Taemin surveys the humanoids in front of him, documenting important information only—their heights, possible weight, the distance between one and the next, the kill points.

What he can’t see, however, is what they’re programmed to do once the gears inside them come to life and they’re turned into machines tasked to kill him. None of them have guns, so he wagers that’s a plus. The Guardian has little regard for what the trainees use to fight, but guns have always been forbidden. Taemin knows it’s more than just following the laws of their country, but he’s not going to be the one to ask the Guardian about the specifics. Yet. 

There are fifteen humanoids in total, all different sizes spread into groups of three. It’s seven up from last week’s exercise. The smallest ones are in the front, not entirely representative of any real target Taemin has ever had the luck to encounter, while the muscular ones are stationed in the rear. But Taemin knows not to underestimate what the Guardian programs into the little ones. They could pack everything from pocket-knives to long-distance tasers for all he knew. The feeling of twenty thousand volts of electricity coursing through his body has yet to leave his memory.

Taemin smirks as he readies himself into a fighting stance. It’s about time they upped the simulation. He’d been feeling especially bored lately, and today he’s come with only his body as a weapon—though not without disapproval from Doctor Choi. But he’s not here to impress doctors. On the contrary, what he does, what he’s training to become better at doing, goes against everything they stand for. Sometimes, when Taemin is feeling particularly nonlethal, he wonders how Dr. Choi manages to live with himself knowing he stitches murderers back together. Those moments are rare.

The lights in the room dim and the humanoids let off a soft, fluorescent glow allowing Taemin to see without drastically dilating his pupils. He begins a silent countdown, slows his breathing as well as his heart, and he concentrates. There’s a buzzing in the back of his brain, almost like a warning signal, though not for Taemin. When he finally reaches ten, he hears the first gears whirring to life. He takes a deep breath and chuckles as the first humanoid races towards him.

It’s one of the small ones. As he watches, the machine’s hands transform into blades spinning at a speed Taemin’s eyes can’t follow. Well, that’s new, he thinks, unsure where he would ever encounter a person with blades for hands in the field. He flips over the humanoid and into the air with ease—their speed, or lack thereof, has never been a problem for Taemin—and lands on its neck, immediately locking his ankles for grip. He bends over and grabs both the humanoid’s forearms, taking great care to leave excess room for when the machine begins slicing into its own imitation skin in an effort to free itself of Taemin’s hands. Taemin’s body vibrates with the force of the blades making contact, but his hold only tightens.

The humanoid is halfway through slicing off one of its arms when three more charge towards them. Taemin jerks the humanoid’s body to the left, barely escaping the sharpened tip of a spear as it cuts the air, grazing his cheek. Taemin doesn’t have time to feel the sting as he dismounts and aims the blades-for-hands humanoid into the one whose arm supplies an endless array of spears in Taemin’s direction. He manages to dodge three more spears before the robots make contact, blades and spearheads cutting into flesh that Taemin no longer worries about because now he’s been surrounded by four machines with swords longer than the length of his entire arm.

Taemin studies them for a moment before rolling his neck.

“One little cut won’t hurt,” he assures himself before turning his attention to the largest robot. It looks just like the rest of them, except this humanoid’s sword is as thick as Taemin’s thigh. Oh, that might hurt a lot.

“Hey, big fella,” Taemin taunts—for his own amusement since the humanoids aren’t in the least bit sentient and aren’t programmed to speak. “Can’t we settle this with diplomacy, so I don’t get hurt and you end up like your siblings over there?”

Even while he faces one machine, he never stops focusing on the other three circling him. He also doesn’t know when the other nine are set to activate. Taemin is good at this—great, actually. One of the best—but he has yet to walk away from a live session without a few injuries. So, he can’t waste too much time, or he’ll soon find himself overwhelmed. Right now, though, he’s still having fun. Too much fun.

All four humanoids charge him at the same time, which is a mistake considering they were facing each other and Taemin can jump his own height. The moment his feet touch solid ground again he hears the unmistakable groan of automaton failure as three machines crash to the floor. The big fella is still standing, though half his sword arm is gone.

“I hope you can still swing that thing,” Taemin calls out as he darts across the room. He considers picking up one of the fallen blades, but that would just ruin his high. The adrenaline pumping through his system is unlike any experience he’s had in a while. One wrong move and he could die. The thought intensifies the buzzing in his brain and pushes him to go further. He’s been too safe, hasn’t even worked up a sweat yet. “Cause if not, this is bound to get a little anticlimactic for you.”

As the final word leaves his mouth, the remaining nine bots come to life and Taemin gets the feeling the Guardian was saving the best for last. Taemin spares a glance at the timer just behind the humanoid squad rushing towards him.

“All right then,” he mutters while cracking his knuckles, “I’ve got three minutes to spare.”

