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair is windswept and longer at the back just like Jungkook’s.
While the pretty man is distracted by his partner, Jungkook tries to take a tactical side-hope with his good foot. He should give an excuse, maybe even try to bribe them not to report him to the handlers, but there’s nothing in his pockets except for a few crumbled biscuits and an energy bar which has a lot of calories but upsets Jungkook’s stomach. He’s tried to only nibble on it when he’s desperate for food.
“He’s bleeding quite badly,” the pretty man says, crouching at Jungkook’s feet without warning. “And this is my opinion as a medical professional.”
“You took one and a half semesters of nursing at a night college,” the other man argues. His tone is harsh, but the look in his eyes is almost tender.
“It’s a laceration, not brain surgery. We can’t leave him here. In this part of town, the next person will see a pretty bunny in distress and take advantage.”
He says it as if he’s not going to take advantage.
Jungkook thinks he can hear his own blood drip-drip-dripping onto the ground, forming a puddle next to his quivering leg. What Jungkook needs is one of the underground medical clinics in the district, someone stupid enough to put his treatment costs on a tab. But he’s nowhere near one.
“Are you chipped?” the other man asks, eyes narrow with suspicion.
Knowing he’s at the mercy of these strangers, Jungkook brushes one of his ears aside to reveal the jagged scar on his neck. Carving out his tracking chip with an old switchblade had left him with an ugly reminder and a malfunctioning scent gland, but at the time, it was that or being caught.
“I escaped six months ago,” Jungkook says, unused to his own voice. He tries not to interact with people much; every interaction he has could lead to someone tipping him off for a few luxury stamps. His only contacts have been an old fox hybrid who agreed to tattoo his arm for free as practice, and a girl who works in a hybrid rights organisation, which prints flyers and has people wandering the streets in brightly coloured vests. When they first met, the activist girl had never seen a pleasure hybrid in real life – she was used to former lab rats and other discarded curiosities. She didn’t know what else to do than hand Jungkook a thin blanket and a brochure about national helplines and wish him luck.
The pretty man fidgets, his eyes skimming down Jungkook’s tattooed arm, so dark it’s almost black from the elbow up. Jungkook knows he doesn’t look like someone raised in a secluded facility. Apart from his desire to piss off his handlers in the pettiest way possible, he strove to assume the habitus of someone raised in the streets. With his ears tucked into a loose beanie, he could almost pass as a human if he forces himself to walk instead of hopping.
“I don’t need your help,” Jungkook says wearily. His voice isn’t quite as confident as he hoped, and his injured leg wobbles underneath him. Instantly, someone steadies him by the arm. Jungkook looks down and sees shiny metallic fingers curled around his bicep.
“Yes, you do,” the man with the metallic arm says and hands his friend what looks like a black strip of cloth. “But I still don’t like this. Jin hyung is going to skin us alive for bringing an outsider to the base.”
“Hyung, have some tact,” the pretty man grunts and grabs Jungkook’s other arm. “I promise we won’t hurt you. We can treat your foot and send you on your way, if that’s what you want.”
It sounds all too good to be true, but Jungkook is too tired and in pain to argue. He lets the pretty man wrap the cloth around the heel of his foot to stop the worst of the bleeding. He does nothing to resist as the two men guide him back toward the main shopping street, supporting most of his weight.
When the men ask about Jungkook’s situation, he explains what happened, whom he’s on the run from. Jungkook doesn’t like talking; he often got punished for blabbering and learned to keep his mouth shut, but once he’s started, he finds it difficult to stop. The pretty man’s expression darkens as Jungkook speaks.
“So, Jungkook-ssi…” The pretty man stops to taste Jungkook’s name on his tongue, as though it’s something pleasant and worthy of acknowledgement. “If I may ask – which company owned you?”
His tone is overly polite. Most humans, enhanced or not, tend to automatically lower their speech when encountering hybrids. They just call him ‘pet’ or ‘bunny’ instead of bothering with the name given by the facility. In Jungkook’s litter, there was a Jungwook, Junghoon and Jungsoon, and the handlers mixed them up all the time.
“If you’re looking to claim a bounty on me, I don’t think they’d pay very much for me,” Jungkook says with a grimace. He’s a worthless bunny with a lip ring and seven piercings on his floppy ears – at his current state, he’s the furthest thing from an elite pet. If his handlers caught him now, he’s not sure if he’d even pass as an escort.
“We are not bounty hunters,” the taller one says, looking severely offended. “Capitalist greed is one of the few things we don’t like to dabble in.”
Jungkook’s uninjured foot threatens to thrum against the asphalt. He’s come to learn that the company that raised him is quite infamous in the hybrid breeding industry.
“It was Better Bunnies,” he says, holding his breath.
The pretty man almost stumbles over his own feet. He’s wearing shiny heeled boots and tight trousers made of a leather-like fabric that is stretched over muscular thighs.
“Jimin-ah, it’s okay,” the other man whispers.
“No, it’s not okay,” the pretty man, Jimin, snaps back. He looks shaken, sickly pale under the blue and purple neon lights. “This is so fucking not okay because this shit is still happening all across the city. We just don’t have to hear about it because Jin hyung goes around baby proofing everything we touch.”
Jungkook gets the idea that Jimin doesn’t swear often. His hands are balled into little fists of restrained anger, and his lower lip juts out like a bird’s beak.
The other man laughs, perhaps to deescalate the situation rather than to display genuine amusement. Some people are like that; they act in the opposite way they feel. As a bunny, Jungkook has always lacked that eye for nuance, which has landed him in trouble with his handlers more times than he can count.
By the time they reach the hover-rail station, Jungkook’s bleeding has slowed down, and the sea of late night commuters shrouds them from view. Jungkook draws a breath of relief and considers bolting for the exit on the opposite side of the platform. If he used the last of his strength and jumped across the tracks, the humans could never reach him.
But then again, Jungkook is weak and hungry and out of money. If he stays in this sub-district, the handlers might still be able to pin down his location. Either way, he’s taking a massive risk he can’t really afford.
“Where do you live?” Jungkook asks. The next train is arriving in three minutes.
“In the district west of this one,” the taller man says. Jungkook masks his surprise poorly – the way the men dress and carry themselves doesn’t suggest a life in squalor, but all the districts in this part of the city are reserved for the poorest of the poor.
“Are you gangsters, then?” he asks in a voice that’s just loud enough to turn a few heads. The blood loss must’ve made him loopy.
“Gangsters tend to extort money from people who can’t afford to lose any,” Jimin says, throwing a charming smile at the older woman eyeing them warily. “So no, we’re not gangsters any more than bounty hunters. Hobi hyung shoots guns really well, though.”
Jungkook risks a glance at Hobi, if that’s even his real name. It doesn’t sound like one.
“Look, we can’t make you trust us,” Hobi says, meeting Jungkook’s eyes calmly. “You probably shouldn’t believe everything we say, nor should we help you.”
Jungkook’s ears flatten against his head.
“But then again… not being an absolute dickbag to everyone I meet is kind of my personal ethos,” Hobi says. “I mean like the guiding beliefs that I live by.”
“I know what that word means,” Jungkook says, watching the train arrive on the platform in a warm rush of air from the thrusters. Jungkook doesn’t take the train often – it’s either that or having dinner.
“You do?” Jimin asks, genuinely surprised. This is another reason why Jungkook keeps his mouth shut. Some hybrids don’t get more than the six years of basic education, followed by intense etiquette training to prepare them for their role as house pets. Purposefully raising illiterate pets was criminalised after the first few generations of pet hybrids aged and ended up abandoned at group shelters by their owners, but the situation hasn’t improved much. There are still plenty of rich assholes who want a dumb, pretty thing to toss around.
The hybrids who are deemed “above average” on some arbitrary company standards can receive extra lessons in a wide range of topics. They can be taught to speak multiple languages or to entertain owners who are looking for a mentally stimulating conversation. Jungkook can still remember having to read a book about Greek philosophers at a dinner party. He hated everything about it, but his handler would sit next to him and feed him a small piece of carrot for every page he managed to get through.
However, the information hybrids receive about the outside world is strictly regulated, and these socialite bunnies are well-spoken but useless as a sack of bricks. That was Jungkook only a handful of months ago, and he had to learn the hard way how the world operates.