 

⌛

 

Taemin walks out the Black Room with an emptiness he hadn’t expected. Once the last humanoid sputtered to its temporary death the adrenaline left Taemin as quick as it came. Now, all he has left is a scratch on his cheek and a couple of bruised ribs from when one of Big Fella’s lookalikes tried to crush him in a not-so-friendly hug. Taemin heard about one of the Blue trainees almost dying from a knife wound while sparring last week and for a moment he felt envious. Taemin longed for a challenge like that, for an equal partner, for the urgency of having his life force slowly seep out of him. To lose control of the one thing he has left to lose. As it is, all he has to show for his epic battle against fifteen humanoids is a wound that won’t leave so much as a scar.

He’d been advised by one of the medics to go see Dr. Choi about his ribs, but Taemin isn’t in the mood for all that pink. So, he walks back to his room, careful not to show any signs of pain as he passes the other trainees clad in their colored uniforms, each corresponding to their level of training—or as Taemin likes to say, their ability to kill without remorse.

Taemin wears his black t-shirt and pants every day like a badge of honor, sharing the privilege only with a handful of nameless others. That’s another thing Taemin learned about this place in his early days, back when he was a Blue. He would do good not to learn anyone’s names.

Loyalty has no place here.

The Guardian’s voice filters through his thoughts unprompted. Taemin has always thought it a strange motto to have when you’re in the business of training killers. If he were to have no loyalty to the Guardian, what’s to stop him from slitting the man’s throat as he slept? Taemin has been to the Guardian’s quarters, has seen where the man lays his head. Has fantasized about the look on the Guardian’s face once he realizes he’s made his last mistake.

And yet, as Taemin opens the door to his room, there sits the Guardian.

Still breathing.

 

⌛

 

Taemin sighs audibly before closing the door and locking it, his eyes not once leaving the man sitting idly on his bed, hands clasped together in his lap. Taemin walks over till he’s standing right in front of the Guardian. He forms a claw with his right hand before touching his left shoulder, then slides the hand across to his right shoulder before dipping down to join his thumbs together to form wings. He flaps his fingers twice before bowing his head. His mind races as he waits for Jinki to speak. 

“Why do you insist on doing that every time we meet?” Jinki asks in a non-greeting, voice gentler than it is when it’s ringing throughout the compound. Less mechanical. Taemin raises his head with little reverence left in his smile, only mischief.

“You mean every time you sneak into my quarters?” Taemin takes Jinki’s hands in his, freeing up his lap, but he doesn’t sit like Jinki expects him to.

“I do no such thing,” Jinki says to fill his momentary lapse. “This is my building. I do not have to sneak.”

“No? Who else knows you’re here, Jinki?” Taemin revels in the reaction he gets when he calls Jinki by name and not by title. Jinki doesn’t answer, only frees his hands to grip Taemin’s hips and pull him down till he’s finally sitting in Jinki’s lap. Taemin laughs when their lips meet not even a second after he’s adjusted himself more comfortably across the length of Jinki’s thighs. The stretch feels good in contrast to the last thing Taemin’s had his legs around.

Taemin lets their last kiss linger before he pulls away. His eyes lock with Jinki’s when he whispers, “This is exactly my point. Sneaking.”

Jinki bows his head this time, their foreheads touching. Taemin closes his eyes. A thumb brushes across his cheek.

“Why haven’t you seen Dr. Choi?” Jinki asks with his hand on Taemin’s face, just below where the humanoid sliced him with the spear, but Taemin can tell he knows more than what he sees. As the Guardian, Jinki receives updates from every medic as soon as a session in the Black Room ends and, depending on who is training and what death they’re attempting to cheat, sometimes even before. Taemin, being who he is, continues to be the exception and not the rule. Jinki probably knew the extent of Taemin’s injuries before he could catalog them himself.

It’s in Taemin’s best interest not to lie.

“It’s just a couple of bruised ribs,” he admits, covering Jinki’s hand with his own. “I’ve had worse. From you even.”

There’s a hitch in Jinki’s steady breathing, and while Taemin hates causing him distress, there’s a part of him—a very large part of him—that realizes this is what he’s been chasing all day, the power high, the adrenaline. The moments where he can make a god bleed. Maybe it’s not external, but he still cuts deep.

There are rumors circulating about why Taemin hasn’t been invited to spar with the Guardian in over five months. None of them come close to the truth.

“You won’t be able to handle this next job if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Taemin looks in Jinki’s eyes and he sees what no one else will ever be privy to.

“I can handle it.”

Jinki smiles, then shakes his head, eyes still gleaming with words he won’t say aloud. Instead Taemin hears, “I know what you can handle.” He translates it to something gentler. Less mechanical.

He kisses Jinki’s knuckles, noticing for the first time the fresh cuts and bruises that color his skin.

“Then why are you worrying?”

Jinki kisses his forehead before answering.

“Because they know too.”