More people throw glances at them as they board the train, Hobi and Jimin positioning themselves around Jungkook like two bodyguards. He’s not sure if it’s to keep other passengers from bumping into his injured leg, or if they’re worried Jungkook will try to bolt on the next station. Either way, he almost feels an odd sense of safety in the close press of two virtual strangers. His arm keeps brushing against the sleeve of Hobi’s leather jacket, and the smell of Jimin’s cologne tickles his nose. Jimin is wearing dangly earrings that sway like two pendulums every time the track bends sharply to squeeze through narrow openings between buildings.
As the steady vibrations of the train lull Jungkook deeper into a space where his injured leg becomes no more than a faint throb in the background, he lets his gaze trail the strip of screen above the windows that wraps around the entire train car.
The upcoming elections have turned every procurable inch of the city into a battleground for the political parties to strut around on, flaunting their promises about whose voice is going to be heard at the blue house during the next electoral term.
Synths are people, too, one advertisement claims in bold letters.
In another campaign ad for the Transhuman Party, there’s a woman with icy blue eyes hugging a young boy who’s her spitting image. Changing the colour of the iris is a trendy cosmetic procedure performed in back alley clinics all over the city, but some are born like that these days. Jungkook doesn’t really like to think about what ifs, but many of the bunnies he grew up with were custom orders who had a dormant albinism gene activated on purpose, or their growth stunted to ensure a delicate build.
There are hardly any ads or posters about hybrid rights, though. In theory, properly documented hybrids are eligible to vote, but most of them aren’t aware or have long since fallen outside government registries. Jungkook was given vegan cooking masterclasses by a world-famous chef, but no one bothered to tell him that he too was considered a human being in the eyes of the law.
“This is our stop,” Jimin says into Jungkook’s ear, making it twitch and flop back against his shoulder. Jimin lets out a breathy laugh that has heat rushing to Jungkook’s cheeks. No other human has ever affected Jungkook so viscerally – if Jimin even is one.
Hobi’s prosthetic arm, solid and unyielding, wraps around Jungkook’s waist almost protectively as they exit the train. The five wobbly steps Jungkook takes to the platform are enough to have him gasping in pain. The cloth wrapped around his foot is starting to feel damp and sticky.
“The ground is so dirty, he’ll get a nasty infection at this rate,” Jimin says, brows furrowed as he watches Jungkook struggle to control his expression. Pain – or anything related to his physical body for that matter – is rarely a hindrance to Jungkook. He’s proud of the feats his body is capable of, and he tries to feel indifferent toward the parts of it that have been dictated by the hands of scientists. But somehow Jimin’s compassion-filled eyes are catching him at a vulnerable moment.
A bunny who can’t hop, is there anything more undignified?
Suddenly, Jimin turns around and says, “Get on my back.”
Jungkook blinks at Jimin’s small form. He’s wearing a jacket with puffy sleeves, but the line of his shoulders is delicate, almost bird-like.
Jimin sighs. “Hobi hyung is too dainty to carry a muscle bunny like you.”
“Yah,” Hobi grumbles. “Not everyone’s got their genes spliced around here.”
“I had mine tastefully spliced,” Jimin jokes, even as his eyes flicker with emotion Jungkook can’t name. When he turns to look at Jungkook, the emotion is replaced with a bright smile. “What matters though is that I’m a bit stronger than I look, so it really is no trouble. Our base is a short walk from here.”
Turns out that Jimin was telling the truth. Jungkook’s feet dangle mere inches off the ground as he piggybacks the smaller man, but Jimin doesn’t seem out of breath as they pass by bleak community housing blocks and enter an industrial yard which looks all but abandoned. There’s still an unlit sign for a repair shop fixed to the wall, as well as the frame of a hydraulic lift rusting on cracked concrete. The strip of sky visible between the buildings is overcast with rust-coloured swirls of cloud that reflect back the city lights.
“I thought you were going to blindfold me or something,” Jungkook says, glancing down as Jimin fixes his slipping grip on his thighs.
“It doesn’t matter much even if you know where we live,” Hobi says, voice proud, stopping in front of an ancient-looking garage door with a CCTV in operation sign warning intruders. Jungkook can’t see any cameras in the yard, though.
“If Jin hyung doesn’t want you to enter, you won’t be getting in,” Hobi continues, just as the garage door starts to whirr open at a surprising speed. “He and I designed the security system together. Don’t let the looks deceive you, this place is practically a fortress.”
Wondering what the mysterious ‘Jin hyung’ is like, Jungkook peers into the empty garage opening up in front of them, a narrow set of stairs leading underground. It looks like a place where innocent bunnies come to get murdered.
But before Jungkook can catastrophize his situation further, the garage fills with greenish light, and a man dressed in a well-tailored jacket appears at the top of the stairs. He has a strong jawline and large, expressive eyes, and his dark brown hair is slicked back and tied on a small ponytail at his nape.
“Hoseok hyung? What are you…?” the man starts in a low, pleasant voice before his head snaps to where Jungkook is trying to make himself small against Jimin’s back.
“Jimin-ah, are you fucking serious right now?” The icy cold words aren’t even directed at Jungkook, but his muscles seize as his flight response threatens to take over.
“He’s hurt, we couldn’t just leave him out there to bleed out,” Jimin hisses through his teeth, tightening his grip and making Jungkook’s prey instincts scream even more loudly.
“You and your saviour complex,” the man says, rolling the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows to reveal toned arms. “You should try feeding stray cats in your spare time.”
“Taehyung-ah, that was uncalled for,” Hobi – or Hoseok if that’s his real name – says in a strict tone that does nothing to calm Jungkook’s nerves. Jimin has frozen still, his surprisingly small hands digging into Jungkook’s legs with enough force to bruise.
At the harsh words, Taehyung cocks his head and takes another look at Jungkook. The movement of his head is too fast, so his rich brown eyes meet Jungkook’s before he can look away.
“I’m sorry for raising my voice, little bunny,” he says softly. Jungkook isn’t sure if the man’s being condescending or not – his heart is still fluttering in his throat.
“I have nothing against you in particular… We’ve just agreed not to bring outsiders here without consulting our leader first.”
“Is Jin hyung your leader?” Jungkook asks because he’s pretty sure he’s expected to say something.
“You’re a quick one,” Taehyung continues in a gentle voice which makes the small hairs on Jungkook’s nape bristle. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s being treated like a child.
“Seokjin hyung makes most of the important decisions, but we have this voting system where we can all contribute…”
“Tae, enough about that,” Hoseok says and tells Jimin to follow him down the long stairs that first go straight down and then bend sharply. “I’m taking responsibility for Jungkook being here. I allowed it.”
There’s clearly a pecking order among these people, Jungkook muses as they reach a heavy fire door with a vault-like handle. Hoseok slides open a keypad with his intact hand but doesn’t input a code. They’re using some kind of facial recognition or iris scanners to unlock the doors.
They enter a large atrium-like space which branches off into two corridors on the first level. There’s also a winding metal staircase leading up to a loft area, which only highlights how far underground they must have descended.
Instantly, Jungkook feels at ease in the space. It smells nice and clean, and the industrial materials and exposed ceiling beams are contrasted with a cosy-looking seating area and a thick, vining plant that curls up the steel beams on the wall, ending up in the ceiling as if attempting to break through the surface of the earth. It’s probably been genetically modified to thrive in artificial light.
On the opposite wall, there’s a large screen built into the wall. It acts as something like a messaging board, displaying some names Jungkook can already recognise, as well as ones he hasn’t heard yet. Jimin and Hoseok are marked as BBQ date, do not disturb, and someone called Namjoon has the word Maintenance displayed next to their name.
“Welcome to Bangtan’s headquarters,” Hoseok says with a cursory wave of his hand. “The living room and kitchen are that way, and the members who sleep in beds have their private rooms upstairs in the loft. Jimin and I share a room at the moment, just for fun.”
“It’s not like he’s going to stay for a sleepover to watch romcoms and paint each others’ nails,” Taehyung complains. Jungkook’s belly lurches, and he wishes Jimin would just put him back on the ground so that he could at least stand up to his full height and show Taehyung he’s not some pathetic charity case. But alas, Jimin stubbornly carries him all the way to a small room that seems to double as a medical bay and a cleaning cupboard.
Jungkook is propped up on the edge of an old-fashioned examination table, his injured foot raised up, and Jimin starts to peel off the cloth with careful hands. Blood starts trickling out of the wound instantly, and Jungkook tries not to gag at the dull scent of iron. The others seem largely unaffected by it – even if Hoseok’s nose wrinkles, and he busies himself by flinging the cupboards open to retrieve gauze and disinfectant.
“I can’t see any glass or sand in the wound, but it needs to be sealed,” Jimin sighs. He tells Jungkook to brace before cleaning the area with a brown liquid that stings and stains Jungkook’s skin. The smell of rubbing alcohol makes his already-upset stomach curl.
“Should we X-ray the foot?” Taehyung asks out of the blue, fiddling with a bulky machine that stands on four wheels. Jungkook has seen ones like that at the hybrid clinic where he’d get his shots and dental work done.
“I don’t think anything is broken. I cut it on a fence,” Jungkook says, doing his best to hide his startlement.
“Did you land badly?” Taehyung asks.
Jungkook’s nose gives a telltale twitch. He’s never been able to lie well.
“We are X-raying it.”
No one dares object. The black and white images that the machine spits out mean little to Jungkook, but the diagnostics machine determines that none of Jungkook’s bones are broken. His ankle is a bit swollen, but they conclude together that it’s most likely a sprain.
Jimin applies medical glue to Jungkook’s foot and gives him antibiotics that “should do the trick”. It’s the dodgiest medical care Jungkook has ever received, but somehow he feels cared for.
“Do you want painkillers?” Hoseok asks, offering a bottle with no prescription label on it.
Jungkook shakes his head. He may be in pain, but he’s not stupid enough to accept unmarked pills from a stranger. Letting Jimin administer the antibiotics was already a risk, but Jungkook is terrified of the idea of ending up back on the streets with an infected wound and dying of septic shock.
“Good call, bunny,” Taehyung says almost approvingly, helping Jungkook up. With his heel bandaged and glued back together, Jungkook can put a bit of weight on his forefoot and limp around with the support of one person.
“We should go find Jin hyung and let you two take responsibility,” he adds with a sharp glance in Jimin’s and Hoseok’s direction.
“Or you could go and fix our guest something to eat,” Hoseok says poignantly. He’s rolling his prosthetic wrist with a tight-lipped expression. “No meat or dairy, is that right?”
Jungkook wants to say there’s no need for any of that, but his stomach growls loudly before he can open his mouth.
Taehyung doesn’t look happy about the direct command, but he goes without a word.
There’s a short silence before Jimin wraps his arm around Jungkook’s elbow and leads him back into the hallway.
“Taehyungie is just afraid,” he says in a half-whisper. “Don’t take it personally.”
“Don’t take what personally?” comes a new voice from their left. Jungkook lets out a high-pitched squeak, his head snapping back to face a tall stranger dressed in a bizarre combination of a dress shirt, a pair of boxer shorts and a hat that resembles a fedora. He also has a long trench coat slung over his arm, but he makes no move to cover his modesty with the garment.
Jungkook looks down and thinks: Legs. Thighs.
“Hyung,” Jimin giggles. “Go put on some pants.”
“That’s the thing, I can’t remember where I left them,” the man admits forlornly. “My maintenance date was pushed back, and my brain leaks like a sieve.”
“Oh no, want me to take a look?” Hoseok asks, taking a step forward and placing his hand on the man’s nape.
Except, he’s clearly not a man. It’s strange that Jungkook was even momentarily fooled by the warm timbre of his voice and the honeyed shade of his skin.
“Forget about it. The last time I let you touch my wires, I started crab-walking everywhere.”
“It looked pretty cute, though,” Hoseok smiles, his slender fingers searching for something. The synth’s eyes flutter closed for a moment – it’s something like a soft reset. When he opens his eyes, he finally looks at Jungkook.
“Who’s the little bunny?” the synth asks in a polite tone. His eyes grow narrow as he regards Jungkook with a tilted head, but the muted yellow of his irises gives him an owlish appearance. Jungkook’s first instinct is to say he’s not little, but his mouth won’t open all the way.
“This is Jungkook,” Jimin rushes to say. “He was being chased by those hybrid breeder assholes.”
The synth shakes his head empathetically. “I’m Namjoon, a private detective by trade. Nice to meet you.”
There’s a mole below Namjoon’s lip, right where Jungkook has one on his own.
“Forgive me if I struggle to retain information about you, Jungkook-ssi,” the synth adds with a grimace. “Being a first generation means I have some annoying bugs due to my organic tissues and electrical systems failing to communicate from time to time. There aren’t many of us first gens left these days, so Jin hyung has to improvise to keep me functional.”
“Oh,” Jungkook says elegantly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s fine,” Namjoon says with a placid smile, pulling his coat over his broad shoulders. “By the way, you’re really pretty, Jungkook-ssi. I want to pet your ears.”
Jimin glances at Jungkook with his eyebrows raised.
“You may uh – pet them, if you’d like?”
Namjoon’s face falls. “Shit, I’m so sorry I said that out loud. You caught me on a bad day.”
Hoseok hums softly, patting Namjoon on the back.
“People love a quiet man in a trench coat,” Namjoon jokes, nodding apologetically at Jungkook who’s still blushing at the mention of his ears. “But my speech regulation module broke a while back, and Seokjin hyung hasn’t had time to replace it yet.”
“Hyung’s been neglecting you too much,” Jimin pouts. “He’s so busy and secretive these days.”
“It’s fine. I love hyung so much…” Namjoon says dreamily. “Wait, I didn’t mean to say that.”
Hoseok sighs.
“Look, I’m just going to go,” Namjoon says, shaking his head. “I have to find my trousers and my hat. I promised to meet with a client, so I need to focus.”
“You’re already wearing your hat,” Jimin points out.
“Ah, of course. It was nice meeting you, Jungkook-ssi,” Namjoon says and tips his fedora. “Hope to see you around.”
With that, the synth hurries down the corridor, and the three of them watch him go.
“So, that was Joonie hyung,” Jimin chirps and guides Jungkook in the other direction. “As he said, he’s not usually like this. He’s the smartest out of all of us.”
Jungkook nods, limping forward with sweat beading on his forehead. He’s used to being underestimated, so he can easily empathise with Namjoon’s predicament.
“This is where we typically play games and hang out in our free time,” Jimin continues as they reach a dimly lit room with more vines snaking up the walls, this time with bioluminescent flowers nestled between the leaves. The dome-like ceiling reminds Jungkook of a church, but there are no frescos in sight, only bare concrete. The floor is concrete as well but covered with a thick rug to dampen sound, and the extra wide couch is overflowing with pillows and blankets, stirring Jungkook’s nesting instincts.
“That is Yoongi hyung’s spot,” Hoseok says, pointing at a deep, chest-height inset in the wall. It’s padded with a large white fleece that looks genuine, as well as a few haphazardly arranged pillows. A hidden spotlight gives the nook a sun-soaked appearance, but somehow the light doesn’t bleed into the rest of the space.
“It’s an ordeal to get hyung to leave this spot during the day,” Hoseok continues in a fond voice. “Seokjin hyung and I designed the lighting to mimic a sunny afternoon in the mountains, and the temperature and air purity are controlled to create a suitable micro climate.”
All this to make a hybrid comfortable? Jungkook thinks in awe.
“What kind of hybrid is Yoongi-ssi?” he asks.
Hoseok’s expression shifts slightly, but he keeps smiling. “He’s a snow leopard hybrid. It’s a long story how he ended up with us, but he grew up in a lab.”
Jungkook swallows. He can feel his nose twitching uncontrollably.
“Hyung is extremely docile and well-fed,” Hoseok rushes to add. “He wouldn’t dream of eating cute little bunnies like you.”
“Are you sure about that?” Jimin mutters so quietly that Jungkook is pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear. Jungkook probably wouldn’t have, if not for his enhanced hybrid hearing. Hoseok swats Jimin on the back of his head, which further proves Jungkook’s hypothesis.
“Sometimes Yoongi hyung tries to groom us, though,” Jimin continues. “His tongue is really coarse.”
Instinctively, Jungkook’s hand flies to his ears at the thought. He hasn’t been groomed in so long.
“I think he likes the idea,” Hoseok chuckles. He fluffs out some pillows and helps Jungkook sit on the couch with his leg raised up. Jimin produces an ice pack from his pocket and whacks it against his leg to activate the cooling process.
“He sure does,” Jimin agrees. He wraps the ice pack against Jungkook’s swollen ankle and then, without warning, lifts Jungkook’s hands to hold the pack in place. Jimin’s hands are soft like Jungkook’s used to be in the past, nails clean and carefully manicured.
“Does it feel too cold, bun?”
At the unexpected nickname, Jungkook’s floppy ears prickle with heat. But before he can mumble a reply, a door flings open at the opposite side of the room.
A man dressed in a simple grey sweatshirt and a baseball cap stands in the doorway, holding a slim, black object in his hand, like the telescopic batons police officers use to break up demonstrations. The breadth of his shoulders is in stark contrast to his light build, making his figure oddly doll-like.
As Hoseok and Jimin turn to face him, the man quickly retracts the baton and hides it behind his back.
“Hoseok-ah,” he says in a plain, humourless voice.
“Hyung.” Hoseok’s eyes flit nervously from Jimin to Jungkook and then back to the newcomer. “Did you finish work earlier than expected?”
“Kind of,” the man says, his gaze finally trailing over to where Jungkook is sprawled on the couch. Despite Hoseok’s nervous fidgeting, the reaction to Jungkook’s presence is lacklustre. “Now tell me, why is there a bunny in my living room?”
Jimin grimaces. “We can explain.”
With a sigh, the man steps closer, one half of his face illuminated by the white, bell-shaped flowers that almost seem to pulse with light. Jungkook’s mouth runs dry at the sight of him – the perfectly straight slope of his nose, the romantic arch of his lips. If the man were a hybrid, he’d be worth a fortune to the right buyer.
“Kim Seokjin, the leader of Bangtan,” he says with a slight nod of his head.
“I’m Jungkook.”
Seokjin, who’s simultaneously less and more intimidating than Jungkook imagined, raises an eyebrow at his terse reply. “Just Jungkook? No sob story to make me all empathetic to the undoubtedly heartbreaking situation you’ve found yourself in?”
Jungkook grinds his molars together. Pain and stress have made him irritable. “As far as I’m aware, I don’t have a surname, and you can already see that I’m a bunny. What more is there to tell?”
A deep frown morphs Seokjin’s handsome features into something scary. Jungkook immediately regrets his outburst.
“You’re clearly a smart bunny, so you must understand that I’m the one who holds the power to kick you out on the streets. And I’m currently having a very bad day. So I’d pick my battles more wisely.”
“What happened?” Hoseok interjects, but Seokjin waves his hand dismissively. “Not now. I already know it was Jimin who brought a stray bunny to my house, so I’d be inclined to hear his side of the story.”
Jimin has gone pale. “Hyungnim, is it fair to assume that…?”
“Yes, yes it is.” Seokjin heaves a tired sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “But I changed my mind, I’ll deal with you later. Just… Don’t let the bunny leave before I’ve talked to him. You can give him the guest room for now.”
“Really?” Jimin asks, voice hopeful, but Hoseok is still eyeing Seokjin warily.
“Why are you having a bad day?” he asks.
Seokjin flashes Hoseok an unimpressed smile. “Later. Not in front of the intruder.”
Years of etiquette training kicks in, and Jungkook feels the urge to run out of the room. His handlers used to say that not everything is meant for sensitive bunny ears.
“If there’s something I can help with…”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Seokjin snaps. A silence follows, sticky and uncomfortable. Jungkook wants to stick his head in a bush and count to one hundred.
“Where’s Yoongi hyung?” Hoseok then asks. “There was nothing on his daily schedule when I last checked.”
Seokjin’s expression darkens further. He reminds Jungkook of storm clouds on a hot day, the colour of fresh bruises and charged to the point where one can taste the electricity on their tongue.
“I lost contact with him during a mission. I don’t know where he is,” Seokjin says and marches out of the room.
•••
From the memoir of a notable scientist
Genesis 1:27: “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him.”
And then the people said, “There is no God, only man.”
But those same people failed to accept their mortality; they aimed to achieve the perfection of God whom they’d called a fraud, an excuse for their own failures. They declared him dead, perched themselves atop a golden throne and began to shape humankind in the image of the God they had so easily forsaken.
Seeing this, God wept and lay dead